Whatever happened to… the victim of Britain's worst wife-beater?
Lisa Kilmartin, suffered at hands of wife-beater Philip Stone for years
Saturday 28th July 2007
In July 2004, I hit the headlines when my boyfriend, Philip Stone, was jailed for the worst domestic violence the country had ever seen. I met Phil on my 17th birthday,
in the Temple of Sound bar, Wigan. Nine months later, he moved into my one bedroom flat. I was at college studying nursing, and Phil had just left his job in a factory, so money was tight.
It wasn't long before he asked me to stop going out.That was the first warning sign of what lay ahead of me. Next to go was my family.
'Your mum's always round visiting,' he moaned.
So I phoned my mother, Rita, 52.
'Phil doesn't like you popping in,' I whispered.
From then on, I was alone with him. Three months later, the violence began. I could tell you about the slaps, but that was child's play compared to the horror that his mum Pamela's death triggered four years later, in July 2000. He pinned me to the bed and grunted as he raped me.
Predictably, the violence intensified.
'My fists are too sore to beat you,' he complained one morning.
'I'll have to use this instead,' he said, showing me a pickaxe handle on which he'd engraved the words Attitude Adjuster. Crack! The wood smashed against my skull. Phil laughed as I scrabbled around the floor in my own blood.
'If you go to the police, I'll kill you,' he threatened.
Eventually, he made me sleep on a sheet on the living room floor like a dog. Most nights, he would hog-tie me with a rope round my neck and legs, so every time I struggled, it would choke me.
In October 2002, he beat me so badly I lost the top of my little finger. I knew it was only a matter of time before he killed me. I was only 24, too young to die. So I vowed to escape.
My chance for freedom came four months later. Mid-beating, there was a knock at door. It was Phil's mate, Stephen.
'I'm busy,' he said, closing the front door.
My heart skipped. He didn't lock it.
With Phil in the kitchen, I ran barefoot into the street. I didn't care about the blood dripping from my ear. Nor did I notice that this was the first time I'd been outside alone for five years. I just ran, screaming.
'Get home!' Phil roared, as he chased after me.
Five minutes later I got to Mum's house and flung myself at her front door. She opened it just in the nick of time. The minute she shut the door, Phil crashed into it like a wild animal. She took one look at my wasted body and her face paled.
We escaped out of the back door, and Mum drove at breakneck speed to Royal Albert Edward Infirmary, Wigan. In the safety of the hospital bed, I told her about the past six years. Mum persuaded me to tell the Greater Manchester police and two days later, Phil was arrested.
With Mum's help, my body healed and, four months later, I moved into my own flat. After a couple of weeks, I was out shopping when I saw a familiar face. David Wright, 32, and I had known each other since we were children.
'What have you been doing all these years?' he asked.
For the first time in my life, I felt comfortable opening up to someone. When I finished telling him, he was speechless. After that, David started popping round regularly and, five months later, we kissed for the first time. The kiss was so tender, it made me want to cry.
'I love you,' he said.
But before we could look to the future, I had Phil's court case to deal with. In November 2003, I arrived at Bolton Crown Court. Of course I was terrified, but seeing Phil standing in the dock gave me strength. When I finished, women in the jury were crying. Even the judge was pale.
Phil was convicted of two counts of rape, two counts of assault occasioning actual bodily harm, wounding with intent, three counts of causing GBH with intent, and false imprisonment. He was sentenced to life imprisonment with a recommendation that a minimum of six years, nine months would be served before being considered for parole.
On Christmas Day 2003, David proposed and, three months later, we married at Wigan Register Office. In my floaty gold dress I felt like a different person. I'm the lucky one. I got away. Phil's in prison and I'm respected, alive and in love. What better ending could there be?
- If you need help or advice, ring the Women's Aid helpline on 0808 2000 247 or visit www.womensaid.org.uk