The Butterfly Effect (14 page)

Then there was the issue of Nat. I completely relied on him, in more ways than one, in a very different way to how I relied on Olga, but they really didn’t get on. There hadn’t been any kind of conflict, but Olga can never disguise her feelings very well, and the way she rolled her eyes when I mentioned something he had said spoke volumes.

“Oh, well, if Nat says it’s true I suppose it must be,” she would say. I didn’t like to think that the two people I was closest to did not like each other, but there was no getting away from it. Nat is usually an extremely charming person, and has a way of putting people at ease when he meets them. You can see them relaxing, smiling, as he does instinctively what any social skills manual would advise. He looks straight at you, right into your eyes, and he always seems to know the right questions to ask, how much physical contact to make, all that kind of thing. Apart from with Olga. Richie and I had been going out for a few weeks before they met at a party, and I must have talked about her and how lovely she was, but they simply didn’t hit it off and I could see Nat didn’t warm to her effusiveness any more than she warmed to his charm.

“Sorry, but I found him superficial,” she told me in the kitchen, as we searched for clean glasses. I said it was a very brief meeting to be making a judgement like that, and she laughed and said she supposed it was, but even though they were regularly thrown together by my relationship with Richie, their own relationship developed no further. They were polite and guarded when they met, and although Olga was much more open about her feelings than Nat was – he wouldn’t have wanted to hurt me – I’m sure they were mutual.

That being the case, how could Nat continue to oversee my security system in a completely different flat, with Olga around? It wasn’t only the cameras, there were bits and pieces inside too. I don’t know what they were, something to boost the signal I think he said, and all this would have to be dismantled and put back again in the new flat. Would Olga agree to this? Would she cope with Nat popping round almost daily, to take a quick look at the footage or check everything was working? Somehow I couldn’t see it, and now that Olga had a prospective flat for me to view, I would have to stop pushing this issue to one side and confront it.

I think that conversation was one of the most difficult I have ever had. With the exception of telling people about what had happened to Richie, it may have been one of the saddest too. I had already alerted Olga to the fact that there was a problem, but this was not something to say in a text or over the phone, so I told her I was coming round to discuss it, and winced at the surprise in her voice.

“What’s the matter? Has something happened?”

“No, not as such, but there are issues. Look, can we talk about it when I come?” I said. It was already obvious that this was going to be hard, but it had to be done, and I drove round to hers with my stomach churning away and my eyes pricking with tears. This was all Greg’s fault! If it wasn’t for him, I’d be packing my stuff into boxes, looking forward to a new phase of my life, despite the sadness that was always there. Why did he have to do it? Why couldn’t he just go away?

By the time I got there, I had worked myself up into a state and I fell into her arms and sobbed. She held me and comforted me, gradually calmed me down and teased it out of me, but it was all downhill from that point. She simply could not see why the new flat, in a different part of town, wasn’t the solution to the problem. She thought Greg would give up if I ignored him for long enough, but I knew that stalkers can carry on their campaigns for years, resolutely ignoring any evidence that does not fit in with their vision of the so-called relationship with their victim. I had read enough to know that, and I had also read enough to know that the police should be involved, but that was something we had not done.

“Why not, then?” demanded Olga. “If this thing is so bad that you can’t move in with me, that you have to be holed up in your flat with cameras trained on you day and night, why haven’t you been to the police?”

I explained about the lack of evidence. I avoided saying anything about Nat, but he was of the opinion that we needed more before the police would act. He was still hoping that Greg would give himself away, approach the flat or leave some other kind of evidence behind and then we would go to the police straight away. Of course we would.

Olga was not convinced, and she was angry and frustrated. She had spent months looking for a two-bedroom flat, and now, when her lease was running out, she had to start all over again. Added to that, she had been looking forward to us living together as I had, and she was disappointed, rejected.

“It’s like you’re saying I can’t support you,” she said, her voice rising. “What is this thing with Nat? Why has he become so important? You’re not …?”

“No, of course I’m not,” I cried. “How could you say such a thing? Richie hasn’t even been dead for a year and I doubt I’ll ever love anyone else, certainly not Nat. It’s just that he keeps me safe, Olga, can’t you see that? I’d love to live with you, but there would be no point if I didn’t feel safe, would there? Maybe when this is all over ...”

“Yeah, maybe,” she said, but I could see that it was time to go. Nothing I could say would make her understand how difficult it was to live with something like this. I’m sure I would have been the same if had been the other way round. Why don’t you just do this? Why don’t you just do that? It all looks so simple until it’s you in that situation, and then the world seems like a very different place and nothing is simple, not even going out to get a pint of milk. Nothing is simple at all.

I drove home in tears, let myself in and phoned Nat. Although it was getting late by then, and I had done no preparation for the next day, he insisted on coming round with a bottle of red. A couple of glasses of that, together with his calm and logical approach, helped me to feel better. I agreed to call in sick the next day, and he would take a day’s leave so we could work out a plan.

“I’m not having you become a victim,” he said, although I already felt like exactly that. “Tomorrow is the start of our fight back. We are going to beat this, and you are going to get your life back!”

I was still tearful as he let himself out and I double-locked the door after him and slid the bolts into place. This was another of Nat’s ideas, and it would certainly have taken more strength than I imagine Greg had to force his way through, but I can’t say that I felt secure that night. I tried to concentrate on Nat’s words, we were going to beat this, but what I was feeling was an overwhelming sense of loss, with Olga at the centre of it, and it would not go away.

