Invisible

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  ‘I am.’ It felt good to be certain of something. Good that I was in control of some tiny aspect of my life. There was one problem I’d like help with though… ‘I do have trouble sleeping, and it’s making me feel like I’m losing my mind.’

  ‘Lack of sleep can definitely make it harder to deal with everyday life,’ she nodded. Leaning forward, she picked up her pen and started scribbling something down. ‘I’m going to write you a prescription for some sleeping tablets. You don’t have to use them every night, just as and when you struggle with sleep.’ That’s every night then. ‘I also think you should consider having counselling to help you deal with your issues. You, err, have had to deal with a lot… Now I can put you down on a waiting list to see someone on the NHS, but it could take a year for an appointment to come through, or you can pay to see someone privately. Here’s a list of practitioners I’d recommend.’

  She pushed it and the prescription over to me and I reached for them but Mum got there first and popped them both into her handbag.

  Later, at home, we went through it together. Counselling…I don’t know. I don’t think I can talk about this stuff. How can I talk when I don’t know what’s going on in my own head?

  I keep thinking about what the Inspector said. That there may have been more rapes than they know about, more victims who are too scared to come forward. It haunts me. So now I keep going over every row Daryl and I ever had and wondering if it was a trigger for another attack; thinking of happy memories and being terrified that they were because he’d just hurt someone.

  There isn’t a single tender moment or happy memory I have from the last nine years that I can think of now and take any solace in. There’s no refuge from Daryl’s evil. Everything is tainted by horror.

  Did he do something terrible the day he proposed to me? On birthdays and anniversaries? Even walks on the beach when he seemed happy, was he planning something? How can the man who shared his life with me be capable of such things? He moves worms out of harm’s way when it rains, and yet…

  I once went away on a mate’s hen weekend and when I opened up my overnight bag at the hotel I discovered that Daryl had gone through it and hidden love notes in every single item. I’d laughed, stunned, as they’d fluttered from tops I pulled out, jeans, my make-up bag, one in each high heeled shoe I’d brought…

  ‘I’ll miss you, Gorgeous’, ‘You are my one and only’, ‘My first, my last, my everything’, each message was different. He’d even written ‘I love’ you’ on the cellophane wrappers of every individual tampon I’d had to bring with me.

  At the time I’d thought it incredible and rather wonderful that he’d gone to all that trouble. Now it freaks me out. Why did he do it? What triggered such a show of emotion? Had he hurt someone? Nothing can be taken on face value, not when you’re thinking of a man who agrees to have a baby after murdering someone.

  No, there isn’t a single thing I can take from the last nine years of my life. My whole adult life had been based on lie after lie layered together until it gave the impression of something solid and reliable, when all the time it was waiting for the bloody great wrecking ball of truth to smash it apart.

  How I wish I could go back in time and never have met him. If I just hadn’t gone to that stupid party with Hannah, just think, I’d never have known Daryl. He was only at that party by chance, so if we hadn’t got together there maybe we’d never have clapped eyes on one another. Think how different my life would have been. Maybe I’d have met someone else that very night, fallen for them instead and now I’d be married to someone honest and lovely.

  I’d be curled up in bed next to him, and we’d be complaining about our couple of rug rats crawling in with us, but actually secretly pleased as they snuggled up with us, because that’s what life is really all about when you get down to it: family. We’d laugh as we all squeezed together in our little double bed, complaining that someone was hogging the duvet when actually there simply wasn’t enough to cover us all, then finally the kids would fall asleep again, their hot breath against my neck, their legs thrown over me and their dad in a tangle that seemed inextricable.

  I’ve a stupid smile on my face as I imagine that, tears dribbling down my cheeks. That’s the life I should have had. I wish I could turn back time.

  Some people believe there are parallel universes out there, don’t they. They think that every permutation of every decision we could have made is being lived out somewhere at the same time as we’re living this life. I don’t really understand it, but it’s an oddly comforting thought that somewhere out there there is a me that got it all right and is happy. That somewhere that scene I imagined is reality, and I have children and I’m loved and I’m truly happy and have solidity, contentment, everything I ever wanted.

