He’s going to find us. I know it.
I could just picture it. He would have been home by seven. He would have noticed the door was unlocked and gone tearing in, swearing and shouting the odds as usual. Then he would have discovered us gone and put it all together.
He’d work it all out. ‘I’ve got the bitch’s car keys, her bike keys, her bank books and purse. What’s the cheapest way out of town? A coach.’
It was obvious. He knew I had no friends. He’d cut me off from my past and stopped me having a future. The coach was my only option. He had to be on his way. And I knew exactly what he would do when he found us. I could picture it as clearly as if it had already happened. The car would sweep in, screech to a halt and he’d be out, snarling and shouting and swearing, car engine still running, door still wide open. He’d grab me by the hair and he’d batter me with his fists and anything he could lay his hands on. That would be it. No discussion, no arguments, just pure retribution.
Just thinking about it now makes me cry. I was fighting waves of tears at the time. Daniel looked so worried, but I just couldn’t stop. I kept saying, ‘It’s all right, darling, Mummy’s just being silly.’ But seeing his little face and remembering Peter threatening to drop him down the stairs if I disobeyed overrode any other emotion. I knew, with all my heart, that if Peter reached us before the coach arrived, he would kill us. Of that I had absolutely no doubt. The whole scenario played out in my head again and again. However hard I resisted, he would drag me off that plastic bench in the bus shelter and kill me there and then. He wouldn’t care who was watching or trying to stop him. And then he would turn his attention to Daniel.
I was sick with nerves, my head spinning with question after question. Was I doing the right thing? Was I risking my son’s life unnecessarily? Should I have stayed to try to make it work with my husband? Should I just phone him and apologize and ask him to pick us up before it’s too late?
That thought honestly popped into my head. The longer I sat there, the more panicky and ridiculous my ideas became. Deep in my heart, I knew I was doing the right thing. It wasn’t a risk at all. It was the only way to save my son’s life.
After the longest ninety minutes of my life, the National Express coach arrived and we climbed on with all the other nocturnal travellers. If I’d thought my ordeal was over, I was mistaken. It was nine hours to London Victoria. Nine hours of staring out of the window, paranoid that every set of headlights overtaking us would be Peter’s van or my old Metro, dreading each pit stop in case he stepped on. While everyone else on the coach slept for hours on end, I was awake the entire journey.
Finally, we reached London. Daniel was tired and hungry, but I only had one ten pence piece left and I needed that to ring Granny. She didn’t complain about the time, especially when she heard my news.
‘We’ll pick you up when you get to Portsmouth,’ she said calmly. ‘Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.’
I wanted to believe her. But until I’d heard where Peter was, I couldn’t relax. How could I? That monster was capable of anything.
He’s probably planning something horrible right now, I thought.
I was right – but he wasn’t planning it for me.
SIXTEEN
His Home is Here with Me
The phone was ringing as we stepped inside the front door. Grandpa answered, while Granny helped me with my bag and Daniel.
‘Cathy,’ Grandpa called out, ‘it’s for you. It’s a hospital.’
I was so tired, my initial reaction was: Daniel! Then I relaxed. He was fine, he was with me. So why were they calling and how did they find me there?
‘Hello,’ I said gingerly.
‘Hello, Mrs Tobin, it’s Edinburgh Royal Hospital here.’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Mrs Tobin, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about your husband.’
‘Oh my God, what’s he done?’
‘I understand you two have had an argument. Peter’s obviously very upset because he has taken an overdose. He’s asking for you. I think it would be for the best if you came up to see him.’
I remember that phone call so vividly. I was sitting down in my grandparents’ lounge and I was shaking like a leaf through exhaustion and nerves. I hadn’t managed a wink of sleep because I was so terrified about what this man would do to me – and now this anonymous doctor was expecting me to walk back voluntarily into the lion’s den?
‘That’s not going to happen. He’ll kill me.’
‘I don’t think he’s in a position to kill anyone,’ the doctor replied. ‘He’s very ill.’
‘Look,’ I said, trying not to sound completely callous to this stranger, ‘do you think the overdose will be fatal?’
‘No. I think your husband is more in need of psychological help than anything else.’
I could see it all. He’d just taken a handful of Amitriptyline pills that had been prescribed for his so-called depression and had called an ambulance before he’d gone under. Anyone can do that. He had no intention of dying. It was all about control. More mind games, more power games, more control games. It was just another trick to get me where he wanted me. But he’d underestimated me. He thought I cared about him enough to check that his health was okay.
He must be more ill than they realize if he thinks that.
My grandparents’ new place only had two bedrooms so, as welcome as they made us, it could only ever be a temporary fix. They didn’t have to tell me that. Energized after a few hours’ nap, I made two very important phone calls. The first was to Portsmouth council. An hour later, I left Daniel with Granny and went to register as homeless.
It’s amazing the effect that not being with Peter had on me. It was barely twenty-four hours since I’d been screamed at for not tidying well enough, as usual, and I’d just taken it like I always did – but here I was, almost back to my old self, determined, industrious and armed with a strategy. The resilience of the human spirit is a marvellous thing. He hadn’t killed my independence, I realized. He’d just chased it into hiding.
