Escape From Evil by Wilson Cathy

Author:Wilson, Cathy [Wilson, Cathy]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781447209324
Publisher: Macmillan Publishers UK
Published: 2011-09-15T23:00:00+00:00

The way Peter explained his lowly job at the old folks’ place was simple and perfectly logical – and, of course, he came out of it in a sympathetic light.

After so many successful years making a fortune in various different and exciting industries, his war wounds had finally caught up with him. The shrapnel was sliding further into his body and inflicting more pain. Ultimately, he was too ill to work. As for his money, well, he admitted he’d been married before, but she’d run off as soon as he was too ill to work, wiping out all their savings. So now here he was, an injured war hero, doing the best he could in Brighton, looking after pensioners.

It was a story to make anyone’s heart bleed. I had nothing but respect for the way he’d got his life back on track. I didn’t even begrudge him milking the benefits system for every penny he could squeeze out.

‘They owe me,’ he said. ‘After all I’ve done for this country.’

I was compelled to agree. He put his body on the line and now he’s paying for it with his health. It’s the least the government can do.

Even that was a massive change for me. A year before, the idea of accepting dole money or disability allowances or any of those handouts would have been anathema to me. That was Grandpa’s pride seeping through again. He’d been offered financial help to look after me but had refused it. ‘No one is going to tell me I can’t afford to feed my family,’ he’d said. As much as I learnt to respect his principles, if he hadn’t been so stubborn I would have been able to do judo and ballroom dancing.

So once again, without even seeing the sleight of hand, I’d given up another piece of my personality and replaced it with a slice of Peter’s. My pride at pulling my weight and my desire to work had gone up against Peter’s raging sense of entitlement and hadn’t even landed a punch. I hate myself for it now, but I just gave in. Another cherished belief handed over and trampled into the dust by the master manipulator.

Living off a disability pension meant Peter was always disappearing to the doctor’s for check-ups and tests. Usually he’d return with the largest bag of pills I’d ever seen. Some of them had names like Amitriptyline and Triazolam, but I didn’t have a clue what they were for.

‘Do you take all of those?’

‘Every one,’ he said. ‘Until next month when I get a new batch.’

God, I’d had no idea he was so ill. I’d never heard him mention his pain since that first day in the Hungry Years. The poor love must be so brave, I thought, keeping it to himself. And what pain must he have been in to warrant this vast amount of drugs? I didn’t have any answers. All I could say for sure is that I was more determined than ever to look after him.

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