Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [107]
Which meant I had a perfect view of Peter, in the bath, with blood streaming from his wrists.
He was shouting, ‘There’s no point living without you, Cathy!’ but I just wanted to laugh. Obviously I was meant to be won over by this act of sacrifice. But the thing about blood is that it often looks worse than it is.
‘You’re a joke,’ I said. I know it sounds cold, but he’d tried this stunt the night I’d fled Bathgate and he seemed to come through that one okay. To be on the safe side, I ran outside to dial 999. After I’d asked for an ambulance, I added, ‘You’d better send one from St James’s.’ That was our local nut house, after all. As far as I was concerned, that was the place where Peter needed treatment, not A&E.
Amazingly, the doctors who arrived agreed and Peter was taken to St James’s for two days of recovery and tests. He had a full psychiatric assessment while he was there. I don’t know what they discovered, but it was obviously nothing that worried them because he was soon released.
It was another few weeks before I let Daniel see Peter again, but soon after that we were back to once or twice a fortnight. I’d dismissed the suicide attempt almost as soon as it had happened, electing to concentrate on wanting the best for Daniel. Watching him enjoy a fun and loving relationship with his father at last meant the world to me. It helped that Peter appeared to be really trying to be nice to both of us. The wrist-slashing episode aside, I have to say, we did have fun together once again as a ‘three’. Nothing gave me greater pleasure than seeing Daniel happy. As long as he perceived that I trusted Peter with him, that was okay by me. In fact, as the weeks and months passed, I soon realized it was a perception I was beginning to share as well.
Life in the spring of 1990, I have to say, was good. I had a bit of social security money coming in, I had my friends and family round the corner and Daniel and I even had a home with separate rooms. We still had to share a bathroom and kitchen, which were pretty grim, to be honest, filthy and full of cockroaches. But, with a bit of imagination, I had made our rooms feel like they belonged to us. While Daniel slept at night, I decorated the fireplace with hand-painted pictures of flowers. Then, during the day, we’d collect sticks from the park to spray silver and create a lovely display. They were just cheap, small things, but they really made a difference. After so long, I really was happy. And proud. I remember looking at Daniel sleeping one night and thinking, I’ve done a bloody good job here.
What is it they say about pride coming before a fall?
After a few weeks of visits and lots of happy times, I could see Daniel was more comfortable with his father than he’d ever been in Scotland. So when Peter suggested one day that the pair of them go out to the park and then maybe to McDonald’s for a treat, I thought, Why not? It will be good for both of them.
And I needed the break. Single-parenting is tough on everyone. You tend to snatch babysitting offers when they come.
‘Make sure he’s back for bath time at six.’
I felt a bit guilty enjoying an afternoon at home by myself and after three or four hours I was ready to have my son back. But six o’clock came and went. Then it was seven – and I was panicking.
Have they been in an accident? Is everything all right?
I needed to phone someone, but we didn’t have a landline and I was scared to leave the flat in case they returned. By half seven, though, it was decided. I grabbed my purse, left a note on the door and ran out to the nearest phone box.
My first call was to Grandpa. He obviously didn’t want to worry me, but he said, ‘You could call the hospitals, but you really need to tell the police.’
I could barely see the dial on the phone for tears as I made call after call. They weren’t in any hospital in the area – thank God. So where were they?
The police said they’d be round in five minutes.
I was in such a state by the time they arrived, I don’t know how they understood a word I