Authors: Barbara Copperthwaite
Monday 1
Went
out for a meal last night and then back to hotel for ‘a quick nightcap’.
Turned into a bit of a session, and we drank and chatted to other couples until
3am. Good fun. Felt a bit wobbly this morning!
We’ve done loads though.
First we went by boat to the mud baths at
Dalyan
. Stripped
down to our swimwear and sat in a big pool of warm mud to cover ourselves from
head to toe in the thick, sticky substance.
‘Poo!
It
stinks like rotten eggs,’ I gasped, wrinkling my nose as Daryl scooped up a
massive handful and slapped it onto his arm, smearing it across his skin with
grim determination. I thought it might sting his bad hand but it didn’t seem to
bother him.
‘That’s the sulphur in it.’
He pointed to a placard that explained why the mud was so good for you, and all
about the sulphur. I’d completely failed to notice it, of course, but my gaze
was dragged away from it by Daryl puffing out his chest towards me. ‘Come on,
babe, lay it on me. Then I’ll do you, it’ll be easier,’ he insisted.
It was the weirdest beauty
treatment in the world. There we were, surrounded by equally mud-caked tourists,
all of us stinking to high heaven and loving it. I could imagine people all
through the ages doing just as we were, even Romans relaxing in the muck.
I put the finishing touch to
Daryl’s face, carefully applying it with my fingertips until only his eyes were
untouched.
When he smiled, his teeth shone through, brilliant
white.
I smiled back, feeling the already drying mud tighten then crack
slightly at the movement.
‘How do I look?’ I mumbled,
like a bad ventriloquist, trying not to move my mouth too much.
He leaned back to take in my
full, reeking glory. ‘You’ve never look better – or smelled it,’ he joked. Ha,
ha.
We both baked gently in the
sun until the mud hardened, then rinsed off in a shower before dipping in a hot
thermal bath. Wonderful! My skin felt so very soft afterwards.
Then we went by boat again
to the beach where the loggerhead turtles lay their eggs. The surf there is
massive but the sea is also very shallow for a very long way out. We both went
out into the surf, and the crashing waves kept almost pulling my bikini off! We
were jumping over the big waves like kids and laughing.
Great
fun.
Then we dried off in the sun before sailing back. It was just
glorious sitting at the head of the boat, lying on the flat bulkhead, sunbathing.
Tues 2
It’s 10am and already
uncomfortably hot. I’ve arranged to meet Daryl downstairs in 15
mins
because he wanted to finish off his breakfast, while I
panicked about burning so decided to come to the room and slap on the factor
30! We’ve a hectic day ahead of us…
Weds 3
Well yesterday got off to a
good start. Daryl had really splashed out and hired a sort of yacht called a
gullet. Where he got the money from God knows but, hey, I’m just glad he’s
spending it on treats for me! We sunbathed on the deck, beneath the masts and
every now and again the captain would pull into a secluded harbour and we’d climb
down the rope ladder and swim in the sea from the boat.
Fab.
I was a bit wary at first
about swimming straight from the boat because obviously I couldn’t put my feet
down on the floor, but the warm, bright blue sea is so salty there that I was
incredibly buoyant, so it wasn’t a problem. It was amazing swimming round and
round the boat. Then it was back to a bit more sunbathing!
Daryl was getting a bit
amorous on deck, but I wasn’t having a bar of it. Honestly, he’s terrible!
Can’t keep his hands off me sometimes, and he does love a bit of al
fresco action.
‘Come on, Gorgeous, the
captain won’t notice,’ he insisted, hands sliding up my thigh. I slapped him
away, but laughed. He pouted – those big lips of his are built for that
expression. Then he had an idea, grabbed the towel and flung it over my bottom
half. ‘I could touch you under this…’ he began. Before I had a chance to say
no, his fingers slipped under my bikini bottoms.
I rolled away, scandalised.
‘No chance,’ I hissed, giving him a stern look. Not too stern, but enough to
show I meant business. I think he gets off on the thrill of possibly being
discovered – but let’s face it, when you’re on a tiny boat and there’s only
three of you, chances are you’re going to be caught in the act!!
Anyway, I got absolutely
hammered last night. We got back from the boat trip and went to our hotel room
and tried to have sex but…Daryl’s problem made a re-appearance.
