Escape From Evil

by Wilson, Cathy

  Inside, the three bedrooms were decent sizes, the lounge was very comfortable and there was even a washing machine! Apart from the horrible pink and blue colour scheme throughout, it was pretty near perfect. On paper, then, I should have been perfectly content. So why did I feel like a mouse about to nibble the cheese on a trap?

  I’d been all right as late as packing the lorry and setting off. I might even have been excited. Then we’d reached our first motorway and I began to have kittens. I’d never driven on anything bigger than an A road before and here I was trying to follow Peter’s truck, with Daniel crying and a cockatiel squawking in my face. It was horrible, a real baptism of fire. Then, as the hours began to trickle by and we were still in England, major doubts really began to descend. What was I doing? Why was I allowing myself to be taken so far from the town and the people I knew? How had I let this happen?

  Of course, if you’d asked him, Peter would have said it was my idea. I was the one who’d wanted the bigger house, the one who’d said I needed help looking after Daniel. Here was the answer to my problems. A cute house in a picturesque area on the doorstep of the extended Tobin family. It was exactly what I’d requested.

  Except it wasn’t. I had a lot of time to reflect during that marathon journey to West Lothian. I knew I hadn’t asked for this. Peter had done all the running and, as usual, had manipulated me so I felt like it was my decision. Of course, I’d wanted to get out of that flat, but not to come here. However it looked to him, I’d given in because I thought it was worth a gamble, to see if it would make him happy. That had to be worth a shot, didn’t it? A happy Peter might be a nicer Peter. He might just take an interest in me again without swearing and scaring. He might just start to play a role in his son’s life too.

  There I was again, making excuses like every other battered wife. And I still didn’t see it.

  Even the weather tried to tell me to go back. The moment we pulled off the M8, it was like stepping into a dark tunnel. The fog was so thick I could hardly see the lights of Peter’s lorry ten feet in front of me or Debbie’s car behind. We could have been anywhere, but it seemed familiar. With a shudder, I realized, If we had some scary music, it would be like driving into a horror film, that part just before the killer strikes.

  Even without the soundtrack, that thought was more prescient than I realized.

  I assumed Peter would find a job and his mum and brothers’ families would be round all the time to socialize and maybe even help out. I think, in all the time we were there, I visited his sister’s home once and called for one brother at a tenement block in Glasgow – but he was out. The sister and her family were nice enough, but my strongest memory is of how uncomfortable Peter looked while he was there. He refused to sit down, preferring to hover nervously in the corner of whatever room we were in. It was weird. If you can’t be yourself in front of your family, when can you?

  That was the extent of our contact with the Tobins. I never met his mum and his dad’s name never once came up. As for the promises of babysitting, no one ever came to our house. In fact, after Debbie and John had both left us, I didn’t see another face at our door for at least a month.

  Peter had been polite enough to Debbie while she was helping me to get the house straight. Her departing Escort was still within earshot, however, when he said, ‘You won’t be seeing her again.’

  I said, ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You heard. She’s poison. I don’t want you seeing or phoning her unless I say you can. Understand?’

  I didn’t and told him so. Then he called me every name under the sun and threatened to smack me. Suddenly I understood perfectly.

  It was only then that I realized I hadn’t been on the sharp end of Peter’s tongue for a while. Admittedly, we’d been busy. Once the exchange had gone through, we suddenly had to sort out packing, vehicle hire, new doctors, utilities – all the usual things that go hand in hand with a move. And, stressful though it had been, Peter hadn’t lost his temper once. Not with me anyway. Seeing how easily he slipped into his old ways scared me. Not because of the words – I’d heard those a dozen times before. No, what terrified me was the nagging suspicion that he’d been on his best behaviour for a reason.

  It’s like he planned to bite his tongue until he got me up here – alone.

  I hadn’t seen Debbie much over the last few years, so not calling her wouldn’t make her suspicious for quite a while. My grandparents, on the other hand, had been worried enough about me going up to Scotland. If I didn’t ring them, they would marshal the air force to find me.

  ‘You can’t stop me phoning them,’ I told Peter firmly. He acquiesced, but only on the condition that it was no more than once a week – and he could see and hear me. Every call I made saw him perched on a chair right next to me. I don’t know what he was so paranoid about. I was never going to tell Granny or Grandpa anything. It was too embarrassing. I wasn’t going to heap any more shame on our family.

  I had to admit, if it had been Peter’s plan to cut me off from the rest of the world, it had worked. In Brighton I probably wouldn’t have spoken to Granny much more than once a week anyway, but the option was there. And if I didn’t have money for the phone I could get a bus or walk or drive over. I didn’t appreciate the value of that until it was taken away. Only on the drive up, along those seemingly endless roads, did it really sink in. It’s how my mother must have felt when she was abandoned in Stockport.

  I’m on my own.

  In the rare moments on that drive when Daniel and the bird weren’t demanding my attention, I entertained an idea so farfetched I laughed at it. Was it the council right-to-buy dream that was really driving our move? Or was Peter upset that I’d taken control after Daniel was born and opened the tea shop and made a success of it – and proven I didn’t need him? Was it simple jealousy that made him persuade me to shut up shop and start at the bottom rung of the council-house ladder? Did he just want me dependent on him again? And was that why I was now driving all the way to Bathgate, to a place where I would have to rely on him more than ever before?

