Escape From Evil (25 page)

‘Come here,’ he roared.

What now?
I thought. But over I went, the dutiful woman.

‘This was here yesterday,’ he spat, literally shaking with fury. ‘What the fuck do you do all day?’

‘I didn’t do the windows yesterday,’ I explained, desperately trying to remain calm. ‘l’ll do them today.’

‘You’ll do them now.’

‘I can’t, I’m doing—’

But I never finished that sentence. He grabbed my dress so violently I nearly fell over. Then, dragging me furiously forwards, he began to rub away at the smear. I thought my dress was going to rip to shreds.
But
, I thought a few minutes later, when he was sobbing and pleading for my forgiveness,
at least he didn’t use my face.

Two weeks and two really unpleasant episodes. Still I persevered in my role as the accommodating spouse. I was like a woman possessed. Whatever Peter did, I was determined to rise above. I would prove myself the better person – and I would give our unborn child the security of a happy family life. But then he threw a screwdriver at my proud baby bump – and the rules changed.

I can’t even remember what had provoked it. He’d been doing odd jobs, which is why he had his tools to hand. One minute we were talking, the next he’d flung his flat-head screwdriver like a circus performer throwing knives – and it was aimed straight at my tummy.

I screamed, dived out of the way and cowered as the tool ricocheted off a cupboard and landed on the floor by my feet. I leapt up, more angry than I’d ever been in my life. It was one thing to attack me, hurl abuse in my face, call me every name under the sun. It was another to put my child at risk.

‘That was your last chance!’ I screamed, but Peter didn’t hear. He was halfway out the front door by the time I’d opened my mouth. There would be no tears from him this time, no grand apology as his tender hands cupped my cheeks. It was just as well. As far as I was concerned, he’d tried to hurt me for the last time. I threw a few things into half a dozen carrier bags and fled downstairs to my bike.

I didn’t know where to go, but I knew I couldn’t go back to Granny’s. She’d been so good when I’d broken the news about the baby – ‘Whatever you do, we’ll always be here for you’ – but it would just be embarrassing to go there now. I couldn’t. That really had to be the very last resort.

Instead, I ran into a newsagent and grabbed a copy of the
Brighton Argus
. I ringed all the places with bedsits to rent and drove to an out-of-the-way phone box, where I hoped I wouldn’t be interrupted for half an hour or so. Then I got out a handful of 5ps I’d been squirreling over weeks from my shopping change and started dialling.

I didn’t know how long it would take or how many coins I would need. All I could think about was getting as far away from that tyrant as possible. I tried to hold it all together to make the calls, but I don’t know how convincing I sounded. But that wasn’t the reason landlady after landlady turned me down. The second I admitted I was pregnant – and they all asked – that was it, end of transaction, on to the next number. It was the same story every single time.

‘I’m sorry, dear, I don’t think young babies would fit in here. It’s not that sort of place.’

I can’t remember what ran out first: my money, my ringed numbers or my patience. By the end, though, I was in floods.

I’m ruined. Nobody wants me. What the hell am I going to do?

Half an hour later, tear marks still etched on my face, I found myself knocking on a door in Tremola Avenue. Granny stared at me for a second, then, without a word, threw her arms around me and ushered me into the house.

‘There’s a bed here for as long as you need it,’ she said.

I’d never loved her more.

That should have been the end of it. That should have been the point at which Peter Tobin exited my life. That should have been the point where this book stopped.

But there was another chapter to come. Many chapters, in fact. When I came down to breakfast the next morning, after the most relaxing night’s sleep in ages, I stopped, miserable with shock. There at the kitchen table with Granny and Grandpa was Peter. He looked like butter wouldn’t melt, but as soon as he saw me, his face changed. If he’d mastered the emotional apology at home, in public it was a genuine tour de force.

‘I’ve been an idiot, pet,’ he said.

I didn’t say anything.

