Invisible (32 page)

I can’t do anything, because
I’m paralysed by this fear that I should have stopped Daryl.

Thursday 23

Was I so unattractive that
the only way he could get his jollies was by taking it by force from others?

Why did he stay with me for
all those years and not hurt me?

Why did he stay with me
after he was arrested? He must have known the truth would come out eventually…

Friday 24

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

It took a long time to write
all those. I still don’t have the answer.

Saturday 25

I’m at the end of my tether.

I had a call from the
mortgage lender today; I’ve missed a payment. After a lot of negotiation,
they’ve let me reduce the payments for a couple of months but it’s been made very
clear to me that this is a short term fix and that I have to find a better
solution, fast, or my home will be repossessed.

The fact is, my savings are
totally wiped out, and Daryl’s too. It took everything we’d built up over our
entire marriage to keep the house going and pay all the bills while Daryl was
on remand – that and sending him £500 a month so he could basically have any
luxury he could lay his hands on whilst in prison, the jammy bugger. It had
been a huge struggle but what kept me going was the fact that there was light
at the end of the tunnel. I’d kept telling myself that once the trial was over
and Daryl was found not guilty, he’d not only be freed but probably get
compensation for wrongful imprisonment or something; that would replenish all
our savings and we’d be back on track again.

The flaw in that plan, of
course, was that Daryl is guilty as sin.

Now I have no savings to
fall back on, and I’ve no income either, now I’ve lost my job. How the hell am
I going to get out of this mess?

I feel like I’ve died. I
feel like this is the end of my life. Daryl’s in prison, but I’m the one
serving a life sentence.

Sunday 26

There’s some kind of
petition going round about me, I’ve discovered. It’s ostensibly about the
lorry, people want it off the street,
they
say it’s
causing an obstruction. But there’s also a whole bit about how they want me out
of the neighbourhood too! I’ve brought the area into disrepute and lowered
house prices, or something.

Maybe I should do them all a
favour and die. I just want this unending hell to
stop,
I want the peace of oblivion. If I got hit by a bus tomorrow, I honestly
wouldn’t care. What can I offer the world?
Nothing,
absolutely nothing.

No wonder the neighbourhood
want rid of me.

Well, if I don’t keep up
with my mortgage payments they’ll get their wish and I’ll be out of here. I’ll
call an estate agent tomorrow and get the house valued, start the ball rolling
with selling it. It won’t be a huge wrench to downsize; I used to love this
house but even though his stuff has been thrown away, everywhere I look I see
Daryl and his filthy lies.

Anyway, in preparation for a
visit from the estate agent, I’ve actually managed to clean up.
Hoovering
and dusting seemed to take forever and sap me of
what little energy I have, but if I can be free from this place it will be
worth it. Maybe living somewhere else will help me get better again. Be human
once more.

Monday 27

So
much for me and my big plan.
I got up today, actually
showered and washed my hair, then called the estate agent who Daryl and I had
bought the house through. I’d figured that would be easier than going with
someone new, as they’d be more familiar with the property.

That was problem number one,
of course: that they
were
familiar
with the property…and the owners.

The woman on the end of the
phone was lovely and chatty, right up until the moment I gave my name and
address. Suddenly she went very quiet.

‘Hello? Are you still
there?’ I checked.

‘Yes…’

‘Sorry, thought we’d been
cut off for a moment there.’

‘Umm, the thing is, the
market is quite depressed currently, what with the recession, so we probably
won’t be able to get you a good price. Perhaps you should hang onto the house
for now or maybe try another company,’ she said.

I laughed, thinking she was
joking. ‘I hope you’re more enthusiastic when you come to selling it,’ I joked.

Silence.
Cold enough to give me frostbite. Only then did I get it. ‘Are you saying you
don’t want my custom?’ I checked.

An awkward clearing of the
throat, another silence, then… ‘We have to be realistic, we can’t work miracles
here, you know,’ she replied. ‘Your house has been plastered all over the
news,
people will see a picture of it and instantly know who
has lived there. I’ll be honest…’

‘Oh, please do, I’m used to
people giving me their bald opinions these days.’

‘…no one is going to want to
pay top dollar for a house a murderer has lived in. I doubt we could even get
you a low offer. We really wouldn’t want to represent you, sorry.’ Then she put
the phone down.

Well, at least she’d said
sorry, most people don’t give me that courtesy these days. Still, I was upset.
I knew that the instant I called other agents I’d get the same response.
Gutted, I called Mum and cried down the phone to her.

‘Oh sweetheart, don’t cry,’
she said sadly. ‘Anyway, you couldn’t sell up right now really, could you?’

‘Why
not?
I thought you wanted me to move on from Daryl, isn’t
this the perfect way?’ I asked, amazed.