  I don’t know how my Metro stayed on the road while I was thinking this. The idea was so big, so preposterous, that it obsessed me for mile after mile. But then I thought, That’s ridiculous. No one would think like that. No one would be so insecure – and so manipulative.

  And anyway, I decided, desperately looking for a bright side to the situation, didn’t it just mean that Peter loved me so much he wanted me all to himself? That was a good thing, wasn’t it?

  By the time we’d settled in at Robertson Avenue my can-do attitude had kicked in. I’m here now. I have to make an effort.

  I took Daniel to a mother and baby group a couple of mornings a week and enrolled him in swimming lessons – basically any activities that were free. I wanted to get a cat for him as well, but when Peter came home from the pet shop he had two guinea pigs instead. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but a pet’s a pet at that age, I supposed.

  And that, pretty much, was my new life. I now had a bigger house to clean and a garden to look after for the first time as well, but apart from that there was absolutely nothing to do. Peter loved it, but it drove me spare. Day after day, night after night, we’d just sit in the lounge, watching telly. I was itching to get out and do something, but he was comfortable where he was. It just felt so unnatural to me. A year earlier I’d been running my own business. Before that I’d made a decent profit turning round second-hand cars. I’d even made a few quid flogging teddy-bear templates. I loved – still love – to be busy and making money is an instinct for me, but Peter wouldn’t let me follow it. And he still refused to work.

  It was the same excuse as before. He was not getting a job – ‘not after what I’ve done for this country’ – and I could only go to work if I earned enough to pay for Daniel’s childcare.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said, yet again. ‘You’re sitting here all day. What else are you going to do?’ I instantly regretted a
sking. He flew off the sofa and had his hands round my throat.

  ‘Don’t you ever tell me what to fucking do, you cunt!’

  I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong. His hands were like steel on my neck. Nothing I did made any impression. I couldn’t even scream. As soon as I opened my mouth, his grip tightened, choking any sound back inside. Then I saw the dark rage in his eyes. He didn’t look human. That’s when the panic set in.

  That’s when I thought, I can’t breathe. He’s going to kill me.

  Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. Peter called me ‘cunt’ again and stormed out, still swearing.

  I wasn’t listening. I was clutching my throat, willing it back to health. I could still feel where Peter’s fingers had clamped my flesh. The skin was so sore and when I coughed it felt like I was trying to swallow razor blades.

  I didn’t cry. There was no point. I wasn’t upset, I was angry – with myself. Had I really thought that the abuse and the violence would be left behind in Brighton? He’d only behaved recently because he’d wanted something. Now he’d got his way, the true Peter was coming out again. I needed to get used to it.

  How has my life become such a mess?

  I was in the middle of nowhere – no, not even the middle. I was in the furthest reaches of nowhere and I had no friends, no money. I really felt stuck, adrift, desperate. And so, when the inevitable apology came an hour or so later, I begrudgingly relented.

  ‘I love you so much, hen,’ Peter said. ‘Don’t let this ruin everything.’

  Immediately the pressure was on me to make amends.

  ‘You hurt me,’ I replied, without looking at him.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’ He put his arms around me and pulled us together. ‘It will never happen again. I swear it. Do you hear me? I swear it.’

  I pulled away. Apology or not, I didn’t want to be touched.

  ‘Come on, pet, don’t be like that. Don’t ruin our fresh start.’

  Me ruin it? I wished he’d just go away.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have upset you.’

  That was what he’d been waiting for. I’d apologized to him. Just like a good battered wife should.

  To fight the boredom, I decided to start the redecorating. The kitchen needed it most, so I told Peter what wallpaper I wanted and eventually he let me go and buy it.

  ‘I’ll want to see change and the receipt,’ he warned as usual.

  I didn’t even question it anymore. That was just the way things were. On those occasions when I was given too much change, though, or if I spotted a coin in the street, it would go straight into my pocket. Never my purse because Peter always checked that.

  It was a slow process, especially as I had to do the decorating during Daniel’s nap times. But I got there. A week later I was the proud owner of a smart new kitchen.

  Peter didn’t have a good word to say about it. He complained about the mess while I was doing it and he moaned about the colours when I’d finished. He couldn’t have been more uncomplimentary if he’d tried. Still, at least Daniel and the guinea pigs seemed to enjoy running around now that it was all fresh and clean.

  It turned out the guinea pigs were enjoying it too much. When they weren’t scurrying around under my feet, I’d noticed that they liked stretching over the skirting board on their hind legs. It looked cute. What I didn’t see, however, was that the reason they were doing that was to be able to nibble the bottom of the new paper. Sod’s law, it had to be Peter who noticed it first.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he shouted and before I could even register what he was talking about, he flung open the door and hurled one of the guinea pigs like a cricket ball up the garden. I gasped as it smashed against the shed and didn’t get up again. That’s when I realized Daniel had seen everything.