  I’ve got to stop writing for a minute, the tears are making it hard to see the page.

  Right, I’m back, that’s better. Well, it is and it isn’t because while I was crying I had another horrible thought.

  That story about his mum leaving him for three days after he told her he was bullied. It can’t be right. How could he have gone for three days without water? He made it up, of course.

  God I’m stupid! He made everything up to make me feel sorry for him, to dupe me into falling in love with him and actually feeling protective of him – him, the evil monster that everyone actually needed protecting from!

  Or did he make it up? Maybe it was real and that was what damaged him beyond repair? Could that be the beginning of him becoming twisted and sick?

  He’d looked so serious and sad as he’d told me, surely it couldn’t be yet another fabrication. The way his eyes had filled with tears, and he’d twisted his hands anxiously as he’d spoken. The odd expression on his face as he’d told me the story, as if he was making his mind up about something and letting me in…

  Jesus, he’d been thinking about killing me, wringing my neck, that’s why he was wringing his shirt hem; it was instead of my neck! What had it been about me that made him stop, not go through with what his heart told him to? Should I feel flattered? Or sickened? Maybe he saw in me some flaw that was equal to his, maybe he thought I was like him.

  What if I’m evil and don’t even realise it?

  Thursday 9

  Despite popping a sleeping tablet, all night I kept thinking about Daryl telling me the story of being bullied and his mum ignoring him. At about 3.30am I decided there was only one course of action I could take: I had to call his mum and ask if it was true or not.

  I’ve spent years hating that woman. Perhaps there was never a reason to. Perhaps she was so odd because she was trying to protect herself from the son she knew was evil. Then again, maybe he’s strange because he takes after her… All I know is that throughout this Cynthia has been a total waste of space not just for him but me also. Every time I call her she tells me not to bother her any more. Yet she’s the closest person I have to someone who will really understand what I’m going through.

  It took a lot of self-control not to get up and call her right there and then. Even I could see it wasn’t a great idea to ring in the small hours though, so instead I lay in bed, watching the clock’s digital glow changing shape every minute in the darkness, willing it to move faster, faster, faster. Safe to say, I don’t have telekinetic powers – unless maybe I made it go slower.

  By 6am the internal argument had started. Was it still too early? Officially it was daylight; in fact the sun had been up for hours. No, Cynthia might still be asleep. 6.30am. Still too early. 7am: maybe I could get away with that? But no, I didn’t want the conversation to get off to a bad start, needed things to go smoothly, so better to wait.

  By 8am I couldn’t stand it any more. I tied my hair back in a ponytail (as if somehow tidying my hair would help tidy my mind and make me think clearer) and dialled. As soon as Cynthia heard my voice she became defensive.

  ‘My dear, if you’re calling to persuade me that he’s innocent or to go see him -,’ she began.
Clearly like me she never says his name any more, but it didn’t take a genius to know who ‘he’ was.

  ‘No, no,’ I interrupted quickly. ‘Even I’m not so blind that I can’t see that he’s guilty. I just…I suppose I want to work out why…’

  ‘…And thought you’d blame me because it’s always the mother’s fault?’

  ‘Not at all, I just…’ Just what? Now I was talking to her I didn’t really know what to say. I suppose I hoped that we’d talk and she’d tell me about some clear trigger in his childhood that had caused him to become so damaged that he’d wreaked terrible revenge on all women. Maybe it was this incident where he’d locked himself in his room, maybe it was more complicated than that, but there had to be something, some reason, surely.

  ‘People don’t just spontaneously become rapists and killers. Do they? And if they do, surely it’s because they’re evil through and through – and if they’re evil like that then it means they have no loveable traits, and that just wasn’t Daryl. He could be so wonderful…so why does someone wonderful do something so terrible?’ My words tumbled out, eager to escape my brain, where they’d been going round and round all night.