We didn’t talk about it, of
course, we never do, and I pretended not to notice when things failed to rise
to the occasion. But it makes me feels so rejected, and Daryl always seems so
deflated afterwards. Ooh, unfortunate turn of phrase there… But it definitely
put a dampener on the mood, which had been really buoyant up until then.
This problem of his has been
happening on and off for the last two years or so, and seems to have got worse
since I really started hammering home how much I want a baby. I’d hoped that
him
agreeing to that would mean the problem wouldn’t happen
again, but seems I was wrong.
Am I not enough
woman
for him? Don’t I turn him on? Maybe I’m just really
bad in bed. Oh heck, how embarrassing. I bet it’s me. It can’t be him, he’s
always so rampant and up for it. One look at me is enough to turn him limp
though.
Afterward we’d got dressed;
we’d decided to go for a nice meal in nearby
Hisaronou
and we shared a bottle of wine…then another bottle…then we went to a bar and
had another bottle, plus a couple of cocktails. I was steaming and we had a row.
‘If you want to fuck that
bloke, why don’t you just go over to him?’ Daryl snapped at me suddenly. I’d
immediately tensed up, even in my drunken state, knowing that he was picking a
row with me for no reason because he was in a bad mood about our abortive sex.
A row would make him feel a bit better, more in control. So I tried to stay
calm.
‘I’m not looking at anyone,’
I said, looking him in the eye. Admittedly, it was quite hard to do because the
room was swimming a bit as I’d had so much to drink. It may have been an
unsteady look, but it was still sincere though.
‘Do you think I’m stupid?
You’ve been looking at him ever since we got in here. At least have the respect
to not rub my face in it.’
The storm clouds had well
and truly
gathered,
his face like thunder.
I made myself take a deep breath, didn’t want
to panic and make things even worse. I tried to soften my voice, like an FBI
agent in a film trying to negotiate with a mad bomber or something.
‘Daryl, I’m not looking at
anyone but you. I don’t want anyone but you. I don’t even know what bloke
you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t treat me like I’m an
idiot,’ he shouted, the barstool clattering to the floor as he stood up. He
leaned right down over me, his face almost touching mine and I flinched back.
‘Don’t ever treat me like I’m a fucking idiot.’
Then he
stropped
off and left me alone. At first I was a bit relieved, but as adrenaline made me
sober up slightly, I started to get teary, then really angry.
Furious, I stomped after him
but there was no sign. I walked round and round that pub for ages looking for
him, even asked a fella to check the gents for me, but he’d gone. Eventually I
got a cab back, but he wasn’t at the hotel room either. God knows what time he
did arrive – I was dead to the world by then; passed out, if I’m honest.
So we’ve spent most of today
barely talking. He still seems to think the whole thing is my fault and that I
should apologise.
Keeps muttering about me eyeing up some
ginger bloke.
I don’t even remember seeing a red-head, let alone giving
him the eye, but Daryl won’t listen and every time I try to tell him it jut
sparks another row. He says I’m treating him like he’s stupid, that I’m showing
him no respect,
that
I’m just a tart. It’s so crushing
after the wonderful start to the holiday, and I don’t know what to do.
Maybe, this is payback for
me going through his phone. But at least when I did that I realised immediately
how terrible I was being, how wrongly I was acting, and confessed all to him in
a bid to make things right.
So no, I’m not apologising
to him until he apologises to me. He’s the one in the wrong, I haven’t done
anything. Besides, I’ve got a stonking headache that’s putting me in a very bad
mood, so there is no way I’m giving in on this.
Thurs 4
Okay, so I apologised to Daryl
this morning.
It’s
day two of the hangover (seriously,
I can’t handle my drink now I’m in my 30s. I remember when I used to drink
loads then wake up bright and breezy the next day. Now it takes me two days to
get over a big night. Two days!!)
and
I didn’t have
the strength to keep up hostilities.
So this morning I tried to
give him a hug in bed. He shook me off. I knew what I had to do. ‘I’m so
sorry,’ I said in a small voice. ‘I was drunk, I honestly don’t remember what I
did, but I never, ever intended to upset you. Please…forgive me?’
Did it put a smile on Daryl’s
face? No. He was still in a right old grump. But at least things thawed between
us slightly and I knew it was only a matter of time before I was in his good
books again.
