Eventually, though, he calmed down. ‘I’ll give you twenty minutes,’ he said. ‘Bring it down to me and it’s no hard feelings.’ He went to leave. ‘Don’t bring it back,’ he added, ‘and I’ll kill you.’
The second he was gone we bolted the door, slammed the window shut and both cried. We hadn’t touched his jewellery. I’d never even seen him before. How the hell were we meant to return it?
‘We need to call the police,’ I said. The problem was, we had no phone and in order to get outside to the call box we’d have to get past that madman’s front door.
Fortunately there was building work going on in the block next door and it was covered in scaffolding, so Simon, a natural where climbing was concerned, said, ‘I’ll jump over there and get help.’
That was a brilliant plan. But then, just as he was about to jump across, I said, ‘What if he comes back? I don’t want to be on my own!’
So in the end I went. I must have stood on that window sill for five minutes before I felt brave enough to swing across. Eventually I banged on the caretaker’s door and he called the police, who arrived in minutes. After they’d interviewed me and Simon, they went to talk to the neighbour.
So what happened? Absolutely nothing. He denied all knowledge and the police said there was no evidence. They asked if I could identify the weapon, but it was a kitchen knife. There was no law about having one of those on the premises.
The only positive to come out of it was that we showed the neighbour we were prepared to call the police. He never bothered us again, but life there was ruined. I couldn’t walk down the stairs without feeling sick at the thought that he might come out. And every morning we would find both our motorbikes kicked over in the street. It had to be him.
It wouldn’t take a genius to draw the parallels between entering that building and coming home to Preston Park or one of our old flats, with that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, worrying if those men would be there or not. I thought I’d put those days of fear and intimidation behind me. I was wrong. So I had to act.
I can’t live here, I realized. But with no money and no job, where could I go?
The only saving grace in those days and weeks after the downstairs druggy incident was the Hungry Years. Ever since I’d first stepped through the door, as an illegal fifteen-year-old, I’d had this sense of déjà vu. Then, out of the blue, it came to me.
Mum used to bring me here.
I didn’t know why I hadn’t remembered earlier, but it was true. I was taken there as a toddler, allowed to wander around the bar while strangers attempted to amuse me. Mum drank snowballs. Even though I didn’t know what it was called back then, I could still clearly picture the yellow Advocaat and remembered thinking how ladylike she looked holding it.
It gave me a little fillip, realizing Mum and I had the same tastes. Maybe I blocked them on purpose, but any other emerging parallels between our lives did not enter my mind. If only they had, I could have done something about it . . .
The Rising Sun crowd were a big, brash mob. Your classic biker gang, I suppose. They played drinking games in the car park at Box Hill. Blokes would ‘accidentally on purpose’ spray beer over women’s tops so they had to whip them off and it was all a great laugh – and probably scared the bejesus out of old ladies on occasion, by looking like the tabloids’ version of typical two-wheeled trouble-makers. But they were nice guys really.
Nothing gave me greater pleasure than playing pool all night – winner stays on – and drinking and giggling with everyone and making them all listen to ‘Oh Carol’ on the jukebox. I couldn’t get enough of their company and, because they were so much older than me, everyone seemed so exotic. On reflection, most probably had day jobs in banks and things and only let their hair down at weekends, but as an impressionable teen, I just thought they were all so worldly and experienced in things I’d never understand.
Of all the characters there, one guy began to emerge more than others. As I’ve said, no one really led the group. Members came and went and the faces changed quite regularly. But during that first summer as an independent woman, I realized I was seeing one face more and more often.
The first time I saw him I was playing pool, as usual. I noticed that a small crowd had gathered round one table. Always keen to be near the action, I drifted over. Usually everyone would be trying to chip in with their own jokes and stories, the usual one-upmanship you get in groups. But on this occasion everyone was quiet, listening to this bloke.
I’d never noticed him before. He was older than the rest of them, at thirty-something, and even seated I could tell he was quite short, about 5´7. He was slim, dressed head to toe in tight denim and his skin was really tanned, which I liked. Whereas everyone else in the pub had long, trademark, Samson-like biker hair, his was closely cropped. Even his leathers stood out from the pack. The vogue at the time was for tassels, studs and sewn-on patches – the more outlandish, the better. His jacket was more Lewis Collins from The Professionals, heavy and practical.
At first glance then, he was unusual, but certainly not eyecatching. So why did he have such an audience?
I pulled up a chair and realized why everyone else was so quiet. The stranger had such a thick accent that I could barely make out every other word. I don’t think I’d ever heard a Scottish accent before and this Glaswegian brogue was almost impenetrable. The man spoke quietly but with passion and the more I struggled to understand him, the closer I leaned in and the more I became hooked on his every word.
At one point I caught his eye and he paused. Then he took another puff on his Old Holborn roll-up and carried on speaking about the wounds he’d picked up during service on the front line.
‘I’ve still got shrapnel in my wrist,’ he said, pulling up his right sleeve for his audience to examine, ‘but the worst of it is in the back of my skull.’ He reached behind to the top of his neck. ‘Just here.’
‘Does it hurt?’ someone asked.
