Читать книгу For the Love of Nadia - My daughter was kidnapped by her father and taken to Libya. This is my heart-wrenching true story of my quest to bring her home - Sarah Taylor - Страница 10

I was thrilled to be married and to begin with we were reasonably happy, although we were really strapped for cash. I had given up my job at the Trafford Centre but was still working for the Inland Revenue. Fawzi was studying English at various colleges and working at the pizza takeaway in the evenings, which brought in a little money, but I was basically keeping a roof over our heads. Fawzi claimed to be paying the Council Tax and would contribute when he could; he’d occasionally buy the food shopping or treat us to a takeaway, but it wasn’t much.

I don’t know what would have happened if we’d both held down normal jobs and were able to enjoy a proper routine, but within a few months cracks started to appear in our relationship. I’d go out to my office in Preston every morning while Fawzi was working most evenings in Whiston, so it was only at weekends that we were able to spend any time together. At weekends when Fawzi wasn’t at work, I tried to persuade him to take us out for the day or do something different together, but, as he was working late during the week, he always seemed to be tired and not up to going out. I tried to be sympathetic and maybe every other weekend we would go into Wigan for a few drinks, then head home for a takeaway but, over the next few months, Fawzi began to act differently. He became distant and started to spend more time going out with his friends.

Fawzi was at home very little and, even when I was alone with him, he just wasn’t relaxed – it was like he was nervous of something, or just didn’t want to be with me. For some reason, he was preoccupied and I could never work out why, so I just put it down to his culture, in which all the men spend time together and all the women are either at home or in the company of other women. Perhaps he was just getting used to married life and this was how it was going to be for a little while. So, for the time being, I thought I could cope with this existence and hoped it would improve when we had children.

Having a baby was something we had already talked about and, now we were married, we could get going! I was desperate for a child and Fawzi agreed with me that it should be sooner rather than later in case I did have problems conceiving. But I tried my best not to dwell on this as I knew it would be much harder for me to become pregnant if I was stressed, but naturally I couldn’t help worrying. A baby was what I wanted most and knowing there was a possibility of being denied this through no fault of my own was at times unbearable.

Looking back, I probably already knew that the relationship wasn’t working out and believed that starting a family might improve things; I thought having a baby might change Fawzi and the way he related to me. I know it’s an archetypal response and a little naïve, but that’s the way I felt – I longed for a loving relationship and a normal family life. I had visions of the three of us going out together, just a regular family, doing everyday family things. That was all I wanted – it didn’t seem too much to ask.

Before Fawzi and I were married I was using Depo-Provera as a form of contraception. I’d been having injections for a few years, but, as soon as Fawzi and I were married, I stopped taking it. My doctor advised that it might take me a while to conceive as a result of this method of contraception, irrespective of my medical history. My periods had stopped and so he prescribed medication to start them off again.

In September 2002, it seemed the impossible had happened: I thought I might be pregnant. I couldn’t believe it and assumed I must be mistaken, but I did a home test and the result was positive. It’s impossible to put into words how elated I felt. Maybe my dream was going to come true, after all. I told Fawzi that I might be pregnant but warned that it hadn’t yet been confirmed by the doctor. He didn’t react at all. Fawzi was never one to show any enthusiasm, but I was surprised by his lack of emotion. Perhaps he hadn’t realised how accurate these home tests were. When I asked him if he was happy, he just said, ‘Yeah.’

I went straight down to the surgery and was told to ring back a few days later. I don’t know how I managed to get through those seventy-two hours, which seemed like a lifetime, but finally I was able to telephone my doctor and very nervously ask what the results were.

‘Positive, I’m glad to say,’ was her response. I wanted to scream with joy, but I was at work and somehow managed to contain myself. It was still early days, so I kept it quiet.

‘How many weeks pregnant am I?’

‘Four,’ the doctor replied.

I felt so proud of myself. After all the fears of not being able to have a baby, I had done it. We had done it! I rang Fawzi immediately.

‘Fawzi, listen, I’ve had the pregnancy results back. It’s positive. I’m pregnant!’

There was a slight pause before he responded, ‘Oh, all right.’

‘Do you have anything else to say?’

Fawzi hesitated: ‘Yes, that’s good – very good.’

I was really upset when I put the phone down – I was so excited and he seemed so disinterested. I’d been expecting something more than this. Still, maybe he had just woken up; perhaps he was in a bad mood. Supposing he was with a friend and couldn’t speak. Maybe it was as much of a shock for him as it was for me. Possibly he needed some time to mull over the news and get used to the idea of being a dad. When I get home it will be different, he’ll make much more of a fuss, I thought.

