It was 9 ‘o’ clock; the kids were in the land of nod and Sarah decided to call her pal Lucy with an update.  But she needn’t have bothered.  Greg had beaten her to it with his own twisted side of the story.  He’d had the brass neck to try to tell her mate that he was sorry that their relationship had ended but that, despite still loving Sarah, he could no longer tolerate her jealous possessiveness and manic, alcohol-induced mood swings. He’d also said that he’d just found out that she’d been stealing household items from his house.

            Lucy told Sarah that she’d slapped him down in a flash and had called him a, “Nasty, scheming, low-life liar.”  The two women then got locked in chit-chat comparing ‘ex’ notes.  Lucy complemented her pal in getting out after only three years whereas she had stayed fifteen gruelling years with her violent, deceitful, tyrannical ex-husband. A man whom she’d binned off twelve months ago and who is still, on the one hand pestering her to go back, and on the other, reporting her to the police and social services for child cruelty and neglect!  They touched on the idea of employing a hit man to teach their problem ‘ex’s a lesson.  It seemed the only method that might work; but decided against the idea knowing that they’d end up doing time at her majesty’s pleasure which would be much to the delight of their malevolent and criminal ex men-folk.

            During their light-hearted natter, Sarah stood at the window and counted the number of times her slug of an ex had driven slowly past her house, staring in a nauseating manner.  It was over twenty-five.  Despite the joviality with her pal, Sarah felt intimidated by Greg’s uncomfortable presence, so she cut her call short to phone the police to ask it they’d monitor Greg’s behaviour as she was so scared of him and his blood-curdling threats.

            She was informed that they’d tail him for a short while but that as they were so short-staffed could not spare too much of their time. Sarah felt deflated and could only pray that no harm would come to her or her family.

As she prepared for bed, the phone rang.  It was Greg’s mother Dot.

            “You’ll pay for this, you little slut.  Don’t think you can do the dirty on my son and expect to get away with it.  I’ve got friends in high places you know…. You’re being watched.  If I were you I’d be looking over my shoulder.  My little grandchildren will not be with you for much longer.”

            Sarah was shocked and speechless.  Her heart was racing and she began sweating.  Such venomous words made her cringe and cower and before she could think of anything to say, the witch had hung up.

Within minutes it rang again.  This time it was Greg’s Aunty Lillian.

            “I’ve heard that you’ve been going around Caroline Bay telling everyone that my son is on drugs.  Don’t you dirty my family name in your domestic affairs.  Your name is mud.  No one likes you.  If I were you I’d get out of town.... and quickly, cos your days are numbered.  We are a well-respected and well-liked middle-class family in this community.  There is no place here for your sort, so.... GET OUT.”

            Sarah was gob-smacked but not entirely surprised.  She pulled herself together and decided to bite back, coolly retorting, “Look Lillian, this is none of your business - I’ve no idea what you’re going on about with your son; I’ve never met him and I wouldn’t know him if I fell over him.”  And with that she hung up leaving loopy Lil yacking to herself and feeling smugly satisfied that since her phone number would be changed in the morning, his repugnant family wouldn’t be able to bother her again.

            As she made her way to the stairs, her blood ran cold.  There on the mat by her front door lay a note.  It read:

            “My darling Sarah, I’m so sorry.  I love you.  Let’s talk.”

            Sarah shuddered as she realised he’d been loitering nearby.  He could still be there now for all she knew. She double checked the locks on the doors and windows and dragged herself reluctantly to bed armed with her weapons.

            Sleep came spasmodically with Sarah suffering nightmares about him standing in her bedroom doorway aiming one of his shotguns at her.  She woke several times sweating intensely.  The dream was recurring, it was vivid and it was terrifying.  In the end she abandoned sleep and just lay there crying silent tears of despair.

The next morning she discovered, to her utter repulsion, s single red rose lying on her mat with the message:

            “Please forgive me.”