‘What do you think?’ he replied with a wink. ‘I’ve got drugs for it, but the pain never really goes away.’
I really was rapt. It was like watching one of those Sunday-night documentaries Grandpa loved. But this guy wasn’t on television, he was right here in the Hungry Years. Most of my friends had never been outside Sussex. This bloke seemed to have been everywhere. This was a man who’d fought for his country in Aden. I didn’t know where that was, but it sounded important. As for the shrapnel embedded in his body – that just made him the bravest person I’d ever met.
At some point, the group broke up for more games of pool and a bit of dancing, but when we all got on our bikes to go home I found myself seeking the stranger out to see what he was riding. I wasn’t disappointed. He had an old Honda CM250 with drop handlebars – my favourite.
A few days later, I saw the man again. When I walked into the Hungry Years he was already at the bar. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked. I was flattered. After all, I didn’t even know his name. A few minutes later we’d found a table and I was learning even more about his incredible past. He’d risked his life repairing oil rigs and had held high-powered jobs, with hundreds of people under him. Everything he said sounded so glamorous and so, so grown up. The people he’d met, the things he’d done, the danger he’d been in – it was an intoxicating cocktail for a girl desperate for something better. And best of all, not one of his stories was about scaffolding.
To be fair to Simon, I wasn’t exactly setting the world alight with my own conversation. It’s not easy to compete with a war veteran and I felt embarrassed that I’d done so little with my life. I found myself telling him that my mother had died when I was young – I didn’t reveal how – and that I didn’t really know my dad. I even heard myself telling him about the frustrations of living at Tremola Avenue. He laughed and nodded in all the right places, but I was convinced I must be boring him. What on earth did I have to offer a man like him?
He had plenty to offer me though. When I told him about my
money worries, he just shrugged.
‘A girl shouldn’t have to worry about money. I’d never let a girl like you worry about money.’
‘But I like working,’ I insisted. ‘I just can’t find a job.’
‘I’ll give you a job,’ he said. ‘I manage a hotel. If it’s work you want, then I’m your man.’
I couldn’t believe it. Was there no end to this man’s surprises?
I’ve thought about this moment thousands of times and, honestly, it was never a case of love at first sight. But I can’t deny there was a lot about this man that I found very attractive. So, when he added casually, ‘There’s a bed for you there as well,’ I leapt at it. He didn’t say if it was sharing with him or not – and I didn’t care. The fact that it was in his power to offer me anything at all, I found very seductive.
My life with Simon was over. In truth, it had been since I’d met this man who was older than my father. We’d run our course and it was time to part. Simon couldn’t offer me half the things this stranger had promised. Where were his war wounds or tales of outwitting the law in half a dozen countries?
I admit, I was intoxicated. I’d been looking for an escape route from the drudgery of life with Simon, a way out of the hellish flat I was too scared to be in on my own and a new job. Suddenly this amazing man was offering me all three.
That wasn’t all he was offering me, but I didn’t care. The whole package was too good to turn down. By the time the summer of 1986 had turned into autumn, I’d moved in with my knight in leather armour. I’d moved in with Peter Tobin.
TWELVE
The Signs were There
For the second time in six months I was in a hired van loaded with my bottom drawer treasures and a combination of suits from my short-lived job and my bike garb. As Peter and I pulled up outside the large chunk of seafront terrace that was to be my new home, I was excited by the prospect of a new beginning. No knife-wielding druggies, no immature boyfriends with irritating friends and no more tedious builders’ tales. It was a new dawn.
Going into the block, I was surprised not to see a reception, but assumed we’d used a trade entrance. Even that seemed strangely impressive. He has his own door! The corridors didn’t seem to be in the freshest condition and when Peter stopped and unlocked a door I thought, Is this it?
Then we stepped inside and my nerves vanished. It was a nice flat, lovely even, and certainly the best one I’d ever lived in. It had a big lounge, six or seven steps leading up into a kitchen and dining area and then you went down a corridor at the side and there was a bedroom and a loo at the back. The pièce de résistance, however, was the view from the dining-area window – miles of glorious beach and sea. I was literally speechless. Standing there, staring out at the lapping waves, my head was filled with all the possibilities that lay ahead. Life was going to be fantastic. And, I was pretty sure, it was going to be with Peter.
If I’m honest, enjoying that view from a pretty impressive flat had probably doubled, trebled even, the allure of the man I’d impetuously decided to set up home with. One day I’d been living with Simon, the next here I was with a chap more than twice his age. But whereas Simon had been in almost as bad a position as me financially, my new partner could offer me a job and this amazing home. It all counted in his favour.
I still hadn’t really got to the bottom of our sleeping arrangements. I presumed Peter thought we were a couple and I was prepared to go along with that. It sounds crass now, but at the time I thought, It’s the least I can do. He’s doing so much for me.
My other boyfriends had been chosen on the strength of their looks – and look how they’d ended up. I couldn’t say I fancied Peter, but I was infatuated by the idea of being in a grown-up relationship with him. That in itself was enough for Peter to take on some allure in my eyes. My friends were doing A levels or hanging out with teenagers as skint as they were. He was offering me the chance of something different, something mature. Something my parents had never had.