By the time I arrived home from work, I was sure he would be there to greet me with flowers, hug me and make sure I was feeling okay. He wasn’t working that night, so perhaps we could celebrate with a romantic dinner.

I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

As I entered the house, he greeted me with a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, and then said he was going out.

I confronted him: ‘I’m pregnant! Don’t you have anything to say?’

After hesitating for a moment, Fawzi said: ‘That’s great, I’ve got to go – I’m late for work.’

And, with that, my husband was out the door.

I was shocked and upset: how could he be so cruel? Didn’t he know how much this meant to me? But then I became angry: I can’t make him want the baby as much as I do, and, if he really isn’t interested, then there’s nothing I can do, but, whatever happens, I’m having this baby – with or without his involvement.

I couldn’t wait to tell Mum and Dad the news. Their reaction was naturally much more positive. They were, of course, ecstatic as they were sure I would never be able to have children and were thrilled for me. I didn’t have to spell out Fawzi’s reaction to them. They knew exactly what he was like and weren’t surprised at his lack of interest.

Despite my previous health problems, I was really well during pregnancy and from day one I was blooming. I was very healthy and suffered no morning sickness. Completely on a high, I was excited the whole time. One thing that I remember about being pregnant was that, for some reason, I had a craving for melon and yoghurt. Late one night, I was so desperate that I sent Fawzi to the twenty-four-hour Tesco. I ate a whole melon and several cartons of yoghurt as soon as he got back!

Another thing that sticks in my mind was the fact that Fawzi didn’t come with me for my first scan, which started an argument between us. He didn’t see it as important and refused point blank to accompany me. Good old Mum came along with me instead but, when I got back to the house, Fawzi didn’t even ask how I’d got on, let alone want to see the photo of the scan I’d brought home with me.

How could he treat his expectant wife like this?

Slowly, I was beginning to discover how his mind worked and how he would behave. If I stood up to him and we argued because of it, then I had to be punished – even if he was in the wrong – and then he would just ignore me.

I decided to leave the scan lying around the house so that he might pick it up and look at it when he was no longer angry with me. However hazy the scan, I desperately hoped that he would want to see the picture of our baby. His baby. I don’t know if he ever did. At the time I didn’t want to confront him because I knew it would lead to another argument. We were quarrelling a lot at this stage and, of course, the more we rowed, the more distant we became.

After each argument, it took longer and longer for us to start talking to each other again. The funny thing was, when we did make up, Fawzi must have felt guilty because he would be lovely and act like the old Fawzi I had fallen in love with. At times, I felt as much in love with him as when we first met. It was all very confusing.

Fawzi also refused to attend the second scan appointment, but reluctantly agreed to accompany me to the third scan, which revealed I was having a girl. I was delighted and my unbounded joy wasn’t at all muted by Fawzi’s lack of enthusiasm. I’m not sure it would have made any difference if I had been carrying a boy – his only comment being, ‘Boys are easier to handle.’

I immediately went out shopping, and I couldn’t resist buying some pink dresses – I probably bought more than I needed but I was just too thrilled to care if I was being silly.

When Fawzi and I did talk about our baby, we discussed all our hopes and fears, and even contemplated which school she would attend. Fawzi wanted the baby to be brought up as a Muslim. I told him that I was happy with that decision, but stressed that, once the child reached an age where she could decide for herself, it would be her decision as to which spiritual path she chose to follow. After all, it was her life and I wouldn’t want to direct her one way or the other. Fawzi was happy with this.

Sadly, this seemed to be the only thing that Fawzi was happy about because for the next few months I hardly saw him. We were working at different times of the day and, whenever he did have an evening off, he would visit friends or make some excuse why we couldn’t spend time together. The tension between us increased and, when I did tackle him, we would just end up arguing. Fawzi had a really stubborn streak and would always maintain that he was in the right.

It was so frustrating – he just wouldn’t communicate with me and I wouldn’t let him off the hook. The more I demanded of him, the more he reacted. It got to the point where he accused me of sleeping with other men. Mainly he insulted me with abusive language, calling me a ‘slag’ or a ‘prostitute’. He even tried to get me to admit that the baby was not his. Our arguments became more and more volatile. One night, they reached near breaking point. I’d been out with some friends for the evening, and one of his friends, who had seen me talking to a male friend, telephoned Fawzi to say he had seen me out. Fawzi then accused me of having sex with this man and, when I denied these ridiculous allegations, he got me by the throat and hit me.

I was on the sofa and he got on top of me, screaming, ‘This isn’t my baby, you slag!’ He punched me in the stomach and I was so frightened of losing the baby, I kicked out and he let go.

