Escape From Evil (32 page)

And what was it he’d threatened when I’d said I wanted to leave? I hugged Daniel as hard as I could and tried to relax. This was only the first step.

Another bus and a long walk later, we arrived at Glasgow’s coach station. I’d been planning this for so long, I knew I had just enough cash for two tickets to Portsmouth. Granny and Grandpa had recently moved into the area to be nearer to Anne and her kids. There was nowhere else in the world I wanted to be more right then.

When the teller handed over our tickets, she must have thought I was on something. I remember staring at them like they were made of gold. To me, they were more valuable than any precious metal. They were our escape route out of hell. As I lugged everything out of the booking office, I just prayed I’d get the chance to use them.

Our coach was scheduled to depart at half past nine. I looked for the station clock and my heart sank. Eight o’clock. Ninety minutes stood between us and freedom. I have never felt so scared in all my life. The threat of being hanged from Brighton’s ‘Cathedral’ was nothing compared to what I was going through at that moment. Not even having a knife pressed against my cheek came close to the crushing dread that Peter was probably at that very moment on his way.

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

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.