Still, when he grunted at me
that he wanted a Turkish bath, I just couldn’t face it. The thought of getting
all sweaty and claustrophobic in a tiny cubicle then having someone pummel
me…no thanks, not with my stomach still so delicate, and my head still woozy
and thumping.
Instead I said I’d just lie
round the pool…and I heard something terrible. The gossip poolside is that a
woman was attacked last night and raped.
Awful.
The other holidaymakers reckon
that the police and the hotel staff are all keeping it quiet because they don’t
want tourism affected – but I think that’s disgusting, if it’s true.
I don’t know how much I
believe, the details are a bit sketchy, but, well, it’s shaken me up. This girl
was attacked on her way back to her hotel after leaving a nightclub – one not
far from where Daryl and I were.
When I told Daryl, I freaked
out a bit. ‘I was stumbling round last night, really drunk and…it could have
been me!’ I said. ‘You left me on my own…it could have been me.’
All thoughts of our stupid
row were forgotten instantly. He gave me a big hug and said: ‘No one’s touching
you,
they’d have to get through me first.’
Bless him, I always feel so
safe with him. He must have been worried too though, because he actually
apologised for leaving me alone.
‘I’m an idiot, I shouldn’t
have done that,’ he admitted. ‘I won’t leave you again for the rest of the
holiday – promise.
‘No matter how stroppy you
get,’ he added, the cheeky devil.
Fri 5
Our last
day.
I’ve been lying on the beach all day thinking about the
little boy or girl I’m going to have one day soon. Who will our child take
after most?
My eyes or Daryl’s?
My
lips or Daryl’s?
My temperament or Daryl’s?
Sunday 12
2
am
– I need to write this all down to make it real. Or maybe I shouldn’t write it
down, maybe it shouldn’t be real. I don’t want it to be real.
3.15
am
– I’ve been pacing. Kim is staying with me. Bless
her,
she dropped everything when I called her. Everyone did. But she offered to
stay, knew I didn’t want to be alone. In a minute I’m going to write down what
happened. I think. I feel like I’m going mad, or
am
the butt of a very sick joke or something. I want to curl up and pretend that
what’s happened hasn’t happened at all…
Let me start small. I’ve
been arrested. I’m staring at those three words now, hoping to drill them into
my brain so I’ll accept and somehow reboot myself so that I work again, because
at the moment I feel like a faulty computer. My programme is frozen and no
matter how hard someone punches the keys, I can’t respond with anything other
than a whirling ‘wheel of death’.
So, I’ve been arrested. The
next bit to write is why, and I don’t think I can face those words. Not yet.
Not yet.
Too soon.
I’ll have to work my way up to it.
Daryl was home last night –
well, the night before last, now, I suppose; I don’t know where I am any more.
Anyway, it was Friday he came home. He was in one of his moods, but I’m used to
that. I just hid in the kitchen for a
while,
stretched
out cooking for as long as possible, hoping that eventually he’d crack a smile.
Or at least not have a go at me.
Made him a cup of tea, made
sure I got it exactly the right colour for him. Put the telly on, let him watch
whatever he wanted, while I loitered, giving the countertops a good wipe down,
getting
the sink sparkling.
It wasn’t too bad a night in
the end, he did cheer up a bit. I just let him slag off every telly programme
and that seemed to vent most of his mood. Let him have sex – I mean
,
it’s no hardship really to do it. I enjoy it most of the
time. But it was one of those horrible nights when he wasn’t making love to me,
wasn’t even having sex, I just ended up lying there while he pounded me. It
took everything I’d got not to cry. He didn’t look at me, just pounded away.
It doesn’t happen often, but
when he’s like that I always feel like I could be anyone, like I’m just a hole
he’s shagging. There’s no connection. He had that dead-eyed look, when his eyes
remind me of a shark’s.
Bright, cold blue, and devoid of
emotion.
Where does he go when he looks like that?
But I made myself make all
the right noises, do all the right moves, so that he’d think it was good, and
eventually he finished. He withdrew for that. I remember thinking: ‘
How
am I ever going to get pregnant if he doesn’t do the
deed inside me?’ and feeling hurt about it.
Knowing that at
some point I’d have to ask him, and trying to work out the best time to tackle
it, the best way of phrasing it so that it didn’t seem like I was having a go
at him.
We’ll probably never have that conversation now though.