‘I don’t deserve you, I know I don’t.’

Still I said nothing. Peter didn’t seem fazed. He just ploughed on.

‘You’ve got to come back, baby. I need you. You know I do. I can’t cope without you.’

‘You’ll cope just fine,’ I said, surprising myself with how confident I sounded.

I was enjoying myself. Peter looked like he was about to burst into tears.

‘You don’t mean that, pet, I know you don’t. Think of our baby. That little mite needs two parents. We owe it that, you know we do.’

Bastard!

He played his joker and I folded. A minute earlier, I’d never wanted to see Peter Tobin again. Then he punched below the belt and I knew I had no choice.

What sort of mother would I be not to give my baby a chance at a proper family?

He knew the answer as well as I did. I couldn’t even look at Granny as I packed my bags and climbed once again onto my Honda. For the sake of my baby, I was giving him another chance. The chance my parents had never given me.

That was one of the last times I rode my bike. At my next check-up at the doctor’s, I complained how hard it was to get about on it. The old boy nearly coughed his false teeth out.

‘You shouldn’t be riding a bicycle at your stage!’ he exclaimed, absolutely horrified.

‘It’s not a push bike,’ I explained. ‘It’s a motorbike.’

I thought he was going to hyperventilate. ‘No, no, no, that won’t do! You can’t be risking yourself and your baby on one of those death traps. I absolutely forbid it.’

So that was that. I could have ignored him, but he was right. What’s more, he fell precisely into the ‘father figure’ category – so, basically, whatever he said, his word was law as far as I was concerned.

The final trimester of my pregnancy was upon us in no time. Long gone was the morning sickness. In its place were really strong cravings. Bearing in mind that I’m a vegetarian now, and have been for more than twenty years, it’s incredible to think I was addicted to pork pies. Without my bike, I would waddle the mile down to the shops in my hideous, shapeless Mothercare tent of a dress, buy a pack of six and they’d be eaten before I was home. Luckily, my other craving was plums, which hopefully cancelled out the pies.

Peter could have gone to the shops for me. It would have taken him no time on his bike, but he didn’t offer. I didn’t ask – it was my duty, as I saw it. But as I got bigger, the walk took longer every day. I’d set out after breakfast and barely return in time to do lunch. Then it was time to clean the cottage and do the laundry. The place was a lot smaller than the hotel accommodation, so it only took ten minutes to lick it into shape. The washing was another matter. We didn’t have a machine and Peter wouldn’t waste money on a laundrette. Every day I had my arms in a sink of bubbles and hot water, scrubbing and rubbing. The rounder my tummy got, the further away I needed to stand, until in the end I could only reach the bottom of the sink by standing side-on.

It was agony on my back, but if Peter said we couldn’t spare the 50p needed to get it done by machine, then so be it. I had no choice. The cleaning was another matter though. I knew I did a bloody good job – the flat was so pokey, it was harder to miss a surface than give it a wipe. But I noticed that whatever I did, Peter wasn’t satisfied. Sometimes he would be around during the day and would see me with a duster and brush. If he went out, though, he was convinced I didn’t bother. The first thing he’d do after coming home was run his finger over the table or window sill. And woe betide me if he found dust.

Usually it was easier to say I’d been too ill to clean – that seemed to calm him. But one day I thought,
Sod it, no. I’ve cleaned this shoe box of a place from top to bottom every day for four months. It’s bloody spotless.

And I told him so.

I don’t know how I’d expected Peter to react, but I didn’t see this coming. He leapt at me, screaming, ‘You fucking liar!’ and grabbed hold of my neck. I thought he was going to punch me, I honestly did, but I didn’t dare cover my face. I needed both hands to protect my bump. That was the only thing that mattered.

It obviously didn’t matter to him though. Gripping my neck as tightly as he could, he rasped into my ear, ‘This is how you fucking clean’ – and he slammed me against the wall, dragging my face along it like some cheap feather duster.

