Invisible

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  Both sides made their closing arguments, each taking about an hour and a half to summarize the case from their point of view. It basically went something like this - the prosecution: he’s guilty and evil; the defence: he’s guilty but can’t be held responsible, so technically he’s not guilty.

  Daryl just looked bored. Sitting slightly slumped in his seat, staring into space, all pretence of acting like the concerned, innocent man seemed to have disappeared. The mask was well and truly off.

  The jury then disappeared, filing out slowly and solemnly. All that was left to do for the rest of us was wait…

  Not for long though. Within two hours we were called back in. Victims and their families held hands, the atmosphere tense but hopeful. For a moment I felt an affinity with them; we all wanted the same outcome. But then, watching them, I felt…it’s so wrong to admit, but I felt a stab of envy.

  They are all in it together, and I’m all alone. They’re helping one another, leaning on their support network. No one wants to come near me, as if I might contaminate them. As if Daryl’s badness has rubbed off on me, and may infect them too. I get it; in their eyes I’m on his side. But I’ve never felt so alone.

  In fairness, my parents ask every single day whether I want them to come with me, but I always so no. I can’t possibly expose them to this, and besides…I am alone in this. No one can understand what I’m going through…

  Quiet settled instantly as the judge walked in. All eyes were on the jury as they gave their verdict.

  Guilty of all charges. Of course.

  Cries of relief rang out, people hugging and cheering, it was chaos. The judge shouted for order. Daryl barely reacted though, apart from a roll of his eyes.

  The crowd outside were euphoric as I left court. They barely noticed me as I slipped away.

  All that’s left to sort now is how long he will serve. Apparently court will reconvene on Friday for that.

  I’m almost there now, almost at the end. I’ve just got to keep going for a little longer, and then I can collapse in an untidy heap. It can’t come too soon; I’m running on empty, nothing but fumes keeping me going.

  Wednesday 20

  Why don’t I feel anything? Angry, betrayed, devastated, something for all Daryl’s done to me. Relieved even, now that the truth has come out and he has been found guilty? Instead, I am a ghost haunting my own body.

  Thursday 21

  Maybe the problem is that I can’t get my head round what’s happened. I went to court, I saw it all with my own eyes, heard things that, well… But there is a part of me that still doesn’t believe.

  I mean, I believe. I just don’t believe…

  Because Daryl is guilty. He did it. I’ve stood by a killer, a rapist, a pervert. I’ve loved him, missed him, longed for him, when all the time... My life has been destroyed, because I fell for the wrong man. It is, for want of a better word, unbelievable.

  Friday 22

  For one final time I pulled on my court outfit of smart suit and appropriately-named court shoes. Mum and Dad asked if I wanted them to come with me, but I shook my head, unable to summon the energy to speak.

  Instead they will stay at home and scrub off the graffiti daubed across the front door. Why bother? It’ll only be back again tomorrow, just like it always is. An eternal reminder that I am scum and should die.

  At court, lead weights seemed attached not just to my limbs as they dragged through the crowd, but even to my eyelids. I seemed to be fighting a losing battle to keep going.

  Halfway through my now-traditional early morning fight through a screaming mob, I suddenly stopped, swaying slightly as I looked around. I was in a bubble, even the sound deadened as I stood taking it all in. So much anger mixed with so much glee, they seemed to be enjoying themselves.

  Seconds ticked by and still I simply stood. Finally my protection officers prodded me gently forward and I managed to remember how my legs move.

  The same sense of detachment clung to me as I took my seat one final time in the public gallery. Slowly I became aware of a hissed conversation seeping through the membrane that seemed to be surrounding me.

  ‘…should be ashamed. Why does she keep coming here?’ stage whispered a woman.

  ‘You’d think now he’d be found guilty she’d stay away,’ came the reply.

  Still I stared straight ahead, didn’t flinch as the words washed over me.

  ‘Sat there like she’s so high and mighty when… She must have known, how could she not have known?’