            She was lived.  First of all he goes carrying lies and tales to social services, the health visitor and the benefits agency intending for her to get into serious trouble and possibly lose her little cherubs, then he sends her ‘sweeteners’!  How unbelievably contemptible can you get?  But once she’d thought about it she realised that it was typical of Greg’s volatile behaviour - rebuffed one minute, hopping mad the next, then carrying out blazing, repulsive revenge followed by a show of being incredibly mild-mannered and chastened.  Sometimes it was the other way around; quite often he’d be amiable and likeable but would suddenly and without warning turn vicious and vengeful.

Sarah was so uptight that she carted her brood off to Women’s Aid for a consultation.  She couldn’t really believe she was visiting such a place needing help.  She’d seen women’s refuges and shelters before and had snootily judged that they were there for the most despondent of women in society who have little choice in who they end up with and who are foolish enough to pick a bloke with an aversion to women.  Little did she know that she’d end up being one of those very same lowly, despairing women.  Judging by the observations of Trish, Sarah’s mentor, attacks on women [mentally and physically] by their male partners was a horrendously huge problem, causing women of all walks of life to flee their prison-type hell-hole of a home seeking protection in an asylum for battered women.  The statistics apparently were that twenty five percent of all women suffer extreme violence from their spouse.  And that’s the official statistic!  And it’s only for the most heinous of attacks on women!

            Thankfully the lovely Trish was just what Sarah needed to pump the reassurance and confidence right back into her.  Sarah heard harrowing stories of women being mentally and physically tortured for years by their male partners.  Such stories chillingly mirrored her own.  She learned that some women are too scared to leave, some fear losing their children and some fear being homeless and alone.  Some are so downtrodden that they believe they cannot live independently and make no attempt to escape.  Some are so brainwashed and controlled that they refuse to acknowledge their position as a victim of domestic violence.  Others stay, convinced that it is better to keep the status quo rather than face the harassment and intimidation that they know they’ll have to endure if they flee.  Trish told her that some men pester their ex-partners for years doing stupid things like scrawling love messages on walls [including the walls of their ex wives/girlfriends], placing ‘I’m sorry…. Come home’ adverts in local papers, and sending a continual stream of flowers, gifts and messages.

Sarah’s saviour told her that other men are more vicious and hateful and will conduct a menacing and merciless campaign of stalking, hassling and terrorizing.  Some men vandalise their ‘ex’s houses and some even break in to their ex-spouse’s property and will steal fittings, such as: wall lights, socket covers and switches, shelving and fitted cupboards, carpets and pelmets on the justification that he fitted and installed them!  She informed Sarah that violent and controlling men always somehow magically and immediately turn into the most devoted and dedicated of fathers when issues of contact and residence crop up in court, whereas prior to the separation, a huge percentage of such fathers had very little to do with their offspring especially in the day to day care of the child.  Trish also told Sarah that all fathers try to wriggle out of their maintenance responsibilities.

Buoyed by the organisation’s understanding of her plight and its emotional support and practical measures to combat crime against women, and encouraged by her newfound feelings of solidarity regarding a common cause, Sarah sailed around the shops grinning like a cheshire cat.  She was amazed to find that everyone she spoke to - friends, acquaintances and strangers had encountered or are experiencing domestic violence in their lives; whether it be themselves or their sister, daughter, mother, best friend…. Sarah had no idea just how common place this act of cowardly thuggery was but what she found more repugnant and disturbing was the fact that where there was ill-treatment of a woman in her home, there was cruelty and neglect against her child[ren], perpetrated by the man in the house - the two ugly facts going hand in hand.  Sarah had spoken of her own life of oppression, bestiality, threats and intimidation to some trusted folk, albeit reservedly, and the comments received were always along the lines “Such men are weak and cowardly because they can only pick on vulnerable members of the family - the women and children; they wouldn’t dare pick on anyone their own size.”