I realised that our relationship would never be the same, but, incredible as it must sound, I still loved him and I thought we could work things out. I tried to confide in Brian, who had known Fawzi since they were both at nursery school, and, although he obviously felt some loyalty, he was quite sympathetic and agreed that his best friend’s behaviour was unreasonable. In fact, the two of them squabbled a lot of the time and Brian used to become frustrated with Fawzi. In the end, he stopped talking to Fawzi. Brian had lent him a sizeable amount of money and he never paid him back. When his English course finished, Brian returned to Libya, leaving the two of us in the house alone. I missed him.

I wanted to talk to my parents, but, although they realised Fawzi was spending more and more time away from me, I didn’t want to worry them with his aggressive behaviour; I also thought I could handle the situation myself. To their credit, Mum and Dad had always tried to be fair to Fawzi, and they even stumped up some money for him to buy a car. Unfortunately, Fawzi didn’t have any money to tax the vehicle and it was eventually towed away.

One night, while I was still heavily pregnant, there was some loud knocking at the front door. I went to open it and standing on the doorstop were two men. They looked Libyan, but I had never seen them before. One of them looked me up and down and then said, ‘Is Fawzi here?’ Fawzi was skulking in the background, but, as he didn’t come to the door, it was clear that he didn’t want to talk to these men.

‘Can I help?’ I replied.

‘We need to see Fawzi,’ said one of them. ‘Is he in?’

I ignored the question and could see they were a little agitated.

‘Do you know what your husband has done?’ the other man snapped. ‘We need to see Fawzi – he owes us money.’

Immediately I became defensive, saying, ‘I doubt that very much!’

‘We gave him money to give to our families in Libya.’

‘How much?’ I queried.

‘£2,000.’

‘There must be some mistake…’

‘No, there is no mistake. The only mistake will be if he doesn’t pay back our money. Then we’ll have to take him for a walk, if you know what I mean.’

Fawzi had been to Libya a few weeks earlier, but he hadn’t mentioned any of this to me. Before I could say anything else, he came to the door and told me to go away but I refused.

‘I want to know what’s going on.’

Fawzi was getting angry: ‘Leave it to me!’

With that, he ushered me away and spoke to the men in Arabic. This time it was me who was hanging around in the hallway, waiting for the exchange to end. After a long conversation, they left and I confronted my husband.

‘What’s going on? You need to tell me what this is all about.’

But Fawzi just shrugged and denied any wrongdoing. He said that the men were being stupid and it was a big mistake. I told him that this sort of behaviour was unacceptable and that I wouldn’t have strange men coming to our house and threatening him; we were both going to the police station first thing in the morning. He reluctantly agreed.

The next day, Fawzi refused to get out of bed so I decided to go on my own. I wasn’t prepared to have this happen again and I thought that the police might be able to help, so I told the desk sergeant what had happened. Although understanding, he told me there was nothing that the police could do until something actually happened. I couldn’t understand this as the Libyans seemed intent on doing Fawzi harm but there was nothing more I could do either. I was terrified that all this stress might have some adverse effect on the baby’s health, but I also didn’t want any harm to come to Fawzi. So I left the police station, intending to return home, but I became so worried that these men might carry out their threats that I went straight to my building society and applied to extend the mortgage by £2,000. I still didn’t know if Fawzi had stolen the money from these men, but if neither he nor the police could sort this out, then at least I could.

That night, the two Libyans returned. I answered the door and explained what I had done to raise the money; I told them that they would have their money as soon as possible and for some reason they seemed to trust me. The following week, I gave them £2,000 in cash and told them to stay out of our lives. Far from being grateful, however, Fawzi seemed to expect that it had been my wifely duty to extricate him from this trouble and refused to discuss the matter further.

In the following weeks, he became increasingly uncommunicative and secretive. Then one day, by chance, I found out why. Usually I left for work by the time the postman called, but on occasion I was around to check the mail. On these occasions, I could see that we were receiving letters but they were addressed to people I didn’t know, including quite a lot of correspondence for Fawzi’s brothers, Fward, Ezzideen and Hamdi, who were living in Libya. On this particular morning, I happened to be at home when a letter dropped through the letterbox. The note was addressed to Fawzi and it was clearly official. I opened it and, to my horror, read that he was due to appear in court: the charge was that he was under suspicion of committing rape.

Fawzi was in bed and, although obviously desperate to know what was going on, I waited for him to get up. I then asked him, very calmly, whether he had something to tell me. No, he didn’t, he said. So I showed him the letter. ‘It’s no big deal,’ he told me. ‘It has nothing to do with me – someone has set me up.’

