Beside me, Dan is sleeping. My heartbeat gradually slows, but I’m wet with sweat and I feel the nausea the nightmare always brings.
I shove back the duvet and stagger, because my head is woozy, to the bathroom where I shut the door quietly and turn on the mini light over the sink.
The me in the mirror looks ghostly, with huge violet circles under my eyes and my hair stuck to my skull with sweat. It’s only half four in the morning but I cannot go back to sleep, not when The Fear is there in the background, waiting to pull me in again. I prefer exhaustion and relying on caffeine all day to that.
I sink onto the cold floor and cry, giant heaves where no actual tears emerge.
I hate this but how do I escape it?
I have to be strong, strong for everyone.
Once the heaving is over, I pull on my dressing gown, grab my phone and socks, and check on the children. They’re safe.
I know they’re safe. I’m safe, but still ...
Downstairs, I make coffee and turn the TV on low to watch something mindless.
I used to have the nightmares in the old house but I was so sure that here, I’d be better. Except I’m not. And I’ve so successfully downplayed what happened to me, that I can’t now come out and talk about how it’s affected me. I’m so lucky! Look at all the things I have. My darling children, Dan, my family, my career. Dad’s stroke, Mum’s devastation and Scarlett’s pain are enormous aches in my heart, and they’re real aches.
Not nightmares conjured up by someone who should be able to get better on her own. I like watchingcar-crash TV but I don’t want my life to be like that.
I especially don’t want Dan to know.
The thing is, if Dan knew how traumatised I still am by the mugging, he’d go into caveman meltdown.
Behind his civilised front, Dan iswaaymore Viking than me. All I’ve got is the hair: he’s got the attitude.
Two years before Teddy was born, he trained for and completed an Ironman triathlon event. This means running, cycling and swimming an amount that no human should be able to do. But Dan and his brother, Zed did it becauseit was there. This is code for any number of the dense things men do.
I told him that he needed to get all that sort of bravado out of his mind with the Ironman becausemountain-?biking, parachuting and climbing mountains are all there and he is not allowed to do any of them. He’s no use to me dead.
Zed, whom I love but not hopelessly the way I do my beloved Dan, is allowed to fling himself off cliffs if he wants as I have no power over him. I can live without Zed: I could not live without Dan.
Watching Dad has made me all too aware what can happen to people, what happens out of the blue every moment of every day.
One huge loss makes me fear loss everywhere.
But I can’t tell anyone this. They’d think I was crazy.
I can’t tell them I’m scared of going places on my own at night, either.
Yeah, they’d think I was crazy.
Why are we all so frightened of other people thinking we’re crazy?
So I pretend that I am OK.
‘Fine!’ I say breezily when I have to travel somewhere on my own. ‘I’m fine!’
You’re a mess,Mildred points out.
All my combined fears, which I have linked up and called The Fear, have made me nervy and unable to sleep without sleeping tablets. The Fear has given me anxiety and has ramped up my previously quite benign inner voice to a mental torturer on steroids.
Yes, I know it’s weird, but calling my inner voice Mildred does help. Honestly. It’s like making friends with your kidnappers. They can’t murder you if you tell them your name. Maybe ...
My sister Maura says she totally understands what I am blithely calling The Incident.
‘Obviously, your sleep’s going to be a bit wonky,’ said Maura shortly afterwards, ‘it was a dreadful shock. But you’re so strong, Freya. I said it at the time – “if anyone can get over this, Freya can.”’