Of course, knowing Peter was five hundred miles away having his stomach pumped gave me some breathing space. I wasn’t jumping at shadows anymore. I knew I’d have to face him some day, but, I swore to myself, It will be on my terms.
I do have Peter to thank for one thing though. If he hadn’t indoctrinated me into the benefits culture, it would never have occurred to me to ask the council for help. People like Peter have their phone number on speed dial. If they need a new light bulb fitted, it’s a call to the council. Well, now it was my turn to be helped. I wasn’t workshy or claiming a penny. But I did need somewhere to stay.
As I entered the council offices, I remembered how I’d tried to find lodgings to escape to when I was pregnant. The private landlords had all refused to house me. If only I’d known about the ‘system’ then. Everything could have been different.
I’m sure Grandpa hated the fact that I was going cap in hand to the authorities because I certainly did. But I’m glad I swallowed my pride because they acted swiftly and gave me the address of a B&B in Southsea’s Nightingale Road which offered temporary accommodation. Because I was not a Portsmouth resident, they would only pay for it for six weeks, to give me time to get back on my feet. After that, I could apply for the housing benefit programme.
None of the downsides bothered me. In fact, I glazed over during half the conversation. I was so grateful they were giving me anything. All I could think was, I’ve done it. I’ve got my own place. I’m free.
My second phone call that morning had been just as important as the council one. This time, there was no financial gain to be had, although it would provide me with something equally valuable. My identity.
I’d spoken to my friend Debbie only once since she’d left me in Scotland. But the moment she heard my voice say, ‘I’m back,’ she said she’d drop everything to come round. She was a good friend. I didn’t have to tell her anything, she
said. She was just glad I was safe. Actually, it felt good to get some things off my chest, but I only told her a fraction of the truth. The pain of what Peter had made me do and – worse – what he’d made me become was too raw to discuss. Remembering it was like reliving it. Peter was the past, as far as I was concerned. It was Debbie’s job to help with my future.
Debbie helped me settle into Nightingale Road. The room was basic, but adequate, with a double bed and two singles crammed in. There was also a two-ring hob and a sink, which passed as the kitchen. I didn’t care. At that moment, I would have been grateful for a cardboard box and a shop doorway.
I only had a bag of clothes and toys, plus various bits Granny had given me, so moving didn’t take long. Then Debbie said, ‘Okay, that’s the flat done. Now it’s time to sort you out.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about that tent you’re wearing.’
Oh. With no exercise and no motivation in Scotland, I don’t think I’d shifted a pound of my pregnancy excess. I was massive and the hideous polyester, A-line, ankle-length skirt I was wearing was doing me no favours. In Scotland my appearance had been the least of my worries. I’d been encouraged to dress drably for so long that it didn’t register anymore. But away from Peter’s all-pervading influence, I suddenly saw myself with Debbie’s eyes and felt disgusted that I’d let myself go like this. Where were my stilettos? I used to be so proud of my legs. How had Peter made me not even care about myself anymore?
Debbie could see that I was upset, but she had a plan. ‘Come here,’ she said and pulled out a pair of nail scissors from her bag. Then, while I stood open-mouthed at the idea, she hacked away at my dress until it rested above my knees. By the time she’d finished, we were both laughing at the raggedy line her tiny scissors had made. But, my God, what a release it was.
‘I can see my legs!’ I said. Okay, they weren’t as slim as I remembered, but psychologically it was a reminder that I was a woman and it was okay to dress like one too.
I was so happy with my new look. We went out for lunch, Debbie’s treat, and I didn’t care if anyone looked at me oddly. That skirt was a statement of intent. I’m going to get my old self back.
It took a month or two of firm dieting, but the weight fell off. Like everything else, I put my mind to it and made it work. When I finally achieved my aim of getting back to a size eight, Debbie appeared again to celebrate with me. We drove down to Brighton and spent an afternoon trying on outfits in a fetish shop. Then, back home with a bottle of wine, we poured our selves into our new latex mini-dresses and hit the local night clubs.
If I had to put a date on when I finally regained my independence, that night in Portsmouth would be one of the candidates. Watching a dancefloor full of blokes drooling at me and Debbie, buying us drinks, flirting like crazy and getting nowhere made me feel like a million dollars. I thought, This is who I am! I didn’t want any male company, but just knowing I still had ‘it’ went a long way to banishing the meek, unattractive washer-woman I’d become over the past few years.
That was an important night in my recovery. There was another date, however, when I would really come of age if I handled it right: the next time I saw Peter.
I think it says a lot about Peter that he didn’t give up on me. If you’d beaten and humiliated and bullied a woman so much that she left all her possessions behind and fled the country, wouldn’t you be too ashamed to see her again? He obviously didn’t believe he’d done anything wrong, though, because as soon as he could, he arrived in Portsmouth.
I knew the day was coming. I knew Peter wasn’t the sort of person to just give up and walk away. He would consider me unfinished business. It was only half-time in the game of control, as far as he was concerned. Still plenty of time, in his mind, for him to be the winner.
