Somewhere along the motorway, as we were being driven away from our old life and towards a new one, the police officers stopped using our old names. They had asked one of my sons something mundane – about which fast food restaurant he wanted to stop at – but called him by his new, unfamiliar name. I burst into tears. We were people who no longer existed in the back of an unmarked police car – no phones, bank cards, passports. We were now being looked after by the UK Protected Persons Service (UKPPS) and our lives would never be the same again.
For years I had been trying to get away from my husband, the father of our two sons. He was abusive in every way you can think of, and when I left him the abuse escalated – he stalked us, put signs up on our road, sent gifts, messages. If we moved, he would find us, break in and move things around to intimidate me. It was psychological warfare. I had a non-molestation order against him, but he acted as if it didn’t exist.
I had been trying to get the police to take the abuse seriously, and had made about 30 calls to them in two years, but it felt as if they weren’t doing anything. Eventually, they charged him with breaching the non-molestation order, not for the abuse, and he was convicted and jailed. Then, when they knew he was being released, it was like going from zero to 100mph. They offered us the chance to have new identities and new lives, so we could be safe.
It felt surreal. The police said they could introduce me to their colleagues, and warned that they might be coming in disguise. They turned up wearing hi-vis jackets and carrying clipboards, but they still looked like police officers to me. We had a few meetings about what being a protected person would entail but I didn’t really understand what I was getting myself into. I probably wasn’t mentally well enough to make the decision, but I trusted them and I wanted to keep my children safe and find some peace.
I used Google to pick the place we would be moving to; it looked OK in photographs. It had to be somewhere we had no connection to and you might as well just toss a coin. The UKPPS rented a house for us, which we didn’t get to see until we arrived. They got me a basic mobile phone and put in two phone lines that were routed through another city – one direct to them, and the other to my sister, the only person from my old life I was allowed to keep in touch with.
When we chose our new names, I had to steer the children away from outlandish ones they would have to live with for the rest of their lives. On the first day at school, my son put his old name on his book and he burst into tears. I bought stuff with their new initials on, such as mugs, to try to get it into everyone’s heads. I haven’t slipped up in a long while, but we used to all the time.
I left everyone I cared about and a job that I loved. We couldn’t say goodbye to anybody. To us, it was as if they all died at the same time and we were dead to them. The day we left, I was sobbing because it felt so wrong not to say goodbye to people, to say thank you and that it was going to be all right. The only person I sometimes see is my sister – we will meet up somewhere, never my old town, and it is the one thing that has kept me sane.
It is difficult to establish a proper friendship with new people because I am never showing my whole self. I am not in any photographs online, and although my kids have social media, the privacy settings are locked and they know not to post any pictures. But still I live in fear of someone posting something, or someone from my old life spotting me.
I feel like two people, as though I have been chopped in half. People talk about impostor syndrome, but I feel as if I am the impostor. The UKPPS got me my job, which adds to it. I think I am good at my job, but I know my bosses were told to give it to me. Sometimes I feel as if it’s all an act.
Initially, we met a psychologist but we haven’t had any other counselling and this has been a big problem for me. Who do you go to who can understand this experience? We’re not even under the protection of the UKPPS any more. They said I hadn’t been cooperating, but it was minor things such as not answering the phone every time they rang. They basically said: “You’re on your own; here’s a number for Mind, the mental health charity.”
I don’t think I could ever go back to my old life now. It’s partly out of a fear of my husband, but also I don’t think I could cope with explaining to everyone over and over what we have been through. It feels wrong that we live like this. It took us from every bit of support we had to a place of nothing. When I questioned it, the UKPPS made me feel ungrateful. Sometimes I think I could have done it differently on my own, although I don’t know if that is realistic. The police said he would have ended up killing me, which I believe, but then I think, why didn’t you deal with him when I was asking for help?
It feels as if we are the ones being punished rather than him. This kind of life is meant for ex-members of drug gangs or organised crime, not a law-abiding mum. People need to know that this is what the UKPPS and police are doing to victims. We have struggled, but we haven’t got a choice. We’ve got to keep going.
Some identifying details have been changed