Afterwards, we curled up and
fell asleep quickly. It was the bang that woke me. The sound of the door
hitting the wall as it exploded open, only of course I’d no idea that was what
the sound was at the time. All I knew was that some bloody loud noise had made
me jump from sleep to wake in a microsecond, my heart thumping away as suddenly
it looked like aliens had taken over the bedroom, all these
lights bobbing up and down, shining onto the
bed, people shouting, shouting, shouting.
So many people shouting at
once, the noise overwhelming.
I couldn’t make head or tail
of what was happening, my brain still too heavy with sleep to work. I just lay
there, scrabbling around for the duvet and pulling it up under my chin like it
would somehow protect me. Were we being burgled? Had Daryl somehow annoyed the
wrong person? I had no idea, didn’t really have time to think.
It shows how quick it
happened, because Daryl didn’t even have time to jump up and get angry,
although he was on his feet before I realised what was going on.
Just then my addled brain
worked out what the hell everyone was shouting.
‘Police!
Stay down, stay down! Stay where you are!’ And Daryl was up now, shouting back,
his words drowned out by the din. Out of the darkness someone in black grabbed
him.
The lights were wobbling all
over the places, torches held by these blokes.
Wobbling from
me to Daryl, Daryl to me.
I’m amazed there was enough room in our
bedroom for so many people – I mean, it’s quite a tight fit between the
wardrobe and the bed.
And that’s what I kept
thinking as someone read Daryl his rights and arrested him. I just kept
thinking: ‘How do they all fit in here, all these policemen? How many of them
are there, because there are a lot of torches…’
Think I must have been in
shock.
By the time an officer had
flicked the big light on, Daryl was already in cuffs, completely
starkers
, and I’d totally missed why he’d been arrested.
That’s when I noticed they
were all holding what looked like little machine guns. If I’d been scared
before, now I was terrified.
As he was led out, a woman
came over and sat on the side of the bed, like she was a friend. That just
confused me even more. She said I was coming to the station too, but instead of
asking questions I just pulled the duvet a bit higher and nodded.
‘Where does your husband
keep his clothes?’ she asked. I pointed to the chest of drawers and she opened
it up and took a jumper and some jeans out for him, then opened up a couple of
other drawers and chucked some of my clothes onto the bed for me. ‘I’ll leave
you alone to get dressed,’ she added.
When the door closed, I was
alone. I stared at the wall for a minute or so, stunned, literally stunned,
then shook my head and got up, trying to move quickly then as I realised
someone could burst into the room any second. It’s hard work putting on clothes
when you’re shaking and there’s a bunch of strange blokes standing on the other
side of the door, and
it’s
3am and you’ve just been
shocked out of sleep. I couldn’t even stand on one leg to pull my socks on, had
to sit down as I was trembling so much.
After all that shouting the
quiet seemed so eerie and my ears rang so loudly – which only goes to show that
silence really can be deafening, but only if you’ve got tinnitus.
The officers were ever so
nice though, as they read me my rights and arrested me. Honestly I couldn’t
take in what they said, their words fading in and out of my consciousness like
someone was turning the volume on a radio up and down, up and down, very
quickly.
Charges…aiding
and abetting…multiple persons or person…
So I just assumed I’d
misheard the whole thing, that what they had said couldn’t be true.
‘Are you going to handcuff
me?’ I asked, dazed. I even offered my wrists. Well, I didn’t want to annoy
them, wanted them to know I was a nice person and had absolutely no flipping
idea what they were on about. I mean, how could I have anything to do with
breaking the law? How could I have anything to do with the terrible thing they
believed I’d done; something so awful that my whole mind and body rebelled
every time the words flashed through my brain.
The officer just glanced at
my proffered wrists then gave me a look. Sort of pitying and exasperated all at
once, in his cool little SWAT team type dark navy clothes – you know, those
little boiler suit type things, with ‘firearms officer’ written on the back.
‘No, you don’t exactly look
like a flight risk,’ he sighed,
I’m writing all of this down
now and it doesn’t seem real. It’s like a scene from a film…or a sitcom. I
mean, my husband and I had just been arrested, and I didn’t dare check why
because I’d been told already and didn’t want them to think I was stupid.
Next thing I know I’m in the
back of a police car being driven to the station (no sign of Daryl, they’d put
him in a separate car). I was shaking and juddering like an ancient diesel
engine. I tried to stop, tried to get my body under control even if I couldn’t
marshal my thoughts yet, but no matter how hard I tensed up and willed myself
to stay still, the trembling continued.
