Invisible (15 page)

This time last week I was
me. A bored wife hoping something exciting would happen to her. Be careful what
you wish for, it might just come true.

For the first time this week
though, I washed my hair, brushed it neatly, and carefully chose something
smart to wear. The pencil skirt hangs a little loose now, the waist resting on
my hips instead thanks to the weight-loss, but it looked fine. I even put on
some make up. Not that I give a toss what I look like, but somehow seeing a
solicitor feels like something I should make an effort for.

Then I kissed my parents
goodbye (they were too afraid to come outside with me) and opened the front
door... So many camera flashes went off it was like the strobe effect in a bad
nightclub. Half blinded, I put my arm up across my face to keep out the light
and scurried to the car as best I could in the stupid skirt; in my hurry my ankle
going over painfully in the ridiculous heels I’d decided to wear.

The whole time, the
journalists yelled at me, all shouting different questions at once like an
aural version of the
strobing
, but as I fell into the
car and slammed the door shut one question made it through the wall of sound:
‘How do you feel?’

I sat staring at the
steering wheel, key in hand, telling myself to put it in the ignition and turn
it, but the query had brought me up short. More media bods thronged round the
car, more pictures were taken as I sat there like a crash test dummy. How did I
feel?! What a bloody stupid question.

But when I thought about it
(and I kept thinking of it, for some reason) I realised it was really quite
clever. It’s simple, but gets to the heart of the matter. How
do
I feel? God knows. When I figure out
the answer, I won’t be bothering to tell that journalist though. I’ve a funny
feeling that if I did my words would be used against me because, actually, no
one gives a shit about me in all this mess.

Finally I arrived at Peter’s
office, having successfully remembered how to start a car. He looked genuinely
pleased to see me – and genuinely concerned about what was going on.

Still, as we talked, I
couldn’t help thinking about how much money every syllable we uttered to each
other was costing me. No matter how kind he seemed, I couldn’t relax, felt as
if I was an actress playing a part, because I’m just not the kind of person who
says: ‘I’m going to consult my solicitor.’

I sat with my legs crossed
neatly at the ankles, which felt really unnatural, but it seemed like the kind
of place where ladies (not women, ladies. You have to act like a lady in this
place) sit like that, and I kept my back ramrod straight too, even though it
ached like hell and I’d really quite have liked to have gone into a
teenage-style slump instead. My handbag stayed firmly on my lap, gripped like
some talisman that would keep me safe from dodgy lawyers and other evils.

‘Can you stop the newspaper
printing things?’ I begged, fiddling with the handbag clasp to stop my hands
from shaking.

Peter shook his head sadly,
as though this was all a game, not my life, and I was stupidly refusing to
understand the rules. No, that’s unkind. He did look like he wanted to help,
kept running his hands through his dark hair in a concerned manner as I spoke;
amazing how such short hair can be so unruly. But I feel like being mean
because it seems no one can help me.

‘This isn’t my area of
expertise but after your call yesterday I phoned some colleagues for advice.
Basically, if I act against the press it won’t make any positive difference,’
he said. ‘And if you antagonise them, it will just make them worse. They will
turn on you, lose any sympathy they are currently showing for you, and potentially
could totally destroy your reputation.’

The handbag got hoicked a
bit higher, protecting me from his words like a shield. I had an idea. ‘Okay,
well maybe I should talk to only one of the papers then.’ I could see him
starting to shake his head but I ploughed on desperately anyway.
‘Or maybe a TV interview.
Bit like Princess Di…’ I know, I
know. I’ve no idea where that last bit came from.

‘You talk to one paper,’ he
replied slowly, every word dropping into place like it weighed ten tonnes, ‘and
the ones you haven’t talked to will turn on you instead. And they’ll be even
more vicious, desperate to discredit the story their rival has published. It’ll
be a matter of honour to prove that you are an evil, lying, manipulative bitch
who was complicit with what her husband did, and should face the jury herself.’

By then the handbag was at
chest level; any more bad news and I wouldn’t be able to see over it.

Peter changed the subject.
‘Have you found someone to represent Daryl in court yet? He’ll need someone
pretty good; I could recommend a few people if you like.’

‘Could you do it?’ I asked.
He hesitated.

‘I could,’ he replied,
stretching out the words, ‘but as I’m now acting on your behalf to a certain
extent, I believe it would be better for you to keep things separate.’ I gave a
shruggy
nod and he continued. ‘Now that he’s on
remand it’s important to find someone as good as possible as quickly as
possible so they can start building a case immediately. It’ll take almost a
year to come to court, probably, which sounds a long time but really isn’t.’

‘A
year?’
I gasped. I’d convinced myself it would be a matter of
weeks, maybe a couple of months at worst case scenario. This can’t go on for
that long, it’ so unfair, how will we manage?!

Depressed but armed with a
couple of barristers rated by Peter, I could barely drag myself back to the car
and the waiting media, who somehow had managed to track me down to Peter’s
office. The fun wasn’t over yet, either. When I got home I discovered my
parents had spotted that the crowd of
journos
and
cameramen outside had thinned significantly after I’d left, so had grabbed the
chance to leave the house. They’d nipped to the corner shop.
To
buy a newspaper.

Why do they keep doing this?
Why??

A number of the tabloid rags
have run stories about Daryl’s life, upbringing, job, when and where we
married… Picture-wise they’ve surpassed themselves by finding a wedding shot;
one of the official ones, not a snap taken by a family friend. I got straight
on the phone to Peter.

‘Surely they can’t just print
any pictures of me and Daryl they happen to come across?’ I demanded
despairingly.

