Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [73]
It took about two months. By the turn of the year I’d gone from hot young thing to a plain Jane in sackcloth and sensible shoes. I was like a bad caricature of my former self and the worst thing was that I couldn’t even tell. When I looked in the mirror I didn’t see this dowdy, mousey-haired teenager staring back. I only saw the proud, happy partner of the wonderful Mr Tobin.
To this day, I don’t know if Peter had a plan with me or whether he was acting on pure instinct. I don’t know if he schemed from the start to make me utterly dependent on him, to rob me of any shred of self-esteem or independence, or whether that’s just how he was. For all I know, he did that to every partner.
When I consider all the things that happened seemingly randomly, it seems inconceivable that it was pure chance. He must have been pulling the strings from the moment we met, spinning plates in the air one at a time – and he was so damn smooth I never even noticed. It was a war of wills and I’d surrendered before it had begun.
I know now that changing my appearance was a control thing. He didn’t give a toss about my hair or my skirts or my tight tops or my heels. He probably liked them. But what he really loved more than anything was proving that he was the boss of me. If he could take those things most precious to me, the very characteristics that I thought defined me, and make me give them up, then he could do anything to me. That was his logic – and that is exactly what happened.
Everything was so subtle, so cunning. It was like being mugged and not realizing it until the pickpocket has left the country. Whatever he did, however extreme it seems to me today, there was always a reason for his behaviour. I could always come up with a justification. Maybe he planted the idea, but it was always my own call. I came up with the excuses all on my own and didn’t I feel clever for that.
He engineered everything. Getting me to change my appearance would never have worked if we’d kept in with the Rising Sun crowd. I would never have agreed to ditch my leathers if I was still knocking around in those circles – the bikers would never have let me get away with those shoes and dresses. So he’d steered me away from them, chipping away, whispering how I was better than them, how they didn’t deserve me, how I was too mature for those reprobates. I was so hungry for approval, I lapped it up. Was he a master of human nature or did he just spot that my ego would respond that way? I think it was a bit of both. Anyway, it worked. He played me like a puppet. Every day that passed, he exerted more and more control over me.
Of course, I didn’t see any of this. If I had, I would never have fallen for his next trick.
The way Peter explained his lowly job at the old folks’ place was simple and perfectly logical – and, of course, he came out of it in a sympathetic light.
After so many successful years making a fortune in various different and exciting industries, his war wounds had finally caught up with him. The shrapnel was sliding further into his body and inflicting more pain. Ultimately, he was too ill to work. As for his money, well, he admitted he’d been married before, but she’d run off as soon as he was too ill to work, wiping out all their savings. So now here he was, an injured war hero, doing the best he could in Brighton, looking after pensioners.
It was a story to make anyone’s heart bleed. I had nothing but respect for the way he’d got his life back on track. I didn’t even begrudge him milking the benefits system for every penny he could squeeze out.
‘They owe me,’ he said. ‘After all I’ve done for this country.’
I was compelled to agree. He put his body on the line and now he’s paying for it with his health. It’s the least the government can do.
Even that was a massive change for me. A year before, the idea of accepting dole money or disability allowances or any of those handouts would have been anathema to me. That was Grandpa