The whole ordeal probably lasted no longer than ten seconds from start to finish. Afterwards he was contrition personified. He was sorry, he loved me, he prayed the baby was okay. I’d heard it all so many times I could virtually have said it with him, but this time I didn’t respond. I just stood, quivering, crying at the way he’d shoved me with no regard for our baby.

I have to get away from here.

Once again, however, my history held me back. My parents should have stayed together. That, I told myself, would have prevented all the bad things happening. That would have been enough to keep my mother alive. By the time I’d calmed down, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. My baby was only three months away. I had to make things work with Peter. Whatever the cost.

But,
I thought,
I do need to think about emergencies.
If this behaviour continued once the baby was born, I would disappear. I would not put our child at risk. That was a promise. With that single thought, however, my motorbike went suddenly from perfect getaway vehicle to completely inappropriate.

That’s no good for a baby,
I realized.
I need a car.

Before I could get a car, however, I needed to learn to drive. I went straight out and phoned BSM and said, ‘I need to be able to drive in the next two and a half months – and I can only afford about six lessons.’

That didn’t go down too well. I think they thought I was taking the mickey. But I was dead serious and I explained my reasons. I needed to be qualified when my baby was born. I wouldn’t get a chance to learn after that. I just sensed it. The guy explained that I’d be hard-pressed to pass, but if I wanted, I could take lessons in an automatic and only qualify to drive those kinds of vehicles.

‘Perfect,’ I said.

Like everything else in my life, once I put my mind to my lessons, I knew I would succeed. Because I will always succeed – or die trying. Driving was just another skill to be mastered, like maths or ballroom dancing. Sure enough, two months later, I was the proud owner of a driving licence. Best of all, I already had my own wheels.

At the same time that I’d started my half a dozen lessons, I’d also looked at buying a car from the local paper. I picked up an old Austin Allegro for £250, but as soon as I got it home, I thought,
I bet this would have been worth more if it had been spruced up a bit.
That gave me an idea, so I spent the next day polishing it, blacking the tyres and filling in the odd bit of rust with Autosol and then I put it back in the paper for sale at £350. A few days later I accepted £325 for it, which I was more than happy with.

This is easy money,
I realized, so I did it again. And again. And again. All I ever did was pick up grubby-looking vehicles and smarten them up a bit. I didn’t touch the mechanics or make any improvements. I just tidied and cleaned and sprayed and tarted – and I pulled in about £100 for every one. Shifting two or three of those a week gave me a pretty tidy profit. That was the point when Peter became interested. He said I’d better let him look after the money. That was his contribution, while I did all of the work.

With a driving licence, I felt I’d won back some semblance of control of my own destiny. That was important for me. Even though I’d pledged to work at my relationship with Peter, it was crucial that I claw back some of my old individuality. I was a traditionalist, yes, but I didn’t like being a kept woman. I knew my new arrival would be dependent on me for everything, which wouldn’t work if I depended so much on someone else.

By the time I was seven months gone, however, there was no way I could drive. That put me in the unenviable position of having to ask Peter to be on standby.

‘The baby could come any moment now. We need to be ready.’

So my bag was packed and I told him to make sure the car was always topped up with petrol. I didn’t want anything left to chance. But it did mean relying on Peter – the very thing I didn’t want to do.

On 15 October I thought it had all started and I was going into premature labour. I remember the date because it was the night of the Great Storm in the south of England, when the weatherman Michael Fish told us there was no hurricane coming. There bloody was, Michael – and by the time we reached the Royal Sussex it had already put out the hospital’s power. The whole place was bathed in the eerie glow of lamps running from the emergency generator. When you’ve got life-saving machines to worry about, getting power to lifts isn’t a priority. Unfortunately, since the maternity wing is a thirteen-storey block, that did mean I had to do some uphill walking. On the plus side, I was only seven months down the line and not nine, so it could have been worse.