I only came to myself when I
realised we’d gone round the same roundabout twice. By the third time it was
obvious that we were a bit lost. Before I quite knew what I was doing I found
myself piping up from the back: ‘Umm, are you okay? Only there’s an A-Z back at
the house; we could go back and get it if you like?’
The officers exchanged sidelong
glances. I’m a decent person, you see. I don’t deserve to be questioned for a
heinous crime because actually I’m so nice and polite that I even offer to help
out police officers who’ve arrested me. I don’t think they knew what to say,
not sure they’d ever dealt with anyone like me before. Probably more used to
people swearing and spitting at them, but I respect the police force, think
they do a hard job under tough conditions. Well, I wouldn’t want to do that
job…
In the end the one in the
passenger seat replied. ‘It’s
okay,
we’ll radio the
station for directions. We’ve, umm, not been to this station before, aren’t
from round here.’
That was clear, by now we
were on our fifth go round the roundabout and I was starting to feel a bit ill.
Luckily, the female driver took a punt on one of the roads next time round and
turned out she was right, according to the directions they got over the radio seconds
later.
You’d think I’d have been
angry, or trying to figure out what all this was about.
But
honestly?
I wasn’t. I think I’d kind of shut down. All I knew was I was
really, really scared and nervous, but just thought everything would work out
in the end because, well, I’m innocent. I speed occasionally, I once drove
without realising my tax had run out…and then carried on driving for a week or
so knowing it had run out because I didn’t have two pennies to rub together…but
aside from that, I’ve always been law abiding. I don’t even drop litter,
disgusting habit.
I hoped Daryl wasn’t getting
too angry, hoped he was okay. He’d be spitting feathers, and quoting all kinds
of rights at the officers. He’d sort this mess out quick smart, I knew, I just
hoped he didn’t start threatening to sue them and getting up their nose. I
wanted this over as quickly as possible and if he annoyed them they might drag
their heels just to spite him. You get further being nice, I always find.
Once we’d found the huge
police station, we parked up at the back and I was led inside through a grey,
depressing concrete passageway. I looked round but couldn’t see Daryl anywhere
and just tried to avoid anyone else’s eye. God knows what those people were
being questioned for, and the last thing I wanted was to have some hard nut
think I was staring at them.
Instead I just kept my eyes
on the floor, and once again tried to stop the shaking, especially as now I had
to sign things. I don’t even know what it was I was signing – it was all
explained to me, and I was asked if I understood, and I definitely nodded but,
come on, who understands in those circumstances. I reckon only the guilty would
be able to keep a clear enough head to start asking about terms and conditions.
‘Hand over your jewellery, shoes
and belt, please,’ ordered the duty sergeant.
What? I just stood there,
opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish or a cartoon character, before
finally finding my voice. ‘
Wh
…?’ It came out a hoarse
whisper and I cleared my throat, licked my dry lips, before trying again.
‘Why?’
‘To stop you using anything
to harm yourself,’ he explained. He looked quite sorry for me as he said it.
That meant a lot, that little show of humanity, and it gave me the courage to
slip my shoes off then undo my belt and slide it through the guides.
Only problem was, in the
confusion I’d just slipped on what the policewoman had picked out for me and
thrown on the bed, and she’d chosen my old jeans. They’re really big. Without a
belt, I had to use one hand constantly to stop them falling down. They wouldn’t
have gone all the way, of course, but I didn’t really want
crims
and coppers to see even the tops of my knickers.
Mortifying.
Like someone in a film, I found
myself having my
mugshot
taken. ‘Face left, face
front, face right,’ I was told, and I was so stupid-scared in case I annoyed
the man by turning the wrong way in my muddle.
Of all the
things to be scared by.
‘Fingerprints next,’ said
the officer. He wasn’t unkind, simply business-like. I suppose this was just
another day in the office for him. Funny, how one person’s disaster, their life
crashing down around their ears, can just be someone else’s dull, typical day.
So over I shuffled, careful not to trip over the bottom of my jeans, which pooled
on the floor round my socked feet despite me tugging them up.
‘Put your right hand onto
the glass and press down gently,’ I was told. Doing as I was told, I saw a
light from underneath scan across, like on a photocopier. No ink. I didn’t
realise they didn’t ink fingers any more to get prints. I was oddly
disappointed by that.