Chapter Two - The Sorries

Episode Two: The Sorries

Every abusive relationship has a cycle. Vanessa knew it so well she had given it a name.

The Sorries.

The remorse, the promises, the performance of a man who wants you to believe this time is different. This episode goes inside that cycle — the hope it creates, the trap it becomes, and the night everything finally changed.

We also hear from the police officer who told Vanessa she would end up dead, handed her a leaflet, and then shook her abuser's hand on the way out.

Four voices this episode: The story of the night Vanessa nearly didn't survive. The law on injunctions and what the power of arrest actually meant in practice. Author's reflection on why women stay — and why hope can be its own kind of chain. The stage — what it feels like to be trapped between fear and love, and the questions every woman asks herself at this point.

Because leaving is never just one decision. It is a hundred small ones.

#ImplacablyHostile #DomesticAbuse #SurvivorStories #CoerciveControl #WhyDidntYouLeave #DomesticViolence #FamilyCourt #YouAreNotAlone #TrueCrime #WomensPodcast #MothersRights #HealingJourney #NewPodcast #Podcast

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:04

Chapter 2. The Sorries The Following Year Vanessa knew they would come. After five years of marriage, she could predict the pattern almost to the day. It always ended the same way. Clive, on his knees, filled with self-pity and regret. She had named it the sorries, partly to strip it of whatever power the performance might otherwise have held over her. The cycle began with what she thought of as the quiet phase. Clive's mood would be subdued in the days after the violence, riding the guilt. He would be almost gentle, careful with his words, conscientious about the housework. That phase never lasted. It never could. The simmering anger would return, and with it the insults. You stupid bitch, why the hell were you on the phone with your sister? Bad mouthing me again, no doubt. Why did I ever marry you? And then the cycle would complete itself in the only way it knew how. It wasn't always severe. Sometimes it was just a quick slap across the face while the children played in the other room. That, at least, could be hidden. A red mark that faded after an hour. But it wasn't the slaps and punches that frightened her most. It was the waiting. Waiting for the next outburst, wondering when the next crack across her head or blow to her ribs would come. She remembered what had started the last cycle six months earlier. A sweltering evening in the middle of summer, the kind of night when the heat clings to the walls and the air feels thick. Clive had invited a few friends over, the same crowd as always, younger men impressed by his stories, smoking and drinking while Vanessa moved through the house, trying to stay invisible. The night she fought back. Lindy's voice had been in her head for weeks. You've got to stand up to him, Van. He's never going to stop unless you do something. Fight back. That night something inside Vanessa snapped. She hadn't meant to. It just came out. A sharp retort, a defiant glance, a refusal to be humiliated yet again in front of his friends. All the years of biting her tongue and pretending she was fine had collapsed, leaving behind a woman who had had enough. You think you can just walk all over me? she'd said, the words surprising even herself. I'm not your doormat, Clive. Not anymore. The room went silent. His friends grabbed their coats and fled. They didn't care about Vanessa. They only wanted to avoid Clive's temper. And then it was just the two of them. You little bitch! Clive snarled, stepping toward her with deliberate menacing strides. You think you're something? His hands found her throat before she could even raise her arms. His fingers tightened, squeezing with a strength that terrified her. She gasped, her hands clawing at his arms. The world around her started to blur, her vision narrowing. She could hear the sound of her own strangled breathing, each desperate gasp weaker than the last. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. Her arms grew weaker with every passing second. She could feel herself slipping. For a moment, Vanessa thought this was it. She would be one of those women, the ones you read about in tragic news stories. She was going to die at his hands. Then, blackness. The next thing she remembered was Clive's voice, distant and frantic, calling her name. She had not died. She gasped, her body jerking violently as she sucked in a ragged breath. Her throat was on fire, she was on the floor. There was something wet near her mouth, and then there was a knock at the door. The police. When Vanessa heard the voices in the hallway, she understood. The police. Someone had heard and called for help. Relief washed over her. But by the time she dragged herself to the kitchen doorway, Clive was sitting at the table with the two officers, sipping coffee as if they were old friends. His mask was firmly in place. The younger officer, a blonde man with a kind face, looked over at her and frowned. Can I speak with you alone? he asked. They sat on the edge of the bed in her cluttered bedroom. For the first time, Vanessa felt a glimmer of safety. You need to get out of this relationship, he said softly. You're in danger. He strangled me unconscious, she said. The officer's face tightened. He nodded slowly, taking in the weight of those words. You need to leave, he said again more firmly, or you'll end up dead. Then the older officer called up from downstairs, and the moment of safety vanished. The younger officer stood, his expression softening with something that looked like apology. He handed her a leaflet, a small folded pamphlet for the domestic violence unit. Call this number, he said. Please. Vanessa shoved it into her pocket. When