Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [81]
Usually it was easier to say I’d been too ill to clean – that seemed to calm him. But one day I thought, Sod it, no. I’ve cleaned this shoe box of a place from top to bottom every day for four months. It’s bloody spotless.
And I told him so.
I don’t know how I’d expected Peter to react, but I didn’t see this coming. He leapt at me, screaming, ‘You fucking liar!’ and grabbed hold of my neck. I thought he was going to punch me, I honestly did, but I didn’t dare cover my face. I needed both hands to protect my bump. That was the only thing that mattered.
It obviously didn’t matter to him though. Gripping my neck as tightly as he could, he rasped into my ear, ‘This is how you fucking clean’ – and he slammed me against the wall, dragging my face along it like some cheap feather duster.
The whole ordeal probably lasted no longer than ten seconds from start to finish. Afterwards he was contrition personified. He was sorry, he loved me, he prayed the baby was okay. I’d heard it all so many times I could virtually have said it with him, but this time I didn’t respond. I just stood, quivering, crying at the way he’d shoved me with no regard for our baby.
I have to get away from here.
Once again, however, my history held me back. My parents should have stayed together. That, I told myself, would have prevented all the bad things happening. That would have been enough to keep my mother alive. By the time I’d calmed down, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. My baby was only three months away. I had to make things work with Peter. Whatever the cost.
But, I thought, I do need to think about emergencies. If this behaviour continued once the baby was born, I would disappear. I would not put our child at risk. That was a promise. With that single thought, however, my motorbike went suddenly from perfect getaway vehicle to completely inappropriate.
That’s no good for a baby, I realized. I need a car.
Before I could get a car, however, I needed to learn to drive. I went straight out and phoned BSM and said, ‘I need to be able to drive in the next two and a half months – and I can only afford about six lessons.’
That didn’t go down too well. I think they thought I was taking the mickey. But I was dead serious and I explained my reasons. I needed to be qualified when my baby was born. I wouldn’t get a chance to learn after that. I just sensed it. The guy explained that I’d be hard-pressed to pass, but if I wanted, I could take lessons in an automatic and only qualify to drive those kinds of vehicles.
‘Perfect,’ I said.
Like everything else in my life, once I put my mind to my lessons, I knew I would succeed. Because I will always succeed – or die trying. Driving was just another skill to be mastered, like maths or ballroom dancing. Sure enough, two months later, I was the proud owner of a driving licence. Best of all, I already had my own wheels.
At the same time that I’d started my half a dozen lessons, I’d also looked at buying a car from the local paper. I picked up an old Austin Allegro for £250, but as soon as I got it home, I thought, I bet this would have been worth more if it had been spruced up a bit. That gave me an idea, so I spent the next day polishing it, blacking the tyres and filling in the odd bit of rust with Autosol and then I put it back in the paper for sale at £350. A few days later I accepted £325 for it, which I was more than happy with.
This is easy money, I realized, so I did it again. And again. And again. All I ever did was pick up grubby-looking vehicles and smarten them up a bit. I didn’t touch the mechanics or make any improvements. I just tidied and cleaned and sprayed and tarted – and I pulled