He explained that one night, while working late at the pizza shop in Chorley, where he was now employed, one of the guys had taken a young woman upstairs and, a few minutes later, she came running downstairs, crying and distraught. She had accused him of attacking her and, unbeknown to him at the time, the man had apparently told her that his name was Fawzi. That’s how he became implicated.

I was unsure whether or not to believe him as he was always good at worming his way out of things. I was angry with him for getting into such trouble, but didn’t know whether he was capable of such a crime. When his court appearance came up some weeks later, I insisted on accompanying him because I knew he wouldn’t tell me what had happened. He was more than surprised but he didn’t try to stop me – I think by now he realised that I wasn’t some sort of traditional housewife who was going to be blindly loyal and stick by him, whatever he did. Neither was I someone who would let things rest; I’d take on the fight – something he found to his cost in the years to come. I didn’t tell Mum and Dad about the court case, as I thought it would only scare them out of their wits and they would worry unnecessarily about my safety.

Eventually, the case was dropped due to a lack of evidence. I had always believed in the principle of innocent until proven guilty but, with hindsight, I think he may have paid off the girl. It seemed strange that the case was dropped, just like that, but I still didn’t know for sure whether Fawzi was indeed innocent of any wrongdoing. I contemplated leaving him then, but I knew what Fawzi was like and, if ever I really upset him, I knew he might punish me – and that might take any form.

A few weeks before I was due to give birth, Fawzi announced that he needed to return home to Libya to visit his mother, who was seriously ill. Naturally, I was sympathetic and fully supported my husband in his decision but I told him that he must come home within two weeks as I was due to have his baby and his responsibilities lay in Wigan, not Tripoli.

Ever since I had become pregnant it seemed that Fawzi had been struggling with the idea of commitment. Of course I was concerned for his mother, but it seemed to me that he just wanted to get away at such a crucial time. Although this may sound cynical, I noticed that his mother was at death’s door whenever Fawzi may have felt trapped or vulnerable. And you know what? She always made a complete recovery!

Unfortunately, while Fawzi was away, I suffered complications in my pregnancy. I was still working about two weeks before my due date but one afternoon I had a routine appointment with the midwife. As usual, she took my blood pressure, but then her expression changed; I knew instantly that something was wrong. She fetched another nurse to double-check but she obviously reached the same conclusion. It transpired that I had developed pre-eclampsia (a medical condition which can cause hypertension) and my blood pressure was sky-high.

Apparently, I could have passed out at any time. They immediately rang for an ambulance, although I said I had just driven from Preston and could easily drive myself to hospital. I felt absolutely fine and refused to lie down on the stretcher, or go in the wheelchair. It was only in the ambulance, on the way to hospital, that I realised just how serious this could be; they were monitoring my baby’s heartbeat and I was suddenly very scared that I was going to lose my child. My friend Lynette told Mum and Dad what had happened and they met me at the hospital.

In hospital, I was given medication in an attempt to bring my blood pressure down, but this was unsuccessful so the medical staff decided that my condition was serious enough to intervene. On the evening of 9 May 2003, I underwent an emergency caesarean. My mother was at my side but I was totally conscious throughout.

I had already given our baby the name Nadia while I was still carrying her. I’d seen the film American Pie and in it there is a beautiful actress, Shannon Elizabeth, whose real-life father was an Arab and her mother European. The character’s name was Nadia. I’d always liked the name and, coincidentally, it turned out that Nadia was also an Arabic name. I told the medics what we had planned to call my daughter, and so, when my darling baby was about to appear, the doctor called out, ‘Here’s Nadia!’ Hers was a truly wonderful arrival.

My gorgeous daughter had masses of dark hair and was tiny, weighing only 4lb 11oz. There were lots of tears and my mum, who supported me throughout, was absolutely thrilled. She rang my dad immediately and he was equally excited. I had dreamed of having a baby since I was a little girl; this was an experience that almost every woman is desperate for, and one that I thought I’d never have. Nadia was a miracle baby. She was exactly how I’d imagined her to be, and I was already in love with her. I just kept looking at her and picking her up – she was perfect, and she was mine!

Although desperately tired, I was too excited to sleep and I couldn’t wait to tell Fawzi about his beautiful daughter, who had arrived nearly two weeks early. The nursing staff were incredibly helpful and let me use my mobile on the ward. That night I rang him but was unable to get through – not that unusual as it was often difficult to connect to Libya. However, four days later, I was still trying to get hold of him, which was proving impossible. No matter how many times I rang I could never obtain a ringing tone or even a voicemail response, so I couldn’t even leave a message. It finally dawned on me that he had actually switched his mobile off.

