Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [121]
Steve worked for a small plastic fabrication company based in a couple of farm sheds. In theory, he could make anything out of plastic, but most commonly you would see his work in supermarkets, displaying the apples and magazines and everything in between. I offered to come in to help with selling and proved so effective at it that we decided to go into business together. A wealthy friend of his put up the money, but we would all be equal partners and directors: she did the books, Steve did the estimating and I sold. We were the perfect team and success found us very quickly. With accounts of the calibre of John Lewis and Waitrose soon coming our way, we felt justifiably proud of our efforts.
It wasn’t long before I was beginning to earn decent money and I wanted to invest it in a home for my son and me. The first time I viewed the house in Liverpool Road, Fratton, my foot fell through the floor. The state of the rest of the property wasn’t much better, but the price reflected the house’s condition. I’m sure Granny thought I was mad, but I loved the idea of renovating that dilapidated old shell. I still remember so vividly that feeling of fantastic pride when I stepped through the door as the owner for the first time.
I’ve done it!
What’s more, I’d done it without help from any man. That was important to me. I’d missed out on so much growing up without a father that all my life, I realized, I’d been trying to prove I could cope without one. I’d taken a motor-mechanics course with the Army Cadets, aged fifteen, just so I would never have to rely on a man to help me with my Honda; I’d bought and sold second-hand cars; I’d decorated my Bathgate kitchen single-handedly. They were all attempts at proving I could do it on my own – whether I wanted to or not.
Despite my enthusiasm, work on the house was slow, but I realized I had an eye for interiors and, by the time I’d finished you wouldn’t have recognized the place. By then Steve 2 had moved in with us. We were – dare I say – happy. Unfortunately, Peter was always around to keep my feet on the ground.
We’d settled into a nice routine, sharing the childcare, and for a year it worked out just fine. Then, one Thursday night, the phone woke me up. When I saw it was one o’clock in the morning, I panicked. It had to be bad news.
Daniel!
It was Peter on the line, but he assured me Daniel was fine.
‘Thank God.’
‘But I’ve called an ambulance. I think I’m having a heart attack. I need you to come and collect the boy.’
He didn’t have to ask twice. I threw some clothes on, flew out of the house and reached Havant in record time. Since Daniel had been staying there I’d had a spare set of keys, so I let myself into the building. By the time I reached Peter’s door, they were just coming out. Peter had heard me rushing up the stairs.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked, breathless, as Peter handed me a carrier bag of clothes and toys.
‘Probably nothing, but best to be on the safe side,’ he said and clutched his chest for emphasis. I was convinced.
‘Look, we’ll wait till the ambulance gets here.’
‘No, no,’ he insisted. ‘You get that boy home.’ Then he kissed Daniel and said, ‘I’ve already kept him up long enough.’
Peter was adamant we should go, so I scooped Daniel up and off we drove into the night. The next morning I rang the hospital and was told it had been a false alarm. Peter had imagined the symptoms. I was actually annoyed. All that worry for nothing. Then I remembered the pathetic attempts at cutting his wrists and the overdose of Amitriptyline.
The man’s either a hypochondriac or an attention-seeker – or both!
Over the course of about ten months, Peter called me out three times in the middle of the night