They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

16 Early July 2007 — Looking back

The post in our road used to get delivered around 9.30 a.m. on weekdays, long after Roy and I had gone to work. So now, as I was only working part-time — on our fertility consultant’s orders — I was the one who got to it first.

It used to be after I got back from the casino and before Roy was home, but now, since I’d been cleaned out — having gone all-in, as they call it in gambling speak, a week previously — I was home by 1.30 p.m. most days. The first thing I would do after scooping up the post and checking it for any nasty surprises was to take a Valium. I would be feeling better in minutes. Better, but full of shame, now it dawned on me that this was an addiction that was probably getting out of hand and couldn’t be good for my baby. It did, however, enable me to face the shit.

The shit called Roel Albazi.

And the problem of finding £150,000 to pay him. Without telling Roy. And without the benefit of a fairy godmother. It was time for action.

It wasn’t going to come from remortgaging our house, for sure. So where on God’s earth was I going to find that kind of money? Of course, I should never have lost it, but then, Albazi should never have fed me all the loans he did. Probably, if I hadn’t been in some kind of altered reality, thanks to my messed-up mind at the time, I would never have let this happen. I did not have a clue what to do, I was terrified of Roy finding out and I was more scared than I’d ever been in my life. Albazi — and his goon — were making my life a waking hell.

Two days ago, Albazi sent me a text. I wish I’d never opened it, because it shocked me in a way that nothing ever in my life had, before. His message read: Hey Sandy, just thought you’d like to see this video of a person me and my boss loaned money to, who failed to repay it. I’d hate this to happen to you, because you are such a nice person.

I clicked on the website link. What I saw made me sick, and I mean physically sick — throw-up-in-the-bathroom sick. A man in his thirties, Hispanic-looking, lying on a bench, like one you’d find in a physiotherapist’s or chiropractor’s clinic. Except his hands and feet were bound. And he was naked. Someone, off-camera, began to slash him with a carving knife. I turned away, but — I don’t know how or why — I kept turning back, although I muted the sound to stop the screaming.

I was terrified that, even if they didn’t come after me, what if they came after Roy? I wanted to tell Roy, but I was stupidly scared both of how he would react, but also of what might happen to him if he went after Albazi. I still loved Roy. I cared for him. None of this crap was his fault. He was the same Roy Grace I had married. He’d stayed the same, consistent, decent human being who genuinely cared about making the world a better place. But I was no longer the same Sandy Balkwill he had married. I wanted more than being the wife of a parochial Sussex homicide detective.

And thanks to that, I was in deep trouble.

I’d even googled to see if gambling debts were legal and learned that, if incurred through legal gambling, they are enforceable. I’d found several gambling debt support groups all offering advice, but none of it helped. I went as far as asking Becky for the phone number of a friend of hers who was a paralegal in a big law firm to see if she could help me, but I chickened out of calling her — I don’t know why, but all I can think, looking back, was that I was more scared of Roy finding out than I was of any retribution by Albazi.

Sure, Mr Albazi, go ahead, torture me, kill me and solve all my problems in one go. Because, Mr Albazi, the money I owe you isn’t my only problem. There’s another big problem that makes me want to run away even more.

This baby I am carrying. The baby I have wanted for so long — and yet I don’t know who the father is.