Five days after Nadia was born, I was well enough to go home and my mum moved in to look after me. Fortunately, Nadia was a brilliant newborn and immediately slept right through the night, which made life a lot easier. Mum stayed a few days until I insisted she go home – I realised that I couldn’t rely on my mum for the foreseeable future, and also, it wasn’t fair on my dad. Besides, I needed to be independent.

Nearly a week after Nadia was born, I finally got through to Fawzi.

‘I’ve got somebody here… it’s your daughter.’

I was very emotional and, through tears of joy, informed him that his gorgeous little girl had been born, but he seemed very unfazed by the news and not at all excited. He didn’t even ask how we were, even though I told him about the C-section. I told him that I wanted him to come home as I still wasn’t feeling well and needed help. He did at least say that he would try to get a flight as soon as he could, but I was really upset by his reaction and couldn’t believe he could be so unfeeling.

I spoke to him the following day when he rang to tell me that all the flights from Tripoli were full and there was no way he could get back to England. Once again, I was really upset, but I believed him – I was sure that he would be doing all he could to get back to England. I tried to ring him again, a number of times during the next week, but there was no reply. Finally, I got through to him only to be told that he was still unable to secure a flight back. I knew Mum and Dad were pretty disgusted at Fawzi’s behaviour, but weren’t openly critical of him. They made sure that I knew that I would never be on my own and they would always support me.

Fawzi finally returned to the family home when Nadia was six weeks old. One night, at midnight, without any prior warning – not even a phone call – he just turned up. Nadia was asleep. Fawzi wanted to wake her and hold her, but I was so angry with him that I refused. I told him in his absence Nadia had developed a routine, which I wasn’t going to disturb; she usually woke at five in the morning and so he would have to wait until then to meet his daughter. He wasn’t cross, but didn’t ask about the birth or much about Nadia.

For the first six months, I was on maternity leave and I did everything for her. Fawzi showed little interest and I don’t remember him once changing her nappy – I don’t think it had much to do with his culture; he was just too lazy or not interested. He barely played with her; he would give her about five minutes of his time until he became bored and, if ever Nadia started to cry, he would immediately hand her back to me. Although he showed her some affection, it all appeared superficial and not how I had imagined a doting father would behave.

There was little communication between us and he began to initiate arguments that would give him the excuse to storm out of the house; that way he wouldn’t have to talk to me. It wasn’t much of a relationship. I understand that men often feel excluded around this time and they play second fiddle to the baby, and I’m sure that Fawzi felt he was not getting any attention from me but he gave me very little and I suppose we were in the middle of a vicious circle that was growing ever wider.

All this frustration led to another bust-up. Fawzi had a fiery temper and, every time we argued, he would say the worst possible things in order to hurt me. He had, yet again, accused me of having an affair and this time I replied, ‘You know it’s rubbish – in any case, you were the one accused of rape!’ At the time I was carrying Nadia and he pushed me, nearly knocking her out of myarms. Because of the previous incident – when he punched me – I immediately called the police.

Two constables arrived; one officer took him into the dining room while the other remained with me. I didn’t know what was said, but, when the two of them came out, the officer told me that Fawzi had calmed down and they had advised him to go out for a while. The policeman told me that I should not hesitate to contact them again if I needed to. I was frightened that Fawzi might really hurt me and now I had to think of Nadia too. When the police left, I told Fawzi I would call them again if he ever threatened me with violence. I think that must have done the trick because, although he shouted a lot, it was the last time he was physically aggressive towards me.

They say love is a flower that turns into fruit upon marriage. Well, mine was rapidly turning rotten. At night I lay awake, tormented about what I should do. On a number of occasions, I seriously thought about ending the relationship. I wasn’t prepared to play the role of the victim, but I was frightened that he would try to kidnap Nadia. It wasn’t that I had read much about kidnapping, or knew an awful lot about children being abducted by their fathers, but by now I knew Fawzi all too well. I could match him verbally and return as much abuse as he dished out; however, he knew that I loved Nadia far more than I loved him and he realised the only thing that I could never recover from would be if he were to take her away from me. The thought was always on my mind.

After six months, I returned to work and Nadia started nursery. Fawzi worked on and off at a pizza place in Leigh, which was a little nearer home, but he had also been travelling back and forth to Libya for long periods of time. He had never been able to hold down a proper job or provide financially for us; I had always kept the home going by paying nearly all the bills. Believe it or not, we drifted on like this for two years. In retrospect, I was very naïve and kept thinking that things would get better. There was the odd day when we would go out as a family, which I loved and hoped that Fawzi felt the same way and it would change his behaviour. Mum and Dad knew how I felt and how unhappy I was, but I didn’t unburden my problems on anyone else. It was only because I felt that Nadia needed her father that I kept working hard at maintaining the relationship.

