The Husband

Or rather, the man who will become my ex husband as soon as I can sort it out.

In June 2005 he went on holiday with a friend to Austria. I went on holiday to Robin Hood's Bay. On 7th July 2005, he disappeared. 7/7: most people remember that date because of the London bombings. I remember it because it's the day my husband became a missing person.

Strangely, I wasn't that freaked out - it was almost like I expected it. in fact, I think I did expect it. I can remember my last telephone conversation with him on that date and when I put the phone down, I thought 'that's it, I'll never hear from him again'. I don't know what made me think that.

There then followed a summer of almost daily visits from the Police. There was the odd phone call from the husband with cryptic clues as to where he was. There were distraught messages left on my answerphone by him. I distinctly remember the night I was convinced he was going to throw himself under a train because of one of these messages. I don't know why I thought that, and recalling it now I think he was in France at the time - but again I don't know if I actually knew that, or if I just sensed it.

Then came the day that I will never ever forget. Now, don't get me wrong - the Police were fantastic, but they did have a habit of turning up at 8.30am. I'm on my summer hols - I need a lie-in and I kept having to get up early in case the Police turned up! So, the PC turned up early and asked if I'd had my house searched. I felt sick: I sort of knew this would have to happen, although no-one had mentioned it to me. So I replied that no it hadn't been searched. Off goes the PC, only to return at 1pm.

'There are some support officers coming to search your house,' he says, 'and I need to stay here until they arrive'. Which is when it hit me. He has to stay here just in case I've actually killed my husband and I try and hide any evidence. It's an undescribable feeling the realisation that the Police have to treat you as a possible murder suspect. His friend also had a similar feeling, being the last person to have seen my husband. It's not pleasant.

1.30pm and the two support officers turn up to my little house. They look quite intimidating in their military-type navy clothes. There's a bit of a stand-off with them when I ask whether they have to search everywhere. They tell me that if there's anywhere I don't want them to look, they'll have to contact their superiors and inform them of this. 'OK,' says I, 'contact them and I'll tell them exactly why I don't want you looking in my knicker drawer, shall I?'

Point taken and my knicker drawer was left well alone! It was only months later when I realised that when they'd searched the loft they'd have come across a box full of *ahem* toys!

They searched everywhere - even my car. They took a big bag of my husband's things away, address book, notebooks etc. It was such an invasive procedure. They tried to put me at my ease by chatting with me, but whilst they were making small talk these two strangers were going through my entire life.

In August I got a phone call. It was my husband and he was at Liverpool Airport - would I go and pick him up? So I did. He never spoke on the journey back. He gave me a bag of presents which included bottles of my favourite wine, which I can no longer get in this country. When we returned home, he became verbally aggressive. Then the Police turned up - and he told the PC that he was OK, then walked out of the front door, never to return again.

The Police could do no more because he'd told the PC he was OK and she was completely unsympathetic when I said he was probably going to kill himself.

Anyway, about a week or so later I receive a text message. It's my husband. He's bought himself a mobile and he's in John O'Groats. He won't answer the phone when I ring though. Over the course of the following weeks I realise that he's doing the John O'Groats to Land's End walk. I fully expect him to keep on walking once he reaches Land's End, and I make a number of fraught phone calls to Cornwall Police when I realise he's in the vicinity.

The next thing I know, he's texting me from Kendal - he's injured his shoulder and gone to hospital and asked to see a psychiatrist. But they won't let him without a referral from a GP. So I make an appointment for him and, at the end of October, I meet him at the surgery. He looks completely emaciated. He must have lost 4 stones. He has a long grey beard. He smells. But he does have a fantastic tan! He gets admitted to the psychiatric ward and remains there for a couple of months until he's discharged to the grottiest B&B I've ever seen. After a few weeks he managed to rent a static caravan in a lovely rural location. It's very him. He does lots of walking. He gets a job.

I try helping him, I walk with him, I visit him, I take him out for tea or to the supermarket. But he starts getting aggressive again and his case worker advises me to stay away from him. So, for the past 10 months, I have.

And that's it. I can't say how I truly feel about it now because I don't really know. I sort of feel relieved that I don't have to put up with his depressions anymore (I just have to put up with my own now!!). I feel a bit of a failure because I couldn't do more to help him. But I don't feel like I think I should do because my marriage has broken down - I don't feel sad, or upset - I feel sort of resigned to the fact that this is how it was meant to be.

Blinkin 'eck this is therapeutic! And I bet there's not many of you will read it all! But if you do, thanks.

Para xx