‘Well, of course, sweetheart,
but you’ve got to get his permission first, haven’t you?
Because
he owns half the house too.’

Crap, how could I have
forgotten about that?

‘Get the divorce started,
that way you can sort out all the financial mess at the same time,’ Mum
advised.

She’s right. That’s got to
be my next move.

Tuesday 28

Okay, I’m a wimp. I could
have used the visiting order Daryl’s sent to me to go and tell him that I plan
to divorce him and need his permission to sell the house immediately. I could
have used the time to confront him too about what he’s done and try to find out
what the hell triggered this nightmare.

I could have but I didn’t.

Instead I wrote him a letter.
It wasn’t a long-winded love
note,
instead it was
short and to the point.

The thought of seeing him is
too much, it makes me feel weird. Panicky, painfully heart-racy, and as if my
stomach has turned into a washing machine churning round, and I’m horrified to
admit it but there is also a tiny bit of me that gets excited too. Like,
looking forward to it kind of excited. Oh God, I still love him. I do. I don’t
want to, wish with all my heart I didn’t, but you can’t turn those kind of
emotions off like a tap. So instead I’m stuck in a heart-rending limbo where I
love the man I loathe.

That’s why I wrote the
letter; better
that than he see
me and realise how I
feel.

Dear
Daryl,

I
want no contact with you other than to discuss the business of wrapping up our
marriage. We need to sell the house as I can no longer afford to run it
single-handed, but I need your permission to do so. If you are agreeable I will
get the ball rolling and send the relevant paperwork to you to be signed as and
when. I also intend to start divorce proceedings.

I’m trying to be
business-like and hold it together, and I really hope that comes across, but
it’s hard. As I wrote the words all I could think about was what he’s done. I
try and try to imagine what it must have been like for them.
The
victims.
Their fear, their pain.
His face over
them, twisted as he inflicts himself on them. But I can’t. All I can manage is
some kind of B-rated movie-style of what he did. I know the facts, of course, relive
those words from court, see again his victims’ faces as they gave evidence, and
it’s…every word I can think of fails to do it justice. Horrific, evil, twisted,
whatever,
it
doesn’t sum it up.

How do you write to someone
who is guilty of such things? The hardest part was actually signing off. I
almost automatically put ‘love’, then tried ‘regards’ but didn’t even want to
seem that friendly so in the end I settled simply for signing my name.

Saturday 1

I feel like I should be
fighting to get back to normal but…fight what?
 
There’s nothing to fight. It’d be like thumping mist.

This time last year I was in
Turkey.

Tuesday 4

Well, it took a week, but Daryl’s
reply arrived today. My hands shook as I stood by the front door and picked at
the edge of the envelope, trying to open it but unable to winkle a finger in to
get it started. Losing patience I gutted it, ripping it wide open and two
pieces of paper fluttered out.

My heart dropped as I
stooped to pick them up from the welcome mat, because I instantly recognised
one of them as a visiting order. For a moment I just stood there, gathering
myself. Squeezed my eyes shut in frustration, counted to ten, then opened them
and started to read Daryl’s note. It was as to-the-point as mine had been.

Babe,

I
won’t be agreeing to the house sale or divorce. You still are and always will
be my Gorgeous. Come and see me and we can discuss it.

Forever

Daryl.

I sank to the floor where I
stood, curled up like a baby and sobbed, hand over my head to somehow protect
me. As I rocked gently, despair crashed over me and took my breath away. He is
never going to let me be
free,
he will never leave me
alone. His love is like the sticky clay mud of a First World War battlefield,
and I can’t break free, I am slowly being sucked down and the more I struggle
the faster my demise comes. I surrender, you win Daryl.

Wednesday 5

I’m lonely, I’m so
desperately lonely, and I need a hug, to feel someone’s arms around me, the human
comfort of knowing someone cares and is there for me and only me, and yes, I
know my parents are, but it’s not the same as a partner, is it, it just isn’t
the same, and so the terrible fact is…I miss Daryl. And I hate myself for it.

I want a hug from the very
person who has hurt me and put me in this terrible position. What a sicko I
must be, what a
sado
-masochist. I know it’s not
really Daryl I miss, of course. It’s the idealised version. I miss the myth
that was my husband, my partner. I miss having someone to call and talk rubbish
to. I miss knowing I have another person’s love. I miss the stability and
solidity that having a loved one gives you, the smug knowledge that you are not
alone.

I hate myself.

Tuesday
11

I’m so sick of feeling crap.
I feel so guilty about it; I shouldn’t feel like this. What do I have to
complain about really? In comparison to what
Daryl’s victims
have been through?

Every time I feel sorry for
myself I am eaten up with guilt. It’s the same old story of comparing my horror
with theirs, the same feeling of being in competition against those poor women,
and losing miserably every time.

