Marsha seemed to consider what I’d said for a moment. ‘Tell me a good memory from your relationship,’ she asked.
What did that have to do with what we were talking about? Confusion made the tears disappear slowly as I spoke, describing the time Daryl arrived at the house as a surprise, only a few weeks before his arrest, and I pulled a sickie from work so we could spend the whole day together.
But as I told the story, instead of feeling happy at the memory, or sickened because I now know that he was in such a good mood because he’d raped someone the night before, I started to feel something else. Angry.
It was Marsha’s clever questioning that did it. She didn’t lead me to any conclusions, didn’t put words in my mouth or thoughts in my head, but as I answered her, describing the day and emotions in greater detail I suddenly saw the whole thing from a different perspective, like looking at one of those posters that’s all crazy coloured dots, and then something shifts and suddenly you can clearly see a picture.
Daryl totally manipulated and managed me that day. I’d thought it was really romantic the way he’d just turned up, but actually he’d just expected me to drop everything for him. The really annoying thing is I’d thought it myself for a fraction of a second that day, then dismissed it, thinking I was being silly.
I always did that, always told myself that any negative emotions I had were my problem. I never had the confidence to say them out loud or to say no to Daryl. Or anyone else for that matter, because now I’m home and still thinking about the session, I can see it’s what I was like with friends too, especially Hannah.
All through school I followed her round like a sheep, doing things I didn’t really want to do simply because to say no would cause an argument. It was never anything major, just silly things like which film we’d go see, which clothes to wear (if we both wanted to wear a red top for a night out, or something, she’d always be the one to wear it while I’d put something else on), even which boys to chat up. I’ve spent my whole life placating, smoothing things over, keeping the peace, making sure everyone around me is happy, while forgetting about my own happiness.
While at Marsha’s though, the whole revelation took my breath away. I sat there, open-mouthed, trying to get my head around it.
‘Oh my God, Daryl did stuff like that to me all the time,’ I gasped, furious. ‘He managed me. Even when Daryl was in a good mood, he’d make sure everything was done if and when he felt like it, in the way he felt like. Even that time he surprised me outside work.’ Marsha had no idea what incident I was referring to but didn’t interrupt me. ‘I thought it was really romantic, but thinking about it now, it was totally controlling! He’d never, ever have given up time at work for me. In fact, he’d have kicked off about it.’
My eyes darted around the room, unseeing, as memories raced through my mind. ‘Rows were always blamed on me, tension was always my fault, somehow it was always me who was manipulated into apologising even when I knew I’d done nothing wrong,’ I added, conviction building now as my fists clenched and unclenched. ‘Sometimes when I was with him I felt like I was going mad because he’d so often convince me that black was white. He had a hold over me like he was Rasputin or something!’
Suddenly I looked up at Marsha, triumphant. ‘You’re right. When he said “It’s your fault” he just didn’t want to take responsibility for his own actions. Part of his unique way of torturing people is to make them feel guilty. It’s something he’s always done to me, and he even did to the women he attacked too.’
It’s one thing to be told something by someone and accept it, as I had done at the last session when Marsha had pretty much told me the same thing. It’s a whole other feeling to come to that same conclusion yourself. I could have screamed in frustration at my old self for not being able to see – but also felt overjoyed because now I can see, and one of the chains tying me to Daryl has been snapped. I can feel it like a physical lightening of my being.
‘He’s a high-functioning psychopath and sociopath,’ Marsha explained. ‘They are charming, manipulative, and lack any emotional empathy, which is why when they want something they go after it without concern for who might get hurt along the way.’
Yep, that sounds like my husband.
I’m going to get away from that bastard. It’s going to take a while, but one day I’m going to be free of him once and for all.
‘I just wish I could have seen it at the time,’ I hissed, shaking my head furiously. ‘I was so judgemental of my friend Kim’s relationship and couldn’t understand why she didn’t realise how awful her boyfriend was. Yet there was I, with someone a hundred times worse, but I was blinded for some reason.’