            Sarah heard truly horrific stories of these women enduring years of slavish conditions at home at the mercy of foul, ferocious, alcoholic and drug-dependent money-grabbing tyrannical men.  One woman’s predicament was particularly repugnant especially as she’d finally found the courage to take her children and run - far away from her deeply loathed and feared husband.  He’d tracked her down, followed her into her house, viciously pulled off her dress, yanked down her panties, forced her to bend over and then raped her in front of her two terrified little girls aged two and three.  She had submitted to him simply to get over with to reduce the damaging effects on her children.  During the whole wretched act he’d chanted, “You’re mine, mine, mine, mine....” That in itself was horrendous and degrading enough but what was more outrageous was the fact that he was let off scot free in court because there was not ‘enough evidence’ for a conviction since it was a case of his word against hers.  His barrister had successfully argued that they had briefly reconciled, she’d been a willing participant, the children were not present and there was no physical evidence to suggest she’d been forced in any way.  She was simply branded ‘hostile’, a ‘liar’ and ‘attention seeker’ and he was ordered to buy her a bunch of flowers to calm her down and cheer her up.  It was a total betrayal of the rights of a woman to protection against the wicked deeds of an abusive man and it made for some disturbing, sobering thoughts for Sarah.  She decided that the term ‘domestic violence’ had far too glamorous a ring to it.  It failed to conjure up the warranted atrocious image for what was in stark reality various acts of bloody, brutal, and criminal behaviour of varying degrees committed by someone at home [usually the man] against someone else in the family [usually everyone else.]

On her return Sarah stumbled upon a huge, beautiful bouquet of vivid red roses laced with a brilliant white spray of gypsophlia.  It was an affront to the memory of her dearly loved late mother; as Greg knew Sarah had poignantly given her mum exactly the same arrangement of flowers at the hospital where she’d had her brain operation and then later at her funeral.  The freshly prepared flowers looked up at her as they leaned against Sarah’s front door.  The carefully picked greeting card read:

            “Sarah, I love you.  I’m so sorry.”

            In a moment of blind rage and much to her kids’ surprise, Sarah ripped the card off, collected the blooms, exhibited them above her head and ran to the bin with them yelling:

            “I hate you Greg Potter; you lying, scheming good-for-nothing misogynist.  Get out of my life.... Just leave me alone.”

Later in the evening Greg drove slowly past Sarah’s place so many times that she lost count after the fortieth time.  A few times he stopped and just stared down her drive.  Kim was also in the car.  She even caught him walking slowly up and down her road with Kim and hovering near her gate.  His steely, icy expression spelt ‘REVENGE’.  It was written all over his face.  Sarah was petrified.  She sat in her cold, dark, quiet house curled up in a ball.  She toyed with the idea of calling one of her pals to come and sit with her but decided that she had to deal with this herself - her friends had their own families and problems and this business with Greg might continue for months; years even.  Eventually and almost going mad with fear and worry she called the cops.  A kind constable sat with her for ten minutes trying to calm her down and convince her that she was over-reacting and that she was allowing her ex-partner to continue imposing his will on her by means of scare tactics.  The PC encouraged Sarah to just ignore Greg and to bear in mind that such men rarely carry out their threats.  As he departed he reassured her, saying that he’d keep an eye out for Greg’s car and if it was spotted he would warn Greg to back off.                      

Sarah desperately wanted to believe in this copper and to trust in the firm, comforting, long arm of the law.  But deep down she had her doubts.  Her hunches were right too!  No sooner had the police car disappeared than she heard the heart-stopping plop of an item of post landing on her mat.  At nigh on midnight it wasn’t her friendly postie at her front door; this was a more sinister caller.  Sarah had no idea if her assailant was still out there lurking in the shadows and if so, what on earth he was planning to do next.  With tears running uncontrollably down her cheeks and with every cell in her body trembling, she fumbled with the phone and letter.  As she waited for the police to return she abruptly dismissed a fleeting thought that they might not be on her side at all, but rather on Greg’s; he was, after all, flirting with the law by watching and waiting until the cop car had gone before returning to haunt her.

