Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [123]
‘Is there anything else?’ the policeman asked. I desperately wanted to help, but the answer was no.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about him.’
Realizing that everything you know about someone is a lie takes some processing. When that person is your husband and the father of your child, it defies logic.
I don’t know him at all. I never have.
The truth was, however, that I had always known Peter was a man of violence. I knew too that he believed somehow that the world owed him a living and that he was entitled to take whatever he wanted. And I also knew, from my own experiences, that he relished imposing his sadistic will on younger women.
That realization tore me to shreds. The idea that there might have been a chance I could have prevented those girls from being attacked was a heavy burden. But the more I tortured myself over my role in this, the more I realized how he had distorted everything.
When he’d punished me for lazy cleaning or criticized my cooking, I’d always felt that it was my fault, that I’d driven him to it. It wasn’t a case of me deserving punishment, but there was a cause and effect in play. My behaviour was the cause. He’d conditioned me to accept the blame for everything. Whether I liked it or not, I was the reason he behaved in the manner he did. Even when he’d brought Lisa and the other girls into our home, that was in some way a result of my actions. I wasn’t sleeping with him, so he was forced to go elsewhere. That’s how he justified it to us both.
And then there was Daniel. When I’d seen Peter hold my son above the staircase in Robertson Avenue, I truly believed that he was capable of killing. It was only when I’d escaped and had time to analyse events that I realized it was never about hurting Daniel. Daniel was just a weapon, a tool to control me with. Daniel was my weak spot and Peter exploited that. Everything he ever did during that relationship was just because he wanted to own me.
It never, for one moment, occurred to me that Peter was capable of behaving like this to other people. He’d bullied and abused me for so long, I genuinely felt it was all about me. When, in fact, it was all about him.
From the moment the police told me about the events of the previous night, I had only one thought on my mind. I have to get Daniel. I was assured he was safe, that if Peter had wanted to harm him, he would have done the night before. But that wasn’t the point. I needed to be with him, to wrap my arms around him. I didn’t know at that point half the things he’d witnessed, but I did know he would need my help to get over it.
Daniel’s school was in Havant, so it was a short journey to pick him up. Even so, I still had plenty of time to curse myself for not noticing anything the night before. Were there clues? Had I missed anything? I’d put Daniel’s silence down to tiredness, which was natural, and again that morning. But had there been blood on him? Had he been scared? Had he tried to tell me something? We were in such a rush, I hadn’t noticed anything.
When I reached the school Daniel was ready. As soon as I picked him up, I immediately felt him go stiff. He never did that. By the time I got him back to Liverpool Road, I was convinced something was wrong. He was aggressive, shouting things he’d normally say nicely – ‘Where’s my drink?’ ‘I need that!’ – and the moment he got inside the front door, he hit me. My son had never hit me before in his life.
‘Daniel, calm down! What’s wrong?’
But I already knew the answer.
When the police were able to interview the girls, the full story emerged. The fourteen-year-olds had knocked on Peter’s second-floor door to ask if he knew when their relative – his neighbour – would be back. ‘Any minute now,’ Peter had said. ‘Come in and wait.’ He