‘The copyright of a wedding
picture remains with the official photographer. He owns it and therefore he can
do whatever he wants with it,’ came the patient reply. ‘In this case, if he
chooses to sell it to a tabloid for a small fortune, he is at liberty to do
so.’

Fan-freaking-
tastic
.
How come everyone else can
do exactly as they please but me? Why do I seem to be the only one all at sea
in this situation?

Then I picked up the paper
again and like a rubbernecker unable to take their eyes off a car crash, I
found myself scanning the article. And for the first time I thought properly
about those poor women who have been attacked. What a bitch. I honestly can’t
believe I’ve been so self-absorbed that I’ve barely given them a second thought
apart from an abstract, micro-second-long ‘poor cows’.

Imagine it, walking home on
a winter’s evening after a night out. It’s still quite early and you’ve maybe
had a couple of drinks that are enough to keep the chill away but certainly not
enough to make you drunk and silly. It’s only a two minute walk from the bus
stop to your front door, and you know the area so well that you feel confident,
at ease here; it’s not like a strange place, full of weird shadows and noises
that might make you jump every minute, it’s your stamping ground. Then…wham!
From out of nowhere someone grabs you, hits you,
threatens
you. You don’t know what’s happening, all you know is you’re terrified, heart
pounding. You maybe try to scream, but all that comes out through the fingers
clamped over your mouth is a muffled, barely audible cry. And then…and then…

Even my over-active
imagination runs out at this point. I can’t begin to put myself in their place.
I’ve no idea what their ordeal must have been like. I don’t want to know, if
I’m honest. Yet still I made myself read that article.

Timeline
of Terror
was the heading on the box that caught my eye initially.
All those dates I’d been questioned about at the police station
that had meant nothing to me.
As I stared at them now though, without
pressure on me, I suddenly remembered something.

December 18. That’s Daryl’s
birthday, and also the date of one of the attacks. In my fluster I’d told
police he’d have been with me, that I’d have cooked a meal as usual and we’d
have eaten it together.
Which is sort of true.

He’d actually turned up late
for his meal, I remembered now. He’d already seemed in a bad mood,
then
I’d made some comment that had meant to be cheery to
ease the tension, but that had actually seemed to make him grumpier.

‘This could be our last
celebration as a couple; this time next year it’d be nice if we had a baby.
Just imagine!’ I’d smiled hesitantly. I’d pushed the boat out, making his
favourite pork roast, buying a birthday cake and candles, got dressed up in a
nice dress for him. I’d even cut different-sized heart shapes out of red tissue
paper I’d bought, and scattered them over the bed.

‘What were you thinking of,
cooking a meal? Why did you assume what time I’d arrive?’ he’d frowned
furiously. ‘Jesus, you want to control everything about me.’

I’d stood there, confused,
hurt, upset.
Unable to understand what I’d done wrong.
He’d said he’d be home by 7pm, and he’d been late…but instead of me making any kind
of critical reference to it I’d let it slide and then he’d had a go at me. When
he gets like that, shouting at me like that, I feel like I’m going mad because
I believe him, believe I’m in the wrong, and only afterwards do I think, ‘hold
on, that seems maybe a bit unreasonable.’

He’d stomped out, turned his
mobile phone off. I’d called and called but only been able to get through to
his answerphone. I’d left a stroppy message (I’m always braver after the fact
and when he isn’t actually around) but by the next day I still hadn’t heard
from him so had wound up sending him a text saying: ‘Are you ready to talk
yet?’ A few hours later, he’d finally deigned to switch on his mobile and
receive my calls. In my relief at getting through to him I’d swallowed down my
anger, a puppy grateful that the master had come home after being ignored all
day.

Why hadn’t I remembered this
when the police were questioning me? I don’t know. Possibly it was the terror
of being arrested in the middle of the night. Perhaps it was because I got in a
flap as they fired date after date at me until my head span. It could even be
that I’d blocked it out, smoothed over it as I always tend to do when Daryl’s
been in one of his moods; life’s easier that way. Whatever, I’d remembered it
now, which left me with another problem.

Should I tell the police
what I’ve remembered?

Oh God, I have to, don’t I.
Because he’s innocent, right, so what difference can it make? Just because he
hasn’t a solid alibi for one of the attacks doesn’t mean he’s guilty. It
doesn’t.

I realised I’d scrunched the
paper up in my fist as the memory had come to me. I threw it to the floor as if
it burned me. ‘No more reading tabloid nonsense, it’s just going to upset me,’
I told myself.

I walked from the room into
the kitchen, leaving the screwed up ball where it had fallen, and flicked on
the kettle.
Stared at it.
Stared at
the kettle.
Stared at the teabags in the jar.
Sighed, walked back into the lounge and reached down, smoothing the crinkles
from the story.

Honestly? I had to know more;
I’m still that rubbernecker at the car crash scene. So once again I started to
read the Timeline of Terror. My stomach lurched with
nerves,
I put the paper down again.
Picked it up.

‘Stop being a baby,’ I
muttered out loud angrily, forcing myself to read on.

‘In June police identified
the existence of an extremely dangerous serial rapist
who is believed to have attacked at least six women - killing one
victim and the very next day conducting a depraved assault on another.

‘His hunting
ground is believed to have stretched from Manchester to as far afield as Turkey,
but his
favoured
location for his sickening rape
spree appears to have been around
Tilbury
Docks,
Essex, where he found four of his six victims – and became dubbed the Port Pervert.

‘Often he’d
gain the woman’s trust by wearing smart clothes that gave the appearance of a
security guard or office worker, before launching a blistering attack,
frequently punching his victims in the face to incapacitate them.

‘Essex and
Manchester police joined forces with Interpol to launch a massive manhunt named
Operation Globe. Within just one month of its launch, they’d made an arrest.’