            The letter read:

“My beloved Sarah,

            I am beside myself with grief at losing you.  Words cannot express how much I love and miss and need you back.  Please believe me when I say I am so truly sorry for all the hurt and pain I’ve caused you.  Please try to understand that my bark is worse than my bite.  Oh God I wish with all my heart that I could turn back the clock.  I just want to hold you and kiss you and stroke your face.  I want to feel your hair against my chest and I want to smell your perfume close to me.  You’re the only one for me; the only woman I’ve ever loved.  I miss you so much.  I miss your touch, your words, your love; everything about you.  I can’t live without you.  I worship the ground you walk on.  I just know I can’t go on.  I’m in floods of tears now writing this.  I just wish you could see me.  Remember the dreams we had?  All the plans we made?  We can still have them.  It’s not too late.  Let’s talk before things get ugly, before solicitors get involved.  Please give me another chance my love.  I’m breaking inside.  I haven’t been able to eat and I swear I haven’t had one drop of alcohol since you left me.  You have my word on that.  I’ve put my name down for tai chi and I have an appointment with a marriage guidance counsellor.  Please come with me Sarah.  Please.... Please.... Please.... Please…. Let’s patch this up.  I’m praying so hard that this is not the end.  I couldn’t bear that.  I really don’t want to lose you.

Forever yours.  Greg.” !

Sarah stared at the meaningless words and recalled how often she’d heard them all before.  The repetitive mush left a distinctive sour taste in her mouth.  She hoped that he was suffering as much as he’d stated but somehow she felt that that was highly unlikely.  As far as she was concerned she’d be glad to see him dead, and the sooner the better.  She looked at the mat where the letter had landed and decided that the next time it might not be a begging letter that he posts, it might be a petrol bomb.  She made a mental note to purchase a basket and line it with foil, which would contain all her mail and prevent the spread of any possible fire.  It was a much-needed precautionary measure.

            Fat lot of use the police were.  They hadn’t bothered showing up.  She could be lying there, dying, in a pool of blood for all they cared!

            Sarah dragged her stressed and tormented soul off to bed.  Sleep again eluded her and she spent another long miserable night tossing and turning and.... worrying.

The next morning Sarah was greeted by a single red rose.  It lay on the mat by the front door next to a blue-velvet leaf of notepaper.  She froze momentarily, then slowly and heavy-heartedly picked it up.

            It read:

“My dearest Sarah,

            God I’m missing you and my little babies so much.  I miss my two stepchildren too.  I’m crazy about all of you.  Please don’t do this to me Sarah. Please give me one more, just one last chance to put things right.  This is so cruel.  I’m looking out of the window now and I can see Jason’s windmills blowing in the wind and his little racing car is there, parked at the foot of the drive, just where he left it.  I’m falling apart inside.  I feel so empty; so lonely and lost.  I’m so eaten up with grief.  Every time I walk past Jessica’s crib, I pick up her blanket and I can smell her.  It is so, so, painful.  Please Sarah, don’t put me through this.  I need to see my little ones.  I need to hug them and hold them and tell them that their daddy loves them.  You must know how truly miserable and heartbroken I am.  Please love; let me see my babies.  I can’t go on like this.  I need them.  I need you.  Please come back.... all of you. 

Yours forever.  Greg.” !

And so the pattern of event for the next two weeks was set.  Sarah was inundated with umpteen cards, notes, long letters – all hand delivered, at various times of the day and evening and all with the same message leading up to the fact that Greg wanted her back.  He didn’t stop there either.  He left elaborate, expensive arrangements of flowers and posies on her doorstep; he posted the odd single rose through her letter box and he left boxes of chocolates and other little gifts, such as fluffy ‘I love you’ bears and heart-shaped soaps by her back door.  Sarah felt troubled, daunted and deeply demoralized.

Her solicitor Jimmy Oliver told her to ride it out.  She was to keep a note of everything, prepare a statement and attach all Greg’s messages.  He informed her that such behaviour, including the visits from the Authorities, are all part and parcel of the whole package and that Greg would probably soon tire of his own antics but that if he did not they’d apply to the court for an injunction.

            Sarah soon became aware that her obnoxious ex intended to file for custody of Jason and Jessica.  He was citing her alleged alcoholism, mental problems and inability to care for her kids.  Of course, such action wasn’t unexpected but nevertheless the reality of being in discussions with a family lawyer and of facing the looming fight for her children in the cold, ruthless court of law filled her with panic and dread.