Tom’s hand shook as he tried to switch on his mobile. He was six feet tall, more than fourteen stone and even at thirty-six considered to be one of the toughest players on the local rugby pitch. But he had just fled in terror from his wife and locked himself in the bathroom. He could hear her outside, mocking him, tapping on the door with the blade of the carving knife with which she had chased him up the stairs.
As she was outside the bathroom that meant Amy was safe in her bedroom further along the corridor. If Tom had thought their seven-year old daughter was in danger he would have been out like a bullet, regardless of whether Gemma had a weapon. But the violence had always been directed solely towards him.
How have I been reduced to this? How can I be so weak?
He dialled 999 ... and hesitated. It was shame and humiliation that prevented his finger from pressing the green button. For more than two years he had kept the abuse secret, a private matter that was no one else’s business. The black eyes and bruises had been easy to blame on the sport he loved and nobody suspected the real cause, he was sure of it. But a couple of months earlier the situation had taken a new, sinister, turn when Gemma had attacked him during the night with a cricket bat.
He had forgotten they even had the thing, but she had obviously been hunting around the house for a suitable implement to hit him with while he slept. She had gone for his legs. Fortunately, the wood had made contact with the thick muscle in his calf, rather than his shin, and after the first blow he had recovered sufficient wits to roll across the bed, out of reach. When he had wrestled the bat from her she had burst into tears, saying it was all because of a terrible nightmare and promised such an incident would never happen again. But then she often said this after an ‘accident’.
Since that night Tom hadn’t slept properly and felt so weary he was beginning to find it difficult to think straight during the daytime. Even if his wife got up to go to the toilet, he would lie for hours afterwards, making sure she really had gone back to sleep.
Tom was still looking at the mobile in his hand, the number on the display reading 999. He was no coward, but he wasn’t bloody Rambo either. He knew nothing of martial arts or how to disarm someone safely so that neither person was likely to be hurt. The tapping had stopped. He listened intently then called out Gemma’s name just loud enough for her to hear if she was the other side of the door. There was no reply. Had she gone to their daughter’s room? It was too much of a risk.
He pressed the green button.
That decision would change his life forever.
‘Do you require police, ambulance or fire brigade?’ asked the man who answered.
‘Police.’
Tom had never rung the emergency services before and didn’t know quite what to expect. He was put through to another operator.
‘Police emergency,’ said a female voice. ‘May I take your contact details?’
Tom gave the woman his address and telephone number.
‘What is the problem?’ she continued.
‘My wife ...’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘She has tried to hurt me.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No.’
‘What assistance do you need, sir?’
What should he say?
‘My wife has chased after me. I’m locked in the bathroom and am worried about my daughter.’
‘Are they both in the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has your daughter been hurt?
‘No.’
‘Does anyone in the house need medical help?’
‘No.’
It sounded as if he was ringing for nothing.
‘Is someone in the house in danger?’
‘I believe so.’
‘The police are en route and will be with you as soon as possible. Do you need any other assistance?’
‘No, thank you.’
The line went dead. It was done. What had been going on was no longer a secret.
The building was strangely silent and he wondered if he should risk unlocking the door to check on Amy. But if the police were on their way perhaps they would arrive soon. He decided to hang on, but the wait was torment.
The doorbell didn’t ring, but about fifteen minutes later Tom could hear voices downstairs. He realised Gemma must have heard him make the call. She had been outside the bathroom after all, listening, then had gone quietly downstairs to open the front door. That meant she was speaking to the police first.
Tom hurried to the kitchen, from where he could hear people talking, and burst into the room. It was the worst impression he could possibly have made. The two policemen, one about fifty and a young lad in his early twenties, turned instantly towards him, ready for trouble. Gemma was crying and gave a small shout of alarm before rushing to the other side of the table.
Why was she crying?
For a moment Tom simply didn’t know what to say.
‘Just calm down, sir. There’s no need for any further violence. It never solves anything.’
It was the older of the two policemen speaking.
Violence?
Tom felt muddled, his mind working like treacle.
They think he was the aggressive one.
‘It’s not me. It’s her. She’s the one ... always beating me.’
It wasn’t so much the expressions of disbelief that stung him to the core, but rather their look of disgust. Tom felt he was an honourable man, living by what many would consider to be an old-fashioned code of conduct, instilled into him by his rather severe father, and he could see how his statement appeared. He was bigger than either of the policemen and his wife was barely eight stone. On the surface, it was a ludicrous comment.
But they didn’t know how she used a weapon that he had no defence against ... surprise. Creeping up to hit him on the head as he watched television, throwing something at him when he least expected it, attacking him while he slept. How could he explain such things to them in a believable way? He suspected, feared, that the men had already made up their minds.
Suddenly, Gemma rushed across the room and for an instant Tom thought she was going to assault him right there, in front of the police. It would almost have been a relief for such a thing to happen in front of witnesses.
‘My darling.’
He hadn’t realised Amy had come downstairs and was standing behind him in her pyjamas, bewildered at being confronted with the strange scene in the kitchen, made worse by just waking up. Gemma skirted around Tom, grabbed their daughter and pulled her towards the other end of the kitchen.
‘Daddy?’
Before she could utter another word, Gemma smothered the girl so fiercely in a hug that she couldn’t speak.
‘Don’t worry, darling. You’re safe now. Daddy won’t hurt you.’
Him hurt her?
‘Me hurt her?’ said Tom, expressing his thoughts verbally. ‘Me?’
He was becoming angry. It was exactly what Gemma had expected ... what she wanted. The two policemen moved on either side of him.
‘It’s not me! It’s her!’
Tom was shouting now. Everything he did was making the situation worse for himself.
‘Come along, sir. Let’s talk about all of this calmly at the station.’
‘You’re taking me away? It should be her.’
Part of Tom thought this couldn’t really be happening. He was in his own house and about to be forcibly removed for doing nothing more than raising his voice, while he had been kicked, slapped and scratched, or hit with pans or thrown objects and had never told anyone before this evening.
Gemma was kneeling on the floor, holding Amy, who was squirming to be free. No one else could see her face except Tom and for a moment their eyes locked. She gave a small smile of triumph.
This had been planned all along. How could he have been such a fool?
The seriousness of the situation hit him with such impact that it seemed as though his body was collapsing in upon himself so that he felt dizzy and weak, with barely the strength to stay upright. The police thought he was a danger to his wife and child. He worshipped his little girl and he still loved Gemma. They had had some tremendous times together and if it wasn’t for her strange temper, her need to punish and control, he was sure they could have a great life.
The young officer clasped a hand firmly on his arm. Tom looked at him pleadingly.
‘It’s not me,’ he whispered in despair.
He knew they didn’t believe a single word he spoke, but he didn’t realise just how much his nightmare had taken on a new dimension.