I couldn’t, then, hand on heart, claim I was blinded by love. Not at first. I was blinded by something though because as impressive as the flat turned out to be, when I saw the rest of the building the following morning, I only had questions. Our corridor was typical of the grotty décor throughout the place and, I’d been right, there was no reception – for the simple reason that it wasn’t really a hotel at all. It was a doss-house for old men.
It had been a hotel at one point, quite a grand one judging by the remains of the original features, but that had been years ago. Then some landlord had converted the rooms into self-contained bedsits and begun charging the council to put people up there. Now its only occupants were retired, older blokes on pensions and benefits. It was honest enough, but it was hardly the Ritz.
If it’s not a hotel, I wondered, then how can Peter be the manager?
Simple answer: he wasn’t. At best, I could describe him as odd-job-man-cum-janitor. The old boys pretty much looked after themselves, so all Peter had to do was make sure the cleaner turned up, organize the annual fire check and fix anything that went wrong. Apart from that, there was a little bar in the hotel where Peter would serve the tenants their whiskies. It wasn’t to be sniffed at, but no one would call him a manager.
Another thought occurred to me. If Peter’s not the manager and there isn’t a huge staff under him, what job is there for me?
He seemed surprised when I mentioned it.
‘A job? You don’t have to work.’
‘But I want to work. You said you had something for me here.’
He thought for a moment.
‘Yeah, of course. But you don’t have to, you know.’
The silly young girl in me was flattered that he didn’t want me to get my hands dirty. I saw it as him offering to look after me. That really didn’t fit in with my need to earn my own money and control my own destiny, but it was almost sexy that he wanted to.
Even when I realized that there was no job as such and I’d only be helping out with the cleaning and doing a few hours behind the bar, I didn’t care. I certainly wasn’t going to make a fuss and storm out. After all, whatever my circumstances here, they were a damn sight better than where I’d been a few days earlier. If anything, I was flattered that he’d lied to impress me. Mainly though, I’d be staying because I didn’t have anywhere else to go.
There was always Saltdean, but, just like my mother before me, the last thing I wanted to do was admit defeat. I couldn’t face the disapproving glare in Granny’s eyes or, worse, the idea that Grandpa would say those four damning words: ‘I told you so.’
For years since her death, I’d wondered why Mum had never asked for help. Why hadn’t she gone to Grandpa when we were living in fear, with no electricity, no heating, no food? Those questions had eaten me up for eight years. Why, why, why?
And now I knew. Mum’s parents were proud people and they’d made her proud and, in turn, me proud. Too proud for my own good, as it turned out. But I didn’t know that then.
But there was another reason why I turned a blind eye to Peter’s false promises. I would never have admitted it then, but it’s pretty easy to spot all these years later, isn’t it? There was me, who hadn’t known my dad until I was fourteen, abused by a string of evil men, and all the while my life had been crying out for a hero to ride to my rescue. It had been crying out for a father figure. And now I’d found him.
Everyone has 20/20 vision in hindsight. Apart from the father figure thing and my insistence on demonstrating the same character flaws that had done for Mum, there was another obvious clue to what was just around the corner staring me right in the face. I was making excuses for him
I thought nothing of it at the time. Peter had lied about his job. That’s fine, I told myself, he’s just trying to impress me.
He’d lied about being able to find me work. No problem, I said, he’s just being chivalrous. He doesn’t want his young lady to work.
Two lies, two justifications. I know no
w that it’s a classic trait of domestic abuse victims. They gloss over the problems and somehow dress up the bad things as inevitable. Often they convince themselves it was their fault. They were only small lies and he certainly wasn’t the only man who’s ever told porkies to get a girl into bed, but I should have seen that a pattern was emerging about the way he was going to treat me in the future. The signs were there.
Very quickly our life settled into a routine. I tried desperately to be the ‘good wife’, keeping the flat spick and span and making sure there was a meal on the table when Peter came in. Unfortunately, Granny had only let me help in the kitchen occasionally on a Sunday, so I had very little cooking ability. But I was willing to learn. Anything for my man.
Sometimes I worked at the doss-house, sometimes I didn’t. For a while I got a job as a silver service waitress at the Metropole – a proper hotel. Even when I wasn’t busy, contact with the Rising Sun guys fizzled out. Peter didn’t exactly tell me not to see them anymore. He just used to find other things for us to do instead. After a while, I realized we hadn’t been to the Hungry Years in weeks.
Funnily enough, I didn’t miss them. Not at first. I’d look around our lovely flat and think how lucky I was, especially when I’d remember the places some of those other guys lived. In the past, a group of us would go back to someone’s house or flat and even when I was caught up in the whirl of being a biker chick, I didn’t like the way they lived. Every place would stink, usually of damp, and there would be empty cans and fag ends everywhere. I’d come from a world of linen napkins and domestic order. Now I was entering a world where clothes were strewn over the floor, table tops served as ashtrays and last week’s curry remains littered every surface – and nobody seemed to notice but me. They treated their homes like they were squats, whether they were or not. Although they were great fun to be out and about with, that wasn’t the life I wanted to lead.
Escape From Evil Page 16