* * *

In May 2005, when Nadia was nearly two, my mum’s fiftieth birthday was fast approaching. She was keen to visit some family members in Singapore and so we arranged to travel to the Far East to celebrate. Surprisingly, Fawzi seemed enthusiastic about the idea and even offered to pay for himself, Nadia and me to travel there.

I was a bit surprised when Fawzi’s friend, Khalide, turned up to see us off at Manchester Airport, so I questioned Fawzi: ‘Why are you here? Are you married to Khalide or to me?’ I didn’t quite know why Khalide was there and was even more puzzled when Fawzi gave him an envelope containing some money, which he said was to pay some bills while we were away.

However, despite his initial eagerness to join in the celebrations, once we arrived in Singapore, Fawzi was very remote from the very outset. Clearly, something was on his mind that was occupying him. I asked what it might be, but he denied anything was wrong – ‘Nothing. Nothing – everything is fine.’ He wouldn’t join in with the family’s activities and couldn’t even bring himself to take a dip in the hotel’s luxurious swimming pool – instead, he sat on a lounger beside the pool, drinking cocktails and cutting a solitary figure. He said he couldn’t be bothered to join in; he wasn’t paying Nadia, any of the family or me any attention.

After a few days, I couldn’t put up with him or his behaviour any longer; I’d simply had enough. And there was another thing preying on my mind – Fawzi had received a fair number of texts since we had arrived, and when I asked who had sent them, he replied, ‘Oh, it’s just Khalide.’

‘What does he want?’ I asked.

‘He’s just checking that I’m all right,’ Fawzi replied.

‘Well, of course you’re all right,’ I snapped. ‘You’re with your wife and family! Why wouldn’t you be all right?’

‘I know – I keep telling him that.’

But I knew there was more to it than that. Why would Khalide keep phoning or sending texts? I couldn’t believe that he would be so concerned about Fawzi’s welfare; something was up. The day before we were due to fly home, I told Fawzi that I wasn’t feeling well and I wouldn’t be going for breakfast. I asked him to take Nadia down to the dining room and said that I would join them later when I felt better.

As soon as they left to go for breakfast, I checked Fawzi’s phone, which he had left behind. I checked his text messages first and there was one which immediately sent a chill down my spine: ‘Call me urgently, or else I’ll tell Sarah.’

I was furious that something was being kept from me.

What was all this about? What exactly did this person have to tell me? I took a note of the number and other numbers that I didn’t recognise. Although hurt and angry, I assumed the text was sent by a woman so I decided not to make a scene and spoil my mum’s birthday trip – I would just have to wait until we returned from Singapore before confronting Fawzi.

When we arrived home, I was surprised to see lights on in the house. I was even more surprised to see Khalide lounging on the couch, watching television. In fact, I was gobsmacked. Fawzi said that he had just called around to check everything was in order but it was clear to me that he had been staying in the house without my knowledge while we had been away. I am quite open to friends staying over, but why was all this kept from me? It was our place after all. We had barely put the cases down in the hallway when Fawzi said he had to go out and, before I could say anything, he and Khalide were out the door.

Immediately the front door slammed, I dialled the mystery number on Fawzi’s phone. After a few rings it was answered. My worst fears were confirmed: it was a woman’s voice.

‘I believe you’ve got something to tell me,’ I said.

‘Who is it?’ The woman’s voice was slightly anxious.

‘This is Sarah, Fawzi’s wife,’ I replied firmly.

The phone went dead.

I called Fawzi on his mobile and told him of my discovery. He was back in the house within ten minutes. At this point, I redialled the woman’s number and put the phone on loudspeaker. The woman answered and I said, ‘There’s someone who wants to speak to you.’ I handed the phone to Fawzi, who reluctantly took it from me. He looked as if he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him, but he managed to say, ‘Hello, I can’t speak – she’s got it on loudspeaker.’ He went into another room, but I followed him. Then he turned off the loudspeaker so I couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end of the line. It mattered very little because he ended the conversation quickly and abruptly, saying, ‘I’ll call you back later.’

Calmly, I asked Fawzi what this was all about. He said he’d explain later and then just left the house. I didn’t try to stop him or tackle him; he was so good at worming his way out of situations and very clever about thinking on his feet. No doubt he would come up with some devious explanation. I didn’t think there was any point in accusing him of having an affair until I had some proof.