  Cynthia gave a sigh. ‘I know you want to understand but there’s nothing I can tell you. Some people are just born twisted. I’m afraid Daryl was never right.’

  Despite myself I felt annoyed, leapt to his defence. ‘How can you say that about your own son?’ I demanded.

  ‘Because it’s true, my dear,’ she said simply. ‘He’s always been a little charmer – and a little liar. I don’t know where he got it from because I’m not like that and his dad, God rest his soul, certainly wasn’t. But from the day he could speak, I couldn’t trust a word that came out of his mouth.’

  What I wanted to snap was: ‘Which came first, Daryl’s problems or your attitude? You thought he was a liar so maybe that’s why he became one.’ I didn’t though; trembling with the effort of holding myself back, I instead described the event from his childhood that he’d revealed to me.

  ‘He did get bullied by some girls, but it wasn’t anything much and the school took care of it as soon as I alerted them,’ Cynthia said, matter-of-fact. ‘He certainly didn’t lock himself away or anything like that. The fact is that Daryl has always been a strange boy, and as soon as I heard that he’d been arrested I knew he was guilty. I don’t want to talk about him any more. As far as I am concerned, I do not have a son. I don’t want to talk to you again, I’m sorry.’

  Before I could say another word I heard the click of the phone being put down. She keeps doing this to me!! ‘Right…okay…thanks for your time,’ I found myself telling the dialling tone, stunned.

  I’m no closer to finding out why Daryl did these things. No closer to discovering why, if he’s been born bad, he decided to set up home with me rather than kill me.

  Thursday 16

  I just want this to end. I wish I were dead.

  Friday 17

  I can’t tell anyone the stuff going round in my head. I can’t share it. Because as terrible as I feel, it’s like I’m belittling what those women have been through.

  ‘Think you’re feeling bad? Well put yourself in their shoes!’ that’s what I feel people would say to me. Well, friends probably would say…if I had any.

  I’m invisible. I’m the invisible victim, apologetic for my very existence. Everyone looking at me and wondering: ‘did she know? She must have had a hint at least. She must be so stupid not to have realised.’

  But I didn’t! I didn’t know, didn’t realise. At least…thinking about it now, I did know something wasn’t right…but who the hell would leap to that conclusion? ‘Something’s wrong in my marriage. I know! My hubby must be a rapist!’ It’s just not the thought process of a normal person.

  Even if I had thought it, for even a second (which I never, ever did, despite priding myself on being a touch paranoid and having a very over-active imagination) I wouldn’t have believed myself, would have told myself off, shocked that I could think such a terrible thing about the person I loved. I’d have felt like I’d betrayed him somehow, thinking something like that. It’s not what normal people do.

  And that’s the thing, that’s the key phrase – it’s not what normal people do. Because I am normal, and that’s the frame of reference I use to judge people. Normal, everyday life. I don’t think about rapists, killers, paedophiles…bad people, bad things, it’s not in my world. Or, I didn’t think it was…

  Sunday 19

  The bloody cow! The two-faced, conniving, vindictive, opportunistic, money-grabbing… I’ve run out of words! I’m too flabbergasted to even swear!!

  The first thing I saw this morning when I went skulking around the supermarket trying to get food without being recognised? Emblazoned across one of the red tops, was ‘My hell in the Port Pervert’s lair’ and beneath it a photo of Hannah. Hannah! She’s sold her bloody story!

  Stunned, I picked it up, my brain refusing to believe what it was seeing. Oh the irony that, even after everything that’s happened, I can still be surprised by what people are capable of. I stood there looking at that load of trash, thinking: ‘No, it’s not what it seems. She’ll be talking about how normal we were, trying to get people to realise we weren’t some kind of weird monster couple.’

