Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [104]
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