The perception of truth; the prostitution of morals. On one side, a tailor-cut jacket smothered your broad shoulders. On the other, a reduced form; grasping onto a version of hope. For you, the threat of ignominy; for the other, me, the threat of entirety. Both exposed to ruin. With motivations so poles apart.
I sat fossilised, hands trembling, heart thumping my ribcage, only eyes for the ground. Why did I choose these shoes today? So inanely incongruous. My ears buzzed, struggling to clear dense fog. A surging mishmash of imperfect thoughts fed my deep limbic system. Caught between fight or flight, in sight of my predator. I tilted my head back to avert portending droplets. Outward vulnerability was never an option. But my eyes failed me, exposing the painful truth. Only a heart full of Jack saved me from falling.
You sat calm yet aroused. You could taste frigidity. Something of old, galvanizing your ego. Your game continuing. Humming a tune of flawlessness, winking an invisible eye at the typist. A game with one winner, you thought. One conceivable outcome. You being the king, me being the pawn. A matter of time.
For thine is my Kingdom. God, how you hate me. The power and the glory. God, how I hate you. The domination of weakness.
A black-robed grey head strode into the box, and commanded.
‘All rise.’
Together we rose. The beginning of the end.
I had no idea, that the courts and entire divorce process would be such a hostile, caged box. I had no idea, at the time, it would take years, not months to cleanse ourselves of you.
Chapter Thirty-One
Before
I spun the car in the driveway, trembling, desperate to get away before you returned. Drunk on norepinephrine, we accelerated away from the house, retracing the twists and turns Jack and I had run along earlier. My dashboard dinged, alerting me of a below-freezing temperature. I flicked my lights on to full beam, to guide us and potentially blind any oncoming car. You. It was unlikely we’d pass anyone else. I called ahead to the bed and breakfast in Chipping Campden, worried they’d let our room go, for our lateness. It struck me, this was when I should be calling Sam. Have somewhere, someone to turn to; it even crossed my mind for one silly moment to try her. She’d understand; she hated you too. But too much water had gushed under the bridge. Our pre-booked room would serve us well for the time being. Even if it did mean paying with illegal cash, at least until I was able to secure some funds.
The following week was painful. We spent so many days, Jack playing with the few toys I’d gathered, and me making phone calls to legal bodies, desperately trying to work out where to go next. The dirty money wouldn’t last forever. My mobile was constantly dinging. I refused to answer the irate texts from you; threatening, if I didn’t return. They left me trembling, wanting to vomit. You almost scared me more then, than you ever had before. A hunted animal, in hiding. I hardly slept; the thought of food turned my stomach. I kept promising myself, it would get better. Time would heal.
In a blur, the week passed by. All the time I could see you in my mind, out, trailing local areas, searching for us. We belonged to you, didn’t we? We had no right to leave. In the eyes of the law, I had no right to keep Jack from his father either. In one of your texts, you said you’d report me for kidnapping. That you had evidence I was mentally insecure, not fit to be taking care of Jack. That you were going to report me to the police. Then, had reported me to the police. You convinced me, in my desperate state, the police were looking for me.
I became scared to leave the bed and breakfast. Too afraid to go to police myself; you had already blackened my name with them. They had no prior knowledge of our broken marriage; they’d take your word over mine. You were so credible. I had your dirty money, but I’d also been using it – maybe you could implicate me? I couldn’t think sensibly. You could afford the best lawyers. I obtained advice mainly from researching, and occasionally from a sweaty, red-faced, legal aid solicitor. I was terrified, mostly, from all the horror stories I’d stumbled over on the Internet – if I decided to go to the police, they would involve social services, and Jack could be taken from me.
The following week, the red-faced man, wearing a waistcoat, advised me I must make contact with you. It was in fact true – I couldn’t simply disappear with Jack, despite his understanding of my position. He asked about my then-yellowing bruising. Advised me to go to the police. I couldn’t. I didn’t tell him about the cash I was using, what I’d witnessed but not reported. How would I explain I’d done nothing? Apparently carried on with my evening, to bed, with no conscience? The flash-drive I’d stolen? What if they believed you? I was mentally unstable. Jack would be taken into care, or taken by you. I asked the red-faced solicitor to make a note of my injuries, but informed him I didn’t wish to involve the police. Only hindsight confirms I was a fool. Together, we drafted a letter to you. Two days later, he received your reply from your London solicitors. Threatening, accusing, demanding.
I was on the edge. I thought I’d got through the difficult bit. I knew you always had been and always would be beyond any law. You were one of them, for a start. Two further weeks, we stayed at the bed and breakfast, on a special long-term rate. After that, with the help of my solicitor-cum-only-friend, we were awarded emergency funding. Enough to cover the rental costs of a flat on the outskirts of Stratford-upon-Avon. Divorce proceeding were initiated. Then, terrified, I was no longer able to withhold my address from you. I chose a flat, because it was cheaper but also because it had an intercom, and several surrounding neighbours, on the Shipston Road. Until the day I most dreaded: you were finally granted contact with Jack by the Court.
In the reductionist, biased eyes of the court, from the financial court proceedings to the family courts, it was the cruellest, most degrading of journeys. How did I stand a chance against you, the professional? Justice and humanity followed somewhere behind in the distance. Despite a child’s life being at stake, despite the truth radiating from each meticulously prepared court document. The only truth the numerous judges entertained was that you were a member of the club. Many more thousands of wasted pounds on legal representation. The court finally ordered for the sale of the marital home; several months after we were able to purchase a tiny cottage on the edge of Wilmcote village. You didn’t like this, did you? You then saw to the diminishing of my funds, very quickly eating and meeting the bills became a weekly worry. Our financial child-maintenance agreement counted for nothing, the CSA being just as inadequate in the pursuit of someone who knew every loophole, with a limitless supply of cash. Justice and integrity were no more than a white-collar illusion, courtesy of a black-gowned elitist boys’ club.
I sat through hours of lies, weeks of manipulation and months of distorted and perverted arguments. Arguments for the rights of him, regardless of his intent; his wants; I questioned in vain about the rights of the child. Cafcass were weak, too afraid to challenge, choosing to rest on the fence or to side with a course potentially most coercing, more threatening. Jack was interviewed by cardigan-adorned strangers, in dowdy, unfriendly environments. Asked to draw pictures, interpret scenarios and fill in the gaps of the same procedures used for each and every different child. And even so, the most prevalent and telling of these findings were ignored, for a wish to calm the waters.
Jack’s was the unheard voice of a child.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Cornwall 2016