  So I actually paid for a copy of the rag and took it home with me. Shoved it up my jumper before I left the shop, of course, didn’t want the paps to get a shot of me with a newspaper. The security guard by the doors gave me a really funny look as I did it, given that it’s more the sort of thing he’d see a shoplifter do; I expect not many people who’ve paid for something shove it up their jumper or down their trousers or something afterwards…

  The minute I got back to the house I retrieved the paper, not caring that the black ink had smudged onto my white bra, and spread the pages out to read. It was about two seconds later that the truth hit and the swearing started.

  ‘The way he looked at me was pure evil,’ I read aloud. What?! ‘I knew then, like some kind of protective instinct kicking in, that if I didn’t get away there and then, my number was up.’

  She was on about that day when she and Amy had come round and he’d made them feel uncomfortable. Now, fair enough, that did happen, and with hindsight, it must have been quite scary for them, but come on, ultimately all he actually did was give them a funny look. Why did she have to sell the tale to some tacky tabloid and make loads more of it than there actually was? Why profit from other people’s misery? She didn’t even have the decency to warn me beforehand.

  Hannah, a busty brunette, trembles as she remembers that awful night when she came so very close to death, was another bit that really stuck out for me. So close to death? Come off it, you can’t kill someone by giving them a nasty glare. And also, frankly, she isn’t busty – more flat-chested and athletic.

  The worst thing though, the absolute worst thing, was that she wasn’t just talking about that night. That wouldn’t have filled more than a quarter of the page, even with a heavy dose of over-dramatic padding. No, she was talking about our everyday life. Mine and Daryl’s. She made us sound like freaks.

  We’d held a barbecue the other year, and she’d been terrified, apparently, as Daryl and I had leered at her over the sausages (yes, that’s really what the newspaper story said, I’m not making that up). Now I do remember her being really drunk and making suggestive comments herself about the various uses of bangers, in a bad Carry On film kind of way. I don’t remember her looking even remotely ‘terrified’. Although I was a bit scared when she stood on the table and gave a rousing rendition of ‘I’m Too Sexy’ by Right Said Fred, while waving a particularly long sausage about and miming an act that had made Kim cover Henry’s eyes. That bit of the evening hadn’t made it into the article.

  To be honest, Daryl had looked a bit scary when Hannah had vomited all over our new rug…but I’d managed to clear it up quite quickly and smooth things over as I’d bundled her into a minicab I’
d ordered for her (and paid for!) so she could go home and get some rest. Funnily enough though, none of that was reported in Hannah’s version of events either.

  There was absolutely and definitely no leering over the sausages on my part though.

  I suppose on the plus side, at least she’s finally made me feel angry. Well done her, because for the first time since the trial’s revelations, I’m red-rage furious. How much did she get for her lies and exaggerations? It’s one thing to want nothing more to do with me - as hurtful as that is, I do understand – but we’ve known each other since we were kids so I don’t get how she could betray me like this. At least other friends who have dropped by the wayside haven’t stooped to this level.

  Yet.

  Finally I understood Mum’s rage when she’d kicked the bed apart. I wanted to punch someone, tear something to shreds, destroy the way I’d been destroyed. I tore the newspaper up into tiny pieces in the bin, but was still fuming. I wanted to rant to someone who’d be as outraged as me. I almost called Kim but remembered she’d mentioned she was going out; she goes out so rarely that I didn’t want to disturb her happiness with my crap.

  Then I picked up the phone and dialled Hannah to give her a piece of my mind. It gave a single ring before I wimped out and quickly ended the call, remembering the mess I’d made that time I’d phoned a newspaper to complain about their coverage after Daryl’s arrest. Knowing Hannah she’d probably sell this Sunday tabloid a follow up tale of how the Port Pervert’s wife had stalked, threatened and harassed her.

  See? I’m finally learning to play this game.

  Monday 20

  How could I have loved a rapist and not known?

  Tuesday 21

  I got the truck back today. The police had held it since they confiscated it after Daryl’s arrest. Now the trial is over, they’ve released it. It’s stuck outside my house now and every time I see its massive shadow my heart jumps and I feel sick because I automatically think it means he’s coming home.