Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [1]
That’s why he tricked me into getting pregnant. I don’t think he ever wanted a child. He just wanted leverage.
The day I made my escape from him was the scariest day of my life. It had to be timed to perfection. One error, one delay, and he would catch me. And he would kill me.
I knew in my heart that he would have no choice. In Peter’s eyes, I was no more than a possession, maybe even his most precious possession, but not a person with rights of her own. When I ran away, he didn’t feel abandoned; he felt like he’d been robbed. And I knew he would exact his revenge.
Smuggling my son out of Scotland and fleeing the five hundred miles to the sanctuary of my family in Portsmouth was the longest night of my life. I was convinced Peter would be following, waiting for the coach to pull over, biding his time before storming on and reclaiming his property.
Every set of headlights that passed my window was his, I was convinced. Every time we slowed, it was because he had caused it.
I told my family and friends that I thought I would die that night if he found me. They all said the same thing: ‘It can’t be that bad.’
But they didn’t know. I hadn’t told anyone about the abuse, the beatings, the violence, the atmosphere of terror he’d forced me to live under for three years. They wouldn’t believe me when I said he would have killed me to stop me escaping. But I knew.
Then, in September 2006, he was arrested for the murder of Angelika Kluk.
And then we all knew.
My son was so young when his life was in peril, but he has recovered. He has had his counselling, he has had his therapy and, more than a decade later, has emerged as a healthy, unscarred young man. I’m confident he’s found his closure.
This book, I hope, will be mine. I have never told this story before. Not even my closest friends know what I suffered as the plaything of Peter Tobin and no one has ever heard how the parallels with my mother’s short life led me into his clutches. I’ve gone to great lengths to rebuild my life, but I’ve wasted too much time running from the truth. Until I face my past, my escape from evil will always be incomplete. If I don’t share my story, it will always be there to haunt me. And I don’t want that anymore.
This is where it ends.
And this is where it began . . .
ONE
The Choices Mum Made
‘Who’s this, Grandpa?’
I was fourteen years old and sitting at the kitchen table in my grandparents’ house. In front of me, spread out in neat little piles, were dozens of small, square photographs. One had caught my eye.
Grandpa pushed up his glasses and studied the picture I was holding.
‘That’s you,’ he said, a warm smile lighting up his face.
I stared at the mop-topped little bundle in the duck-egg blue cardigan with navy trim. Was I ever so blonde and curly? And look at those chubby little legs!
Baby me, grinning towards the camera, looked so happy on the hip of the slim woman in the gorgeous, white, thigh-length A-line dress. If anything, she looked happier still. No prizes for guessing who that beaming lady was, but I checked anyway.
‘And this is Mum?’
Grandpa nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, a flicker of pride in his voice, ‘that’s your mother. Doesn’t she look beautiful?’
He didn’t have to ask me that. I’d never seen anyone look so stunning. With long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and slim, tanned legs, Mum looked like a film star to me. At the very least, a model. And as for her amazing little white outfit . . .
‘I love the dress,’ I said. ‘She looks so smart.’
I noticed the smile fade slightly from Grandpa’s lips. ‘She does, doesn’t she?’ he said quietly. ‘But then people tend to make an effort on their wedding day.’
Wedding day? But I’m in the picture.
I don’t remember if I couldn’t work it out or I didn’t want to.
‘Grandpa, I don’t understand.’
As he handed back the picture, I’m sure