they walked back downstairs, the older officer was smiling at Clive. They finished their coffee, shook his hand, and left. No arrest, no further questions. Just gone. Vanessa stood in the doorway watching the flashing blue lights disappear down the street, leaving her alone with the man who had almost killed her. Boxing day, the sorries come. That had been six months ago. Now, it was Boxing Day, and the sorries had come again. Clive knelt before her in the living room, the Christmas tree still twinkling behind him, the girls upstairs playing with their new toys. He reached for her hand, his voice thick with regret. Please, Van. I don't know what I'd do without you and the girls. Vanessa had heard it all before. She knew the promises that would come next. How he would vow to be a better husband, cook and clean, and try to show her he had changed. She wasn't listening. She wasn't fooled anymore. She imagined him in a coffin and felt absolutely nothing. Just leave, she said simply. Her tone was void of emotion. She was not angry anymore. She was just tired. Clive looked startled. He had expected her to forgive him, to start the cycle again. Without another word, he packed a few things into a hold all and left. He paused at the door, casting one last lingering glance at his daughters as they played. Oblivious. Then he was gone. Vanessa did not move for a long time. She half expected him to come bursting back through the door, but nothing happened. The house was quiet. The girls were laughing upstairs. She unfolded the leaflet from the kitchen drawer where it had lived for six months. Police domestic violence unit. She stared at the number, remembering the young officer. Why hadn't she called then? Because she hadn't been ready. She had convinced herself yet again that things might change. Now she knew better. She dialed the number. The police station. The atmosphere inside the police station felt cold and sterile. As Vanessa sat in the small waiting area, her hands clenched in tight fists on her lap. She could feel her heart pounding. Every step here felt like walking on thin ice. A police officer with a kind but serious face called her name. He led her into a small windowless room where a camera was set up against a blank white wall. The room was cold, almost clinical. Stand over here, please, he said, gesturing toward the white backdrop. Vanessa hesitated. Having the bruises documented felt like admitting to the world what she had worked so hard to conceal. For years she had perfected the art of covering up the physical evidence. The heavy makeup, the long sleeves, the quiet explanations of clumsiness. Here in this room, there was no hiding. The camera clicked once, another click. Each shutter release felt like it was stripping away another layer of her protection. When the photo appeared on the small screen, Vanessa's breath caught in her throat. Her once bright blonde hair lay flat and lifeless. Her eyes looked hollow, drained. The bruises, the swelling, the deep purple stain beneath her left eye. She barely recognized herself. The thing Vanessa noticed first was not the black eye, it was her roots. The bruise had spread into every shade imaginable, purple turning to orange and yellow around the edges. But somehow all she could focus on was the dark line of hair growing through the blonde. She looked exhausted, not ordinary tired, life tired. The woman staring back at her from the screen looked like somebody she might once have felt sorry for. How had she become this woman? The one with bruises, the one who made excuses, the one who smiled through the pain. But alongside the shame, there was something else. A quiet strength. A spark of determination she hadn't expected. This picture was proof. For the first time, it wasn't her secret to bear alone. You're doing the right thing, the officer said gently. You're brave for coming in today. Brave. She didn't feel brave. But there was something about hearing the word said plainly that made her want to believe it. The panic alarm. The next day, the police arrived with the equipment in a plain white van. The officer who came inside carried a small device that looked unremarkable, a simple black box with a large red button in the middle. We'll install the main alarm unit near the front door, the officer explained. He showed Vanessa a small black wristband with a button on the side, and a pendant for around her neck as a secondary device. If you press the button, it sends an immediate signal to the police control room. Officers will be dispatched straight away. That evening after the officers had gone and the house was quiet, Vanessa gathered Charlotte and Molly in the living room. You know how mummy likes to keep you both safe? she began. Well, the police came today and installed a special alarm. It helps Mummy if we ever need to call the police quickly. Why would we need the police, Mummy? Charlotte asked. It's just in case something happens that makes Mummy feel scared. It's like a game. We only use it if we really, really need help. A few weeks later, a power cut triggered the alarm. The electricity had run out again, the prepayment meter, and the loss of power set off the system. The police arrived within minutes. Vanessa stood at her front door apologizing, her girls wide eyed in the hallway behind her. It's okay, darlings, she said, pulling them both into a hug once the officers had gone. The alarm just went off because the lights went out. I don't like the loud noise, mummy, Molly said, clinging to her leg. I know, darling, but remember, it's there to help us. It's our special alarm. Later that night, alone in the living room, Vanessa stared at the alarm box by the front door. It was both a comfort and a reminder of the danger that still loomed. She had taken a step forward, even if it was a small one. And for now, that was enough.

