Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [94]
Of course, if you’d asked him, Peter would have said it was my idea. I was the one who’d wanted the bigger house, the one who’d said I needed help looking after Daniel. Here was the answer to my problems. A cute house in a picturesque area on the doorstep of the extended Tobin family. It was exactly what I’d requested.
Except it wasn’t. I had a lot of time to reflect during that marathon journey to West Lothian. I knew I hadn’t asked for this. Peter had done all the running and, as usual, had manipulated me so I felt like it was my decision. Of course, I’d wanted to get out of that flat, but not to come here. However it looked to him, I’d given in because I thought it was worth a gamble, to see if it would make him happy. That had to be worth a shot, didn’t it? A happy Peter might be a nicer Peter. He might just take an interest in me again without swearing and scaring. He might just start to play a role in his son’s life too.
There I was again, making excuses like every other battered wife. And I still didn’t see it.
Even the weather tried to tell me to go back. The moment we pulled off the M8, it was like stepping into a dark tunnel. The fog was so thick I could hardly see the lights of Peter’s lorry ten feet in front of me or Debbie’s car behind. We could have been anywhere, but it seemed familiar. With a shudder, I realized, If we had some scary music, it would be like driving into a horror film, that part just before the killer strikes.
Even without the soundtrack, that thought was more prescient than I realized.
I assumed Peter would find a job and his mum and brothers’ families would be round all the time to socialize and maybe even help out. I think, in all the time we were there, I visited his sister’s home once and called for one brother at a tenement block in Glasgow – but he was out. The sister and her family were nice enough, but my strongest memory is of how uncomfortable Peter looked while he was there. He refused to sit down, preferring to hover nervously in the corner of whatever room we were in. It was weird. If you can’t be yourself in front of your family, when can you?
That was the extent of our contact with the Tobins. I never met his mum and his dad’s name never once came up. As for the promises of babysitting, no one ever came to our house. In fact, after Debbie and John had both left us, I didn’t see another face at our door for at least a month.
Peter had been polite enough to Debbie while she was helping me to get the house straight. Her departing Escort was still within earshot, however, when he said, ‘You won’t be seeing her again.’
I said, ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard. She’s poison. I don’t want you seeing or phoning her unless I say you can. Understand?’
I didn’t and told him so. Then he called me every name under the sun and threatened to smack me. Suddenly I understood perfectly.
It was only then that I realized I hadn’t been on the sharp end of Peter’s tongue for a while. Admittedly, we’d been busy. Once the exchange had gone through, we suddenly had to sort out packing, vehicle hire, new doctors, utilities – all the usual things that go hand in hand with a move. And, stressful though it had been, Peter hadn’t lost his temper once. Not with me anyway. Seeing how easily he slipped into his old ways scared me. Not because of the words – I’d heard those a dozen times before. No, what terrified me was the nagging suspicion that he’d been on his best behaviour for a reason.
It’s like he planned to bite his tongue until he got me up here – alone.
I hadn’t seen Debbie much over the last few years, so not calling her wouldn’t make her suspicious for quite a while. My grandparents, on the other hand, had been worried enough about me going up to Scotland. If I didn’t ring them, they would marshal the air force to find me.
‘You can’t stop me phoning them,’ I told Peter firmly. He acquiesced, but only on the condition that it was no more than once a week – and he could