Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [95]
I had to admit, if it had been Peter’s plan to cut me off from the rest of the world, it had worked. In Brighton I probably wouldn’t have spoken to Granny much more than once a week anyway, but the option was there. And if I didn’t have money for the phone I could get a bus or walk or drive over. I didn’t appreciate the value of that until it was taken away. Only on the drive up, along those seemingly endless roads, did it really sink in. It’s how my mother must have felt when she was abandoned in Stockport.
I’m on my own.
In the rare moments on that drive when Daniel and the bird weren’t demanding my attention, I entertained an idea so farfetched I laughed at it. Was it the council right-to-buy dream that was really driving our move? Or was Peter upset that I’d taken control after Daniel was born and opened the tea shop and made a success of it – and proven I didn’t need him? Was it simple jealousy that made him persuade me to shut up shop and start at the bottom rung of the council-house ladder? Did he just want me dependent on him again? And was that why I was now driving all the way to Bathgate, to a place where I would have to rely on him more than ever before?
I don’t know how my Metro stayed on the road while I was thinking this. The idea was so big, so preposterous, that it obsessed me for mile after mile. But then I thought, That’s ridiculous. No one would think like that. No one would be so insecure – and so manipulative.
And anyway, I decided, desperately looking for a bright side to the situation, didn’t it just mean that Peter loved me so much he wanted me all to himself? That was a good thing, wasn’t it?
By the time we’d settled in at Robertson Avenue my can-do attitude had kicked in. I’m here now. I have to make an effort.
I took Daniel to a mother and baby group a couple of mornings a week and enrolled him in swimming lessons – basically any activities that were free. I wanted to get a cat for him as well, but when Peter came home from the pet shop he had two guinea pigs instead. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but a pet’s a pet at that age, I supposed.
And that, pretty much, was my new life. I now had a bigger house to clean and a garden to look after for the first time as well, but apart from that there was absolutely nothing to do. Peter loved it, but it drove me spare. Day after day, night after night, we’d just sit in the lounge, watching telly. I was itching to get out and do something, but he was comfortable where he was. It just felt so unnatural to me. A year earlier I’d been running my own business. Before that I’d made a decent profit turning round second-hand cars. I’d even made a few quid flogging teddy-bear templates. I loved – still love – to be busy and making money is an instinct for me, but Peter wouldn’t let me follow it. And he still refused to work.
It was the same excuse as before. He was not getting a job – ‘not after what I’ve done for this country’ – and I could only go to work if I earned enough to pay for Daniel’s childcare.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said, yet again. ‘You’re sitting here all day. What else are you going to do?’ I instantly regretted asking. He flew off the sofa and had his hands round my throat.
‘Don’t you ever tell me what to fucking do, you cunt!’
I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong. His hands were like steel on my neck. Nothing I did made any impression. I couldn’t even scream. As soon as I opened my mouth, his grip tightened, choking any sound back inside. Then I saw the dark rage in his eyes. He didn’t look human. That’s when the panic set in.
That’s when I thought, I can’t breathe. He’s going to kill me.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. Peter called me ‘cunt’ again and stormed out, still swearing.
I wasn’t listening. I was clutching my throat, willing it back to