‘Did she realise something was wrong with your relationship?’ asked Marsha, before taking a sip of water.
‘She tried to subtly tell me once but I didn’t listen. In fact I felt annoyed, hurt.’
‘So she could see what was wrong in your relationship but not in her own,’ Marsha said. ‘Why do you think that was?’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose she was just too close to her own relationship. Couldn’t see the wood for the trees and all that. But she had the distance from my marriage to be able to see it clearly.’
Marsha nodded, and I waited expectantly for her to say more. She just looked on me. Then realisation dawned. Oh, I get it now – that’s exactly why I could see what a scumbag Psycho Sam was, but couldn’t see Daryl for what he was.
‘The other thing, I suppose,’ I said slowly, thinking aloud, ‘is that…well, if he’d been hitting me it would have been easier to see I was in an abusive relationship. Not easier to get out of, just easier to…comprehend. But…manipulation and psychological games are harder to identify somehow.’
‘A lot of women would agree with that, definitely.’
Hmm, lots more for me to think about…
Friday 28
I actually slept a bit better last night. Between the therapy, and the exercising I’m forcing myself to do now, I’m feeling stronger. Not strong, definitely not strong; I am still broken and pathetic, but now I am at least trying to pull myself together.
The jogging is boring as hell but gives me time alone that somehow clears my head instead of filling it with more crap. And I’m doing yoga. So much yoga it’s coming out of my ears. That dvd Kim bought me has been a real God-send. I tried it one night in desperation when I couldn’t sleep and now I’m addicted. I mean literally addicted. I do it in the morning, in place of my missed sleep. I do it in the evenings, when I can’t face watching more telly, and I can’t sleep...
Why? Why? Why? That’s the question that keeps me awake; yes, I’m still driving myself mad with that. It’s whirling round and round my head and there doesn’t seem to be any escape from it. I’m exhausted by it. I come up with theories and shoot them down just as quickly. I’ve got to know the reason, I’ve got to understand. It’s fine to say that Daryl is responsible for his actions, and I do know it wasn’t my fault but…What if there was something I could have done to stop it? What if I could have spotted it earlier?
But more than anything, I just need to understand why the man I loved was a violent manipulative monster.
Saturday 29
More red bills are landing on my doormat. I’m in big trouble. I’ve started scouring the local paper for jobs, even though I can’t imagine anyone wanting to employ me round here, but really I need to get rid of this house.
Kim and Peter came over for dinner tonight. I know it sounds pathetic but I’m still not up to much; I get exhausted very quickly and have trouble concentrating on things, so I just did a huge vat of spag bol. They didn’t seem to mind though, and even brought over some wine to share.
‘Not for me, thanks,’ I said, putting a hand over my glass when Peter poured for everyone. Kim pulled a face, amazed. ‘Oh, I just don’t like the thought of drinking since the trial. I’m too on edge all the time, and I’m scared I’ll lose control and fall apart if I have any booze,’ I explained
.
She nodded, understanding immediately. Peter looked sympathetic too. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked gently.
‘I’m okay,’ I nodded, the lie tripping off my tongue lightly, because what else could I say? ‘But I did have something I wanted to ask you. I know you’re not a divorce lawyer, but I wondered if you knew…can I divorce Daryl even if he doesn’t want me to?’
Peter frowned and bit his lip. Then ran over his hands through his black hair, which always seems to point in different directions. Clearly the answer wasn’t going to be the straightforward ‘of course!’ I’d been hoping for. Kim gave him a look before taking another mouthful of food.
‘You’ve had a conversation with Daryl about this, I take it?’ he checked.
‘Wrote to him,’ I confirmed, nodding. ‘He wrote back saying he’d never agree, basically. Though he did put some nonsense in about being willing to discuss it if I visit him.’
Peter looked thunderstruck for a second, then swallowed hard. ‘Well, it might be worth considering…’ Before Kim or I could argue he ploughed on. ‘The only way you can get a divorce without your husband’s consent is for you to have lived separately for five years or more. He won’t be able to defend your divorce petition then, although he can ask the court not to grant the final decree because of major financial or other type of hardship – but I don’t see how that could be applied in this case.’