  ‘He must have come home with blood on his clothes, so why didn’t she question him?’

  ‘Because she knew! He must have been acting funny as well, but she didn’t bat an eyelid, I bet.’

  ‘Thank God they didn’t manage to have kids.’

  ‘Can you imagine the kind of feral beast they’d produce? When I think of that poor woman who’s pregnant by him… Oh, there she is now…’

  The bubble held me together. It stopped me from showing that each word was like a kick smashing my ribs and stopping me from breathing. Finally I was feeling something, but it all raged on the inside, while the outside looked as still as a statue. With the bubble’s help I focused everything I had on not sinking to the floor and howling.

  I wanted to cry, scream, rage. I remembered Mum kicking the bed apart, and wished I had something I could tear to pieces too. But there was nothing.

  I wanted to shout: ‘Me too! He destroyed me too! Look at me, feel my pain, see the evil that he did, how I’m holding on by the skin of my teeth because of what he’s done.’

  And then what? Then they’d shout too? ‘No, look at my pain! How can you say you’ve been hurt when all you did was realise you’d been lied to! He held me down, he tortured me, he forced himself on me and I thought I’d die. How dare you compare your pain with mine?’

  Then all the victims would unite in one baying mob of hurt. All of us wanting to prove whose pain was worse. But there’s no answer. There’s no competition. Everyone’s hurt is different in its terribleness.

  No, that’s not true; my hurt can never, ever compare with theirs. I feel ashamed for feeling sorry for myself for even a second, I have no right. When I think of what they’ve been through… I swayed in my seat for a moment, but steeled myself.

  ‘All rise,’ said the usher, his voice cutting through and helping me keep the tears at bay. There will be plenty of time for crying in the days to come. Years of empty self-pity stretch ahead of me. For now though, I have to remember how to stand, how to sit, how to breathe, how to listen as the judge talks to Daryl.

  'You are clearly a dangerous and clever man who used everything at your disposal to plan violent attacks on women, then launched a savage and perverted campaign against total strangers. You showed them no mercy. It is as clear to me as it possibly could be that there is a serious risk of harm to members of the public from you.

  ‘If I could I would sentence you so that you are never released. Instead I can only apply the maximum the law allows. You are hereby sentenced to six life sentences, to serve a minimum of 18 years.’

  Cries of triumph exploded around me, along with anger too. ‘Rot in hell, scum!’ screamed one woman.

  Daryl picked his nails, only looking up when the custody officer patted him on the shoulder to lead him away. He’d just reached the doorway when he stopped suddenly, as if something had occurred to him. Then he turned, looked over at the public gallery and all those women and their relatives, the oddest look on his face. Was he feeling remorse? His eyes slid over them, over to me.

  ‘Love you,’ he shouted, as guards furiously tugged at his shoulders to move him on.

  Why had he done that? Was he trying to cause trouble for me one last time? Or did he mean it? It disgusted me.

  My legs wobbled as I too stood up. Sweat made my palms slick and I rubbed them on my skirt, then wiped my face with my sleeves as the room seemed to tip in front of me. Everyone seemed to be looking at me, no, sneering at me, and my heart
pounded against my ribcage, pain starting to stretch around my chest like stitch but a million times worse.

  I couldn’t catch my breath. I gasped in shallow mouthfuls of air, but the room was darkening, sliding away from me.

  ‘Going for the sympathy vote? Actress!’ someone shrieked at me. It was the last thing I heard as I crashed to the ground and darkness swallowed me whole.

  When I blinked open my eyes everything swam in front of me as if I were in a snow globe, and then slowly settled. I was in a small room, two men I recognised as court ushers standing over me. How had I got there? I must have passed out and been carried from court.

  Embarrassment washed over me as I remembered what had happened. Things were bad enough without people thinking I was pretending to faint for sympathy; or worse, believing I actually did faint, but because I was upset about my husband’s sentence. Oh God, what if they thought that was the reason?