A few days later, I opened another letter addressed to Fawzi from Wigan County Court. This time he was under suspicion of threatening to kill a work colleague. I didn’t know what to think – there seemed no end to the trouble that this man was getting into, but I really couldn’t believe this of my husband. I rang my mum and the two of us rushed off to the pizza place in Leigh, where Fawzi was working. He wasn’t there, but I knew Mohammed – the man that Fawzi had supposedly threatened – and accosted him: ‘What the hell’s going on?’

Fawzi had apparently become angry with Mohammed because he had invested £3,000 in the pizza business, but was seeing no return for his money. In a drunken argument, he had threatened Mohammed but it turned out that Mohammed had information that was much more interesting to me. While I was there, Mohammed told me that Fawzi was having an affair with a woman called Alison. I told him that I thought I knew who that might be.

When I got home, I decided to tackle Fawzi but he argued back that he didn’t know anyone called Alison and told me that it was Mohammed who was having the affair. No matter what I said and whatever my accusations, Fawzi still denied he was seeing another woman and he soon stormed back out of the house again.

There was only one way to sort this out: I had to outsmart Fawzi so I rang Mohammed and gave him the number on Fawzi’s mobile, which I presumed was Alison’s. I asked him to ring her and then let me know what she said about Fawzi.

Some days later, Mohammed got back to me and said he had spoken to Alison. By now, she was clearly getting fed up with Fawzi’s lying and all the intrigue. She told Mohammed that she had received texts from Fawzi and even Valentine cards that he had sent her. Alison also had an itemised phone bill listing all her calls to him at various times. She had agreed to give them all to Mohammed, who later passed them over to me. I think Alison was upfront about this as she had also become fed up with Fawzi and was now as angry as I was. I think he also owed her money.

I now had the evidence to challenge Fawzi but, when I showed him the Valentine cards, he denied having signed them and even said that it wasn’t his writing. He also denied the telephone calls to Alison and said that he had lent his mobile sim card to Mohammed. Of course, this was all nonsense and I realised then that I was married to a compulsive liar. My head was all over the place and I really didn’t think I could believe a word that he said. No matter what I accused him of, he would just deny everything. At times I even felt like I was going mad.

Just like the rape accusation, two years previously, this case was also dropped so that Fawzi was now free to leave the country. Then shortly before Christmas in 2005, he told me that his mother was ill again and that he had to travel to Libya. He didn’t think he’d be back in time for the holiday celebrations. In a way, I was quite relieved. I told my parents that Fawzi wouldn’t be with us for Christmas – to be honest, they weren’t particularly upset. I also told them that I didn’t want the situation to spoil the festivities – we were just not going to talk about him during Christmas. I really wanted to make it a special day for Nadia, then three, and I was determined that we were going to enjoy ourselves despite the effect that Fawzi was having on our family. Nadia didn’t seem to miss him and didn’t talk about her dad, but I made sure she knew that the reason he wasn’t with us for the holiday was that he had to look after his own mother. I didn’t want to turn her against him – even though she was still very young. I said that in the New Year I would decide what I was going to do. Mum and Dad told me that they would support me in any decision I made, but it was obvious that they hoped that I would end the marriage: they had lost the respect for my husband that they’d once had and they just wanted him gone.

While Fawzi was in Tripoli, I found correspondence in his coat pocket addressed to a woman called Alison. Well, what a surprise! I’m not sure whether I should have opened it, but of course I did. Both letters were sent from a high-street building society in Wigan. The first letter stated: ‘Under the circumstances you have been suspended until further notice’; the other letter advised Alison that a date had been set for her industrial tribunal and that she was advised to have legal representation. I couldn’t understand why Fawzi was in possession of these letters, although of course I now knew of his links to the mysterious Alison.

I immediately went to the local police station and told them that I believed my husband was having an affair with the recipient of these letters. It was pretty clear she had been suspended for stealing money from the building society. In light of all the letters sent to our address to men I had never heard of, I also suspected Fawzi of using false identities to obtain money. The copper on duty was grateful for my intervention, but said that the correct procedure was for my concerns to be reported to the bank in question. They should then contact the Fraud Squad, at which point the police might become involved.

The following day, I went to the building society and demanded an interview with the manager. She was taken aback that I knew so much about Alison. I showed her the letters I had taken from Fawzi’s coat and another – an authorisation to give a credit card to Fawzi’s brother, a man who had never set foot outside Libya. Fawzi was clearly impersonating him. The manager became more incredulous and took copies of the letters. She told me that she couldn’t give me any further information about Alison as the matter was confidential and she really didn’t know what was going to happen. I told her that I’d only be happy if Fawzi and Alison got sent down.