I pushed my plate away and doubled over, leaning on the dining table, head in hands, suddenly weak. ‘Five years?’ I croaked into the glass surface. ‘Are you sure there’s no emergency rule for cases like this, you know, extenuating circumstances where you discover your spouse is a murdering psycho?’
I heard someone stand, a rustle of movement, then felt a hand rest on my shoulder. ‘I’m really sorry,’ Peter apologised.
‘Is it worth you checking with someone? This isn’t your area of expertise…’ I said desperately, hauling myself upright to look him in the eye. His hand dropped uselessly to his side, and he stood awkwardly, clearly not knowing what to do with himself.
Finally he shrugged helplessly. ‘I can check but I know you have to wait five years, unless he agrees to the divorce.’
Kim leaned over the table and grabbed my hand, squeezing it. Her brow furrowed into a frill and she sighed. ‘Maybe it’s worth talking to Daryl?’
I shook my head. ‘After all that’s come out about him, does he strike you as the reasonable type? No, he just wants me to visit so he can mess with my head and play his little mind games. He’s no intention of giving me what I want, I’m sure of it.’
She squeezed my hand once more and threw a worried look at Peter.
Bugger, bugger, bugger, there was no way I was letting that bastard ruin our evening. It’s the first time I’d even attempted to cook for anyone for an eternity, so I gave myself a shake.
‘Enough about depressing things,’ I said, forcing myself to be bright. ‘Tell me all about you two!’ To show I was totally fine I even forced down a mouthful of spaghetti and sauce.
Kim and Peter looked at each other again, smiling shyly, almost apologetically, but they couldn’t keep their happiness under wraps. Their faces positively glowed as they spoke about their relationship, their plans to move in together, and how wonderful Peter thought Henry was.
Everything seems to be moving apace, but they look so right together that it doesn’t seem too fast.
Finally, I stood and started clearing the plates, with Peter hurrying to join me. As we went into the kitchen, he seemed anxious to say something and my heart fell a little; I hoped he wasn’t going to say more on the divorce when I was trying so hard not to think of the next five years I faced being Mrs Port Pervert.
‘I, err, I wondered if I could ask your advice on something,’ he said nervously, setting the plates down carefully and licking his lips.
‘Of course,’ I replied, curious.
‘Umm, well…’ he sent a nervous glance in the direction of the living room where Kim was flicking through my old CDs. ‘I’m thinking of…well, proposing to Kim, what do you think?’
This last sentence had come out in such a rush that I just stood there blinking for a second. Then went to squeal but managed to stifle it, realising Kim would hear and wonder why I was giving her fella a bear hug in the kitchen. Instead I settled for silently pumping my arms and jumping up and down, a huge grin on my face.
Peter smiled right back, clearly overjoyed by my reaction.
‘Bloody brilliant, that’s what I think,’ I hissed gleefully. ‘When? Where? What’s the plan?’
‘Really? You think she’ll say yes?’ he confirmed.
I rolled my eyes. ‘I’ve never seen her happier. Now come on, spill!’
Suddenly Kim appeared in the doorway, waving a Stone Roses CD. ‘God, I haven’t heard this in years! Can I put it on?’
If she saw the way me and her fella froze guiltily, she didn’t give anything away. Just goes to show how the innocent mind doesn’t spot suspicious behaviour…
‘Yeah, no problem,’ I squeaked. ‘Actually, that’s a ‘best of’, but if you look in my bedroom, I might have their original album somewhere.’ That bought us some time as she wandered from the kitchen.
‘Quick, tell all,’ I urged Peter.
‘I’m going to take her and Henry on a surprise trip to Euro Disney – I thought Henry should be involved?’ I nodded that his thinking was probably correct. ‘Well, their favourite Disney film is Toy Story. So I was going to get Buzz Lightyear to ask her if she’d spend infinity and beyond with me. Too cheesy?’