SPEAKER_02 13:39

Author Reflection.

SPEAKER_04 13:41

Looking back now, I can see that this chapter was not really about violence, it was about hope. That sounds strange because the chapter contains a black eye, police photographs, and panic alarms. Yet the thing that kept me trapped was not fear, it was hope. Hope that the apology meant something. Hope that this time would be different. Hope that my children would grow up with the family I believed they deserved. Women are often criticized for staying. I stayed because I desperately wanted my children to have what I thought children needed: a mother, a father, a family. At that point, I still believed that if I loved him enough, supported him enough, or understood him enough, things might change. I thought unconditional love could mend him. What he did to me destroyed that love. That is the honest truth of it. I know now that many women do not immediately recognize abuse because abuse rarely arrives wearing a label. It arrives disguised as stress, as pressure, as alcohol, as bad luck, as promises, as love. That is what makes it so difficult to see when you're standing in the middle of it. The police photograph, the leaflet in the drawer, the panic alarm on the wall. All of it marks the point where private terror becomes official evidence. Even then, help feels fragile. When the officers first left me in that house after I said he had strangled me unconscious, something in me learned that institutions do not always arrive in the way we imagine. That lesson sits underneath everything that follows.

SPEAKER_00 15:36

The legal landscape, family court in 1990s, Britain, injunctions and the power of arrest, how the law tried to protect. In the 1990s, the primary legal tools available to a woman leaving an abusive partner were injunctions under the Domestic Violence and Matrimonial Proceedings Act 1976 or under the Matrimonial Homes Act 1983. An injunction with the power of arrest attached meant that a police officer could arrest the perpetrator without a warrant if they had reasonable cause to suspect the order had been breached. In theory, this was significant protection. In practice, its effectiveness depended on several things: the willingness of police to act, the speed with which they could respond, and the woman's physical proximity to a phone or alarm when she needed help. Women with prepayment meters that interrupted their electricity faced obvious practical difficulties. An ex parte injunction, granted without the other party present, could be obtained more quickly in emergencies. Many women obtained these orders. Many also found that their abusers ignored them, at least at first, relying on their own capacity for charm when faced with authority. The panic alarm installed in Vanessa's home represented a parallel track of protection, not legal but operational. They were a recognition that a piece of paper, even one backed by the power of arrest, was not always enough.

SPEAKER_04 17:06

What stage was I at? Hope. It was still about hope, what I believed for reasons for staying. And the family could still be saved. The children needed their father. The violence was exceptional, not the pattern. The apologies were genuine. What I did not yet understand, abuse is cyclical by design. Leaving is usually a process rather than a single moment. Fear often increases after separation. Hope can become part of the trap.

SPEAKER_02 17:39

Questions women ask at this stage. Why didn't you leave earlier?

SPEAKER_04 17:44

Because I thought I was protecting my children by staying. Did you know it was abuse? Not fully. I knew I was frightened. I did not yet understand the pattern.

SPEAKER_02 17:54

Why didn't the police photograph make you leave immediately?

SPEAKER_04 17:58

Because evidence and emotional readiness are not the same thing. I was and had been rehearsing, leaving for some time, but everything has to be aligned at the same time for you to feel safe enough to do it.