  Gathering my things as quickly as possible I made my apologies and scurried from the room. They let me use an exit at the back of the building so I wouldn’t have to face the crowd.

  When I got home I peeled off the suit and court shoes and put everything into a plastic bag (everything. Even the underwear). Then carried it outside and dumped it in the wheelie bin. I could never wear any of that again without being reminded of where it’s been.

  If only I could peel my skin off too, slough away everything that’s been touched by Daryl.

  ‘At least it’s over now,’ Dad said, nodding his head sagely. ‘You can start moving on, put everything behind you and start fresh.’

  ‘Divorce that man, sell this house. Fresh start, like your dad says,’ Mum chimed in.

  Easy as that.

  Only I don’t think it will be.

  There was something I could do though, to help rid Daryl from my life. I went to the kitchen, grabbed the roll of bin bags from the cupboard under the sink, then marched into the bedroom.

  Flinging open the wardrobe door, I grabbed a handful of clothes and, still on their hangers, shoved them into the bags. Not just his clothes, mine too – outfits I’d worn on special occasions, clothes he’d touched, tops he’d liked, anything, everything. It didn’t take long to fill up one bag, then another, the metal hooks of the hangers poking through the black plastic here and there, hedgehog-like.

  Soon only a few lonely items swung in the emptiness of the wardrobe. But lying at the bottom, neatly set out, were Daryl’s shoes. I swept them into a bag too, then moved on to the chest of drawers. Underwear, t-shirts, socks, toiletries, comb (why does a bald man own a comb?) all were dumped inside.

  I wasn’t like Mum had been that day she’d destroyed my bed; I wasn’t like a woman possessed. Instead I moved calmly, methodically, mechanically. There was no emotion, it was simply a job that had to be done. All traces of Daryl had to be removed, so that’s what I was doing.

  I moved on to the bathroom. Razor, aftershave, toothbrush, shower gel. I’d been saving everything for him, had wanted him to come home to find things exactly as he’d left them. Bloody fool that I was. Now it all went into the refuse sacks. But as I shoved his shaving foam away I suddenly stopped and stared in revulsion at my hand…

  …At my wedding band.

  I didn’t allow myself to feel anything as I tugged it off. It stuck at the joint, refusing to go over it. A panicky, claustrophobic feeling gripped me and I pulled harder. It wouldn’t budge. I turned on the tap and rubbed soap all over the third finger of my left hand, then tried again desperately. This time it slid away easily. As I flipped it into the bag the calm enveloped me once more.

  Dragging a laden sack behind me, I surveyed the living room next. Pictures of Daryl, pictures of us, adorned shelves. I’d become so used to them I’d stopped noticing them but now I snatched them up. Mum and Dad didn’t say a word, simply stepped aside to make room for me.

  I didn’t so much as pause to look at the photos or remember the days they’d been taken. I’ve no desire to relive supposed happy memories; they sicken me now that I know what the good mood may have been fuelled by. Everything went into the bags without a second glance, each item giving me an all-too brief glimmer of relief. I was unburdening myself of my marriage.

  That vase Daryl always liked and I hated, that went too. His books were next. By the time I moved on to CDs (the first one to go was The Best of Barry bloody White album, with My First, My Last, My Everything on it) and DVDs my legs and back were starting to ache but I kept on moving, sweeping away the crap with rhythmic movements. Step, sweep, step, sweep, step, sweep…

  I didn’t sit down until gone 2am, and felt almost peaceful.

  Saturday 23

  I’m avoiding the telly. And the newspapers. And the internet. And the phone. Oh, and people. Because everywhere I turn there seem to be images of Daryl (and often me, too). Various in-depths breakdowns of our relationship make up a large part of much of the coverage thanks to him shouting that he loved me as he was taken away. It seems people think I’m as bad as him; some even hint that I’m worse because they believe I could have stopped him somehow, either by reporting him to the police or by talking to him. They all seem to believe I must have known what was going on.