Thursday 13

Since discovering Daryl’s
secret I’ve changed physically almost beyond recognition. I look in the mirror
and don’t recognise the person looking back at me. Which is just as well,
because I don’t think I could look the old me in the eye, stupid, blind cow
that I was. I’ve lost a stone and a half. Dropped 4 inches from my bum, five
from my belly,
three
from my waist…

Nothing fits me. I need new
clothes, but what’s the point? Kim has given me some of her clothes. She’s tiny
– and I was amazed to discover they fit me (well, apart from the trousers are
way too long for me because she’s tall enough to be a model, while I am titchy).

‘Can’t have you looking like
a homeless person, love,’ she smiled gently when she gave me them. Bless her
for standing by me.

Sometimes I find myself just
staring in the mirror and talking. I hate myself. But I’m also the only one who
understands how I’m feeling because there’s not exactly a support group for
women who discover they are married a monster. I’m all alone with only me to
rely on, so I stare in the mirror and talk. Am I losing it? I’m scared.

I feel totally helpless. I
have no control over my life now. I’ve been sacked, I can’t imagine that anyone
else will ever want to employ me, I’m hated by everyone in the world (apart
from Mum, Dad, and one friend) and still regularly get death threats, I’m about
to lose my home which is the only solid thing in my life right now, I’ve huge
debts that I’ll never pay off, oh, and my murdering rapist husband wants me to
go see him.

I am punch drunk, barely
feeling each individual blow now, just reeling and stumbling around as I fight
to stay on my feet. Well you know what? I’m throwing in the towel. I am sinking
to my knees and refusing to get up any more, because if I do something else
will just smack me one.

That’s why I’m lying on the
sofa, duvet pulled over me, crying and watching bad telly. Mobile and home
phone are switched off, I want nothing to do with anyone or anything
any more
. The world can bugger off because I want no part
of it.

Still, I can feel the two
visiting orders lying on the hallway table. Their presence seems to thrum. They
accuse me. Pulling the duvet closer doesn’t shut them out. Throwing them away
is something I don’t seem to have the will for.

I wish I were dead.

Friday 14

It’s a really blustery day
outside. The wind is making the leaves in the trees sound like a hundred rattle
snakes outside my window. And I can’t stop crying.

Tears are streaming down my
face but I don’t bother wiping them away. I simply sit, and stare out of the
window.

Saturday 15

I’m
at a crossroads. Do I turn right or left? Do I live or die?

Actually,
I’m sitting on the sofa with every sleeping tablet and painkiller I could find
in the house spread out on the coffee table. I’ve been staring at them for the
last two hours, in between crying hysterically. I mean, really hysterically.
Uncontrollable moans that seem to come from the depths of my body, shaking
hands, face like a snotty pig, the lot. And every time I think I’ve finally run
out of tears I seem to find more. I can’t stop. I can barely see as I write,
and big tear splashes wrinkle the paper here and there, but these days writing
is the only thing that keeps me (barely) sane.

Am I
sane? Does contemplating suicide mean I’m sane or insane, given everything I’ve
been through?

I
don’t know what to do. There are only two choices and I cannot decide whether
to swallow the pills and slide into oblivion or sweep them into the bin and
decide once and for all that, since I’m alive, I might as well try to actually
live.

This
is my Alice in Wonderland moment. Eat me, drink me.
Should I
go down the rabbit hole or not?

I
definitely wish I were dead. If I could be knocked over by a bus right now it
would be a relief. I want to stop hurting. I want to stop the guilt. I want to
stop feeling apologetic for my existence.

Once
upon a time I used to laugh. Imagine that. Laughing until tears were in my eyes
and my stomach ached. I can’t even remember the last time I smiled – not the
tight, worried smile I give strangers who are looking at me and wondering why
they recognise me (I smile at them hoping they’ll be fooled into believing that
they’ve met me before.
Anything to stop them actually putting
two and two together).
Not the fake smile that almost hurts my face when
I give it to my parents to show them I’m fine and they shouldn’t worry. No, I
mean a proper, spontaneous, smile-because-I’m-happy smile.

Remembering
being like that is like thinking of a different person, and I have no idea how
to get back to being her, that woman from a year ago.
 
Actually, I know I will never be her again.
Part of me is really sad about that; she was a really nice, genuine person who
saw the good in everyone and was never suspicious. Part of me is also glad
though because I’m angry at her stupid naivety and never want to see her
vacuous face again. I am harder now, more cynical,
fuller
of hatred than I ever thought possible, and that is reflected in the stare I
see when I look in the mirror.

I am
full of utter despair and nothingness – and I want the nothingness to swallow
me whole, to envelope me and never let me go again.