It had taken me a long time and I had been through so much with this man, but I finally realised that there was no future and, in January 2006, I decided to file for divorce. Fawzi was travelling back and forth to Libya and would disappear for weeks on end. I had no idea when he would return – or how long he would be back for. He would then just turn up late at night without any warning or explanation only to disappear again.

There was a long gap when he wasn’t in touch and I went to see a solicitor. Fawzi couldn’t be served with any papers because I didn’t know where he was and so I was advised to separate on the grounds of adultery and desertion. My solicitor suggested that the next time he contacted me I should tell him that I was instigating divorce proceedings and I should not allow him back into our home.

Finally, after some weeks, Fawzi called me.

‘It’s over. The marriage is over; it’s finished. You’re not coming back to this house,’ I told him.

He pleaded with me but I had made my mind up. I don’t think that Fawzi ever thought I was serious about the divorce proceedings and he kept saying, ‘We can talk about it when I’m back.’

A few days later, he turned up, suitcase in hand: ‘Please let me in.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve had enough of your behaviour – I’ve been giving it a go, but it’s never going to work.’

‘Let me see Nadia.’

‘No! Now go.’

Fawzi stood there, all doe-eyed and sorrowful, but I remained firm and, when he realised that I wasn’t going to allow him back, he trudged off. I don’t know where he went – and I realised I just didn’t care any more.

I got a real shock, a week on, when Alison called me and told me everything about the affair.

Although she herself was married, Alison had apparently been seeing Fawzi for eighteen months – even explaining that Fawzi had been late for Nadia’s second birthday because he was with her. She described my house in detail and obviously had spent a lot of time with my husband there when I wasn’t around; she also confirmed that Fawzi was blackmailing her.

He had threatened to tell her husband about the affair unless she gave him money, which she had stolen from her employers. Using his mobile phone, he had also filmed them having sex and threatened to show this to her family. She had given Fawzi £15,000 and said she owed the building society £20,000. It was clear that Alison bitterly regretted becoming involved with Fawzi: she was now in danger of being arrested and was desperately trying to get some money from Fawzi. Good luck with that, I thought. I think that’s why she rang me – it wasn’t out of guilt.

Funnily enough, I wasn’t angry with her at first. I thought she had just fallen for Fawzi’s charms in the same way that I had, but then the more I thought about it, the more I began to feel that she deserved everything she got: she knew Fawzi was married, so it was her own fault for playing with fire.

In 2008, Alison was jailed for twelve months after pleading guilty to obtaining over £80,000 by deception.

* * *

In the summer of 2006, Fawzi and I were finally divorced. It was like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I was sick and tired of trying to work him out and I was ready to move on and live my life without him. I felt more like celebrating than crying.

Obviously, as a result of the divorce, access to Nadia had to be discussed. I agreed that Fawzi should be allowed to visit my daughter but I wanted him to have supervised access for his visitation rights. Unfortunately, the courts refused and decided that he was entitled to see her without any official supervision. I told them that he had committed the crime of blackmail but the criminal investigations were still being pursued and he hadn’t yet been charged, so the court had to consent to his demands. Fawzi wasn’t bothered about applying for joint custody – he just wanted access. It was agreed that he could have Nadia at his newly rented house in town every Wednesday for two hours and every Saturday all day, alternating with a sleepover every fortnight.

This arrangement went on for nearly a year and, if I’m honest, I have to say it worked very well. Actually, we got on better during that period than any other time since Nadia was born. We communicated sensibly and politely, and Fawzi behaved himself. Nadia was only three at the time of the divorce so she didn’t really understand what was going on. I told her that Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t be living together any more, but that didn’t mean we loved her any less: we loved her as much as ever. Nadia seemed quite happy spending time with her dad, but I was a bit concerned that his idea of entertainment was to take her to McDonald’s or coffee shops with his friends. He never cooked dinner for her, never mind taking her to places that would interest her – it all seemed like a lot of hard work for him.

Fortunately, Nadia was loved, looked after and stimulated by the rest of her family. She loved my parents, who doted on her, and greatly enjoyed spending time with my sister Steph and her boyfriend Jay, who she adored. Nadia was a bubbly child and everyone at her nursery school loved her. She was such a happy little thing and was chosen to play a leading role in a concert – The Litter Muncher – that they produced at nursery school. I was so proud of her; we all were – she was the miracle child that everyone thought I could never have. The centre of our universe, she had everyone wrapped round her little finger. She was confident without being precocious, but at the same time she was also well behaved. Even at bedtime, she always did as she was told. I really couldn’t complain about anything, she was just brilliant. We did everything together and we were best friends; she was just a very special daughter.