  There’s much dissection of his childhood too, along with the crimes; some places even have interviews with a couple of the women who have waived their automatic legal right to anonymity as rape victims and decided to speak out. Well, that’s fair enough, they must deal with things however they choose, and if it can help just one other rape victim who is reading the article then it’s worth it. Perhaps they find it cathartic too, re-telling their tales. But I can’t face it. I’ve been steeped in Daryl’s horror for too long, I’ve heard every vile detail of what he’s done and I never want to think about it again.

  Except of course I can’t stop thinking about it.

  After the case Detective Inspector Ian Baxter gave a quick statement to reporters outside the court. I hadn’t realised his name was Ian, makes him seem more human – aside from the unfortunate arse-face photo that ran alongside the articles I’ve seen online.

  ‘These women were subjected to some of the most appalling attacks I have seen in my policing career. We strongly suspect that these are not his only crimes and would urge any further victims to please come forward.’

  That’s the bit that got to me. As if what he’s done isn’t bad enough, they think my husband is guilty of further crimes. I’m…I’m just…what do I feel?

  Sickened. Stunned. Disgusted. Angry. Confused. Betrayed. Horrified. Panicked. Embarrassed. Stupid.

  Those are things I should feel, and don’t. I especially wish I could feel hatred for Daryl; there must be something wrong with me because I don’t. But there’s nothing inside me, no emotions. I think I’ve died but my body just hasn’t noticed yet, and is continuing on zombie-like. Automatic pilot.

  My parents have asked this walking, talking cadaver to stay with them. They think a break will do me good. I’ve nothing to offer for or against this idea, so I’ve packed a bag.

  Before we set off though, Dad took all the bags of rubbish to the dump; he was worried that otherwise people would go through them and try to sell stuff to the media or to weirdoes who wanted Port Pervert memorabilia. Welcome to my life.

  Wednesday 27

  I’ve been staring out of the window for days now. There’s a squirrel that comes into my parents’ garden and I watch him. He spends all his time rushing round trying to find the ultimate place to bury his acorns, and never seems to quite find it. Sometimes a robin watches him too.

  I think I might be having a nervous breakdown.

  Probably the fact I think I am means I’m probably not.

  It might be nice to escape into madness. Or amnesia. Could I smash myself over the head with something really hard and lose my memory deliberately?

  My finger feels naked without my wedding ring.

  APRIL

  Tuesday 2

  I came home last night.

&nb
sp; The press was waiting for me. They went into a frenzy when they saw me. Exhausted, I tried to shut out the blaze of noise by putting the telly on as soon as I got in. An extra-bright flash went off suddenly; someone must have been trying to take a photo through the glass of the window. Don’t think it will work, but I pulled the curtains shut all the same.

  I miss the squirrel.

  Sunday 7

  Without the distraction of the court case I’ve nothing to do but think. I don’t want to think.

  I try my best to shut it all out, and try to revisit in my mind all those hours spent peacefully staring at the squirrel at Mum and Dad’s, that creature whose biggest worry was remembering where it hid its acorns, but it’s useless. I’m trying desperately to shore up my protective bubble, because it’s safe in there and I can’t feel anything and nothing quite reaches me. But huge cracks are developing in it. Things are sneaking through it, memories and emotions that I don’t want snake around me and I keep trying to push them away but they cling to me.

  I want to go back to feeling nothing,

  I’m not going to think. I won’t think. I can’t allow myself to think.

  That silver, heavy duty duct tape he always had handy for quick engine fixes. I keep seeing it, his nimble fingers tearing it up and sticking together packages for me, a secret smile playing on his lips.

  Now I know the secret. I want to scream and run away. I want to curl up and cry. I want to ask him ‘why?’

  I want to ask him why.

  I’m not going to think. I won’t think. I can’t allow myself to think.

  He called me straight after one of the rapes. Why? Did he want to share his euphoria with someone? He was in such a good mood that night. I was so happy that he was happy, and honestly thought the call was a good sign of the state of our marriage. I believed he was making an effort and that we’d be okay.