Even though I was expecting it, my blood still froze when Granny told me, ‘Peter rang – he wants you to call him.’
For a while, I considered not returning his call, but what was the point? He’d just leap into his van and track me down eventually. I didn’t want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. No, I thought, I have to face this head on. At least that way I could do it on my own terms.
In the days leading up to Peter’s arrival, Granny and Grandpa were beside themselves with nerves and even talked about having a man in the flat for protection. I genuinely couldn’t see what the fuss was about. I felt a completely different person to the broken wretch who’d done a moonlight flit weeks earlier. I looked different and I felt different. I was stronger. The weight had lifted from my shoulders and I was standing tall again. I had my family five minutes up the road and my own two-room flat – on housing benefit – in Middlesex Road. I’d reset the clock to 1986 and I was ready to take on the world again. Peter was no threat, as far as I was concerned. He’d only ever hurt me when we’d lived together, when I was under his control, and that was never going to happen again. He didn’t bother me and he didn’t scare me, not anymore. He was nothing to me – just like I was convinced I’d meant nothing to him during those rape fantasies. So why was I letting him come?
In an ideal world, I would not have let Peter Tobin within a hundred miles of me or my son. But that wasn’t fair on Daniel.
I don’t think anyone with a normal background could ever appreciate just how much value I placed on giving my son two parents. Unless you’ve known the aching chasm of loss in your life, unless you have a gaping hole in your heart where your mother or father should have been, you’ll never appreciate the lengths I was prepared to go to to keep both Daniel’s parents in his life as much as possible. It was like an obsession for me. I was possessed with the promise I had made Daniel to give him the two parents I had been denied. In simple terms, I genuinely believed that any father was better than no father.
For a while, I honestly thought it could work. The second Peter stepped through the door, he hoisted Daniel up and played with him more lovingly than I’d ever seen in the past. That counted for a lot with me, so by the time he turned his charm in my direction, I had warmed slightly. When Peter suggested taking our son to the beach, I thought, Why not? You have no hold over me anymore and Daniel will like it.
So that became our life for a while. Every couple of weeks Peter would drive down from Bathgate and we’d have, I have to say, a really nice family time in a park or on the beach. We even took the hovercraft over to the Isle of Wight. We’d never enjoyed a single family day like this before I’d left. Yet here he was, riding on mini steam trains with his son, while I sat on a bench and waved. It was sad. It was like the night Peter had charmed my father and his partner. He obviously could turn it on at will, but just chose not to.
I was happy to see Daniel enjoying himself. I even smiled to see Peter having fun with his son. But Peter, as ever, had another agenda, which soon became clear.
‘Come back to me, Cathy,’ he said one day as we strolled along the beach. ‘Come back to Bathgate and we’ll give it another go. We owe it to Daniel.’
That line didn’t wash with me anymore.
‘No, I owe it to Daniel to give him two parents and that’s what I’m doing now. He doesn’t need us back together.’
‘But I do!’ Peter exclaimed. ‘I need you, Cathy. I want you. I love you.’
Once upon a time, those last three magic words would have been enough to cast the spell that saw me packing. Not anymore. I was immune to Peter’s powers. He had nothing I wanted.
‘You weren’t very nice to me before,’ I explained. I didn’t want to pick at old wounds, but, on the other hand, he needed to know where I stood.
‘It’s my depression,’ he said. ‘You know how I suffer.’
I had to laugh. ‘I know how you like to say you suffer. I know you like the tablets.’
‘Cathy, I’ve changed. You’ve got to believe me. Come on, come back with me. Give me one more chance.’
How many times had he said those words to me? And how many times
had I fallen for it? But not anymore.
‘No, Peter. My life is down here now.’
When straightforward wooing didn’t make an impression, Peter went to phase two of his plan. I was surprised to step out of my flat one day to find Peter unloading some of my belongings from Scotland from his van – including my motorbike. It was a genuinely thoughtful thing to do.
Of course, then he went and ruined it. In Peter’s mind, that should have been enough for me to be swept off my feet and say, ‘I’ve been stupid. Please take me back.’ When I didn’t, he asked again for the hundredth time. For the hundredth time, I said no. He was asking so regularly that I didn’t even feel mean anymore. I just couldn’t take it seriously and I think that night he realized it. On his way out of my building, he stopped to use the communal toilet. A few minutes later I heard a commotion in the hallway. There was screaming coming from the bathroom. When I got there, the door wasn’t locked.
Which meant I had a perfect view of Peter, in the bath, with blood streaming from his wrists.
He was shouting, ‘There’s no point living without you, Cathy!’ but I just wanted to laugh. Obviously I was meant to be won over by this act of sacrifice. But the thing about blood is that it often looks worse than it is.
‘You’re a joke,’ I said. I know it sounds cold, but he’d tried this stunt the night I’d fled Bathgate and he seemed to come through that one okay. To be on the safe side, I ran outside to dial 999. After I’d asked for an ambulance, I added, ‘You’d better send one from St James’s.’ That was our local nut house, after all. As far as I was concerned, that was the place where Peter needed treatment, not A&E.
Escape From Evil Page 24