  ‘Stop it, Peter, for Christ’s sake, you’re scaring him!’

  But he wasn’t listening. With another fierce lob, the second guinea pig sailed into the air and over the fence at the bottom of the garden.

  ‘Come here, Daniel, darling,’ I said and led him quickly out of the room. The sooner I got the cockatiel to distract him, the better.

  I didn’t give a toss about the torn wallpaper and I couldn’t see why Peter cared so much either. I was the one who’d put it up and would have to repair the frayed edges. What really bothered me, though, was seeing how invisible Daniel was to his father in that mood. It was like he wasn’t there. And that scared me more than any threats or smacks against me.

  A lot of people were feeling the brunt of Peter’s temper, not just me. He was so aggressive and so unpredictable. Being in his company was like carrying a grenade without its pin. You never knew when he was going to explode. I remember, for example, him taking me to the supermarket. The bill was only six pounds and Peter handed over a tenner. When he got his change, he immediately started shouting at the cashier. No warning, no arguing first, just pure eruption.

  ‘You fucking lying bitch, I gave you a twenty!’ That was it, he was off, laying into her for giving him the wrong change – which was a lie anyway because I’d seen him give her ten pounds. I still don’t know if it was a mistake or he was trying to con her. What I do know is that being scared of him had just been taken to another level. If he could turn on a stranger like this in a public place, there was no telling what he would do to me in the privacy of our own home.

  I don’t know if that was the catalyst or whether it was the next time he body-checked me into the wall or the time after that, when he hit me across the dining room before falling to his knees and begging forgiveness. All I know is that, at some point, I finally woke up. I was depressed, I was bruised from his fists, I was lonely and, worst of all, I was scared to be in the same room as my own husband. The moment I admitted that, it felt like a huge weight was lifted from my shoulders. As they say, admitting the problem is the first step to finding a solution. Now I had admitted my problem, I realized the solution was staring me right in the face – and it had been for a long, long time.

  I need to leave.

  Suddenly I wasn’t scared of him anymore. In one fell swoop, one clear-cut decision, I retook control of my own destiny. From now on, it was just a matter of sorting out the practical issues. Like packing, leaving and finding somewhere else to live. First though, I had to tell Peter.

  We were all upstairs when the right moment came. He seemed in a decent mood, the sun was shining, everything appeared to be in place. Following him into the bathroom, I said, ‘Peter, I’m not happy. I can’t go on with this. I want a divorce.’

  He stared at me for a few seconds, then smiled and nodded.

  He’s agreeing, I was relieved to think. But then his face changed. It was like a thunder cloud had parked over his head. From smiles to a face knotted in rage in a matter of seconds. It was utterly disturbing – and it was about to get worse.

  Without a word, Peter barged past me and ran across the landing to Daniel’s room. Before I could follow, he reappeared carrying our son.

  ‘Peter, what are you doing?’

  He didn’t answer, but slowly walked towards me until he reached the top of the stairs.

  Oh my God!

  ‘Peter! Put him down!’

  He didn’t move. Holding a confused Daniel at arm’s length over the staircase, he said, ‘I’m only going to say this once. If you leave me, I will fucking hunt you down and kill you.’ Then he shook Daniel so hard I thought he was going to drop him by accident. ‘And then I’ll kill the kid.’

  ‘Put him down! Put him down! I’m begging you! Give him back to me, please!’ I was screaming, hysterical, but I didn’t dare go forwards. Daniel was distressed and crying, but Peter was cool as you like, just staring, daring me.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I said. ‘You win. I’ll stay. I promise.’

  He considered it for a second, then nodded and swung Daniel over to me. Then, without even looking back, he skipped down the stairs as calmly as if he were being called fo
r breakfast.

  When he was safely out of sight, I fell to the floor, clutching my son harder than I ever had before.

  ‘What have I done?’ I sobbed. ‘What have I done to you?’

  Daniel didn’t answer. He was still frozen with fear.

  Everything changed after that. Every aspect of our life got worse.

  I was suddenly under twenty-four-hour surveillance. He confiscated my car, motorbike keys and purse, so I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything. I had a Bradford & Bingley account book with about eight grand in from the tea shop sale, but that disappeared as well. If we needed food, he accompanied me to the shops, swearing his way up and down each aisle, putting half my choices back on the shelves and refusing to lift a finger when it came to carrying the bags. I couldn’t go out to the boot of the car without him following.

  If he went out he locked every door and window and took my house keys, so I was a prisoner in my own home. The worst part about that was not knowing when he would return. Every engine in the cul-de-sac, every footstep on the pavement sent a chill through me. I was soon jumping at my own shadow. If it weren’t for trying to be brave in front of Daniel, I would have gone mad.

  Degrading though it was, being in solitary confinement was better than having Peter there with me. Now he no longer bothered trying to soften his language and attitude. Every other word was ‘fuck’ and he didn’t have to be in a bad mood for me to get both barrels. Sometimes I swear he would attack me for fun. After a while, I managed to tune it out. But then he started doing it in front of Daniel.

  ‘Where’s my tea, bitch?’

  ‘Clean this fucking pigsty, you lazy shit.’