Umm, yes, way too cheesy, but it’s also the sort of thing Kim will adore, and that’s what I told him. At this, if he’d have smiled any wider he’d have wound up with a flip top head!
I have to say, despite the bitter divorce blow, tonight’s been one of the best I can remember – and one that I know won’t be tainted with anything untoward in years to come.
Finally, there’s some truly good news in my life. Without Kim and Peter’s example I think I’d give up and decide all men were total shits and love is for suckers. How tragically ironic though that as I’m desperately trying to get rid of my husband, Kim is gaining one.
Five years. How can I be that man’s wife for another five years? I keep rubbing the empty space where my wedding ring used to be; maybe I hope subconsciously that if I rub hard enough I’ll magically erase the marriage. If only.
Sunday 30
So, I’m stuffed as far as divorce or selling the house or anything is concerned. But I’ve come up with a plan. I was lying in bed, trying to sleep as usual, but for once it was anger making me toss and turn rather than guilt and bad memories. Suddenly a flash of inspiration struck at 4am. I’m going to speak again with Peter and with Marsha too, and see what they think.
JULY
Sunday 7
I pick up the new visiting order Daryl has sent (he sends one every week now) and my stomach flips at the thought of seeing him, a rush of blood pounding in my ears and making my heart race.
I hope I’m ready for this.
Thursday 11
I’ve been given the go-ahead by Marsha and Peter, and I’ve booked myself in, so tomorrow I face Daryl for the first time since court. Seems sort of fitting somehow, as I’ve just realised that tomorrow is the anniversary of us getting arrested; I won’t be celebrating that, but it did mark a…turning point in my life, shall I say, and hopefully tomorrow will too. The first day of the rest of my life, possibly.
I’m sick with nerves, can’t think of tomorrow without my stomach feeling like it’s trying to churn its way out of my body. As for my heart, I’ve been fascinated and fairly freaked out to discover that when it pounds hard enough I can actually see it against my chest.
Last night I found myself once again wishing I were dead. I stood talking to my reflection in the mirror, crying about how useless I am, worrying that Daryl will send me back to the pathetic specimen I used to be; I could already see it happenin
g before my eyes.
Or worse, going to the prison and finding a man broken by the discovery of his two sides. Why worse? Because then I might feel sorry for him. Slide into that abyss again and I might as well be dead.
I opened the bathroom cabinet and took out the bottle of sleeping pills. Stared at it. Then put it back again. Because I have to try this. I have to speak with Daryl and put my plan into place. If it doesn’t work, if things go really badly and I wind up a blubbering wreck then…well, I can always kill myself tomorrow.
Friday 12
The journey to Wakefield prison seemed to take both an incredibly long time but also to fly by. All too soon I found myself parking the car, going through the security checks of a rub down and walking through a metal detector, had my passport scrutinised and then I was led into a room full of low tables, each with four chairs. I sat down, swallowed nervously and waited.
I didn’t have to wait long. Seconds later, the door opened and the prisoners filed in. As soon as I saw Daryl it felt like someone had punched my solar plexus and my heart leapt painfully. I clenched my hands together tightly to stop my urge to fidget, and forced myself to meet his eye.
Calm, I had to stay calm. I knew what I’d come to say, and I was going to take Marsha’s advice and harness my anger and nerves to get me through this. I hate confrontations though, get so worked up that my heart pounds and the adrenaline just seems to make me want to cry. Still, I have improved a little lately, and I knew this time I couldn’t afford to get like that so used the deep breathing techniques I’d learned in yoga.
Daryl gave me a predatory smile, the kind a cat gives a mouse, as he eased himself into the plastic chair opposite me then leaned back and assessed me.
‘Hello, Gorgeous, you’ve lost more weight. Don’t get too skinny, you’ll look gaunt,’ he greeted. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine…thanks,’ I replied stiffly. My throat was really dry, so dry I could barely swallow. ‘I just need the loo,’ I announced suddenly, jumping up again.
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