***

So now I am very clear about what I’m missing. Locks and bolts that I can pull across from this side and they will stop the door opening even when it is unlocked from the other side. Obviously I can’t have them, not in the same way as I had them at the flat, but I have the slats and I have the screws. I go to the wardrobe, take one of the slats from its hiding place under the spare bedding and carry it across to the door, holding it flat against the wood. If I could screw one end into the door frame and one into the door, surely that would provide some protection, especially if I fix one at the top and one at the bottom.

Suddenly, I am excited. This could really work, it could keep him out, and then he might draw attention to himself. Somebody might hear him crashing against the door and call the police. In any case, if it keeps him on one side of the door and me on the other, that is all I can ask for, at least for a while, so I fetch the screws and the coin and try to put my plan into action.

Some time later, I sit on the floor, my fingers sore and bleeding in places and only one screw in place. The door is made of extremely hard wood, and it is virtually impossible to make any impression with only the coin to exert any force. The frame is easier, but even that has been very hard work and the screw is not as tight as it should be. So now what do I do? There is no point in even starting the second slat if I can’t solve the problem of the first, and I cry with the frustration of it. All I need is a couple of basic tools, a screwdriver, and maybe one of those things with a handle and a sharp spike. I don’t know what it is called, but Dad had one in his tool box, and I can see him now, marking a cross with a pencil then pushing the spike into the wood, moving it around with a small, circular movement so the screw would have something on which to grip.

Of course! Why didn’t I think of it before? I have my tacks, so I get one of them and take off my shoe so I can tap it into place. It makes a terrific noise, and the tack flies off in all directions over and over again, but I retrieve it each time and keep on tapping until, at last, it is sticking out of the wood. Then I have to knock it out again, with sideways movements so I can swing the slat across, post the screw through and into the little hole left by the tack. It is not easy, and there are several false starts, but eventually the second screw is about halfway in and the slat is in place. I cannot do any more, as my hands are too sore.

***

It is so hard to unpick everything. Sometimes it really is like a nightmare – not in the clichéd sense of it being terrifying, although that is true too, but in the way it has all become muddled in my head. Obviously there is a narrative thread, and one thing followed on from another, but I find it hard to see it. Still, even with this episodic memory, I think the first nasty letter must have come then, or soon after. It can’t have been before I told Olga about the flat, as I doubt I would have been in a fit state to have driven over there if I had already received it. Outwardly, it looked no different from the others, so I opened it with a sigh and prepared to file it away in the folder Nat had suggested I keep. There was little hope that it would contain any evidence, or that Greg would have been stupid enough to sign it, but I had to read each one just in case.

Dear Amy,

I must confess to becoming a little irritated. I have been nothing but polite, thoughtful and caring, yet you repay me with silence. What have I done to deserve this? It would not take much of your precious time to give me some indication that you have enjoyed my gifts, after all. I have never seen you wear the silk scarf, I have never seen my cards displayed on your windowsill, and I wonder if you ever wear the silver locket? I took ages choosing that. You could at least have put the novelty air-freshener in your car where I would be sure to see it, but no, nothing. How could you be so unappreciative when I have tried so hard to please you?

I was quite prepared to carry on as we were for as long as it took, but now I am having to reconsider. You and I both know that we will be together in the end, and that this period is something we will look back on and laugh about one day, but come on! The joy of the chase is only a joy if the quarry is caught, and you my love, are my quarry.

I am sorry if this upsets you, but my feelings cannot be toyed with for ever.

Your devoted admirer

Fortunately, I was already sitting down when I read it, and I dropped the letter to the floor as if it were on fire. This was a real change from the cheery little notes I had received so far, and although they had been bad enough, there had been no hint of menace. I phoned Nat and told him there would be no more waiting to collect that significant piece of evidence. I was going to the police, now, today, and although he was at work he dropped everything and came to pick me up.

“We are in this together,” he said, “and you are in such a state you might forget things.”

This was true. Although it had shocked me into action, the letter had also completely thrown me. I had known that Greg was living in a world of his own invention, but I did not like the petulant tone nor the use of the word ‘quarry’. This indicated something more sinister, more twisted, than I thought we were dealing with, and I was shaking from head to foot as we drove to the police station.

It was hours before we emerged again, calmer if not completely reassured. The police already knew about Greg, as I’d had to tell them about him when Richie was killed. I had never really thought he would be involved, and he had a very strong alibi, with CCTV footage of him and his parents entering and leaving a pizza restaurant and neighbours seeing them all arrive home at about 11 o’clock. There was the theoretical possibility that he had then driven back into town, waited for Richie outside the flat, killed him and returned home, but at least one of his neighbours was up until late and said she would have heard the car if he had gone out again. And then there were his parents, of course. They insisted that they had watched TV with a hot drink until about midnight, and that Greg had been there with them throughout, and I for one doubted that they would have been very good liars.

So, Greg was not a suspect, but the police were aware that he had been pestering me, and that file was eventually located when Nat explained why we had come. Two different people saw us, took down the same information, examined the letters and the carrier bag of unwanted gifts, and then we had to wait for what seemed like hours before we were called back in.

“Right, well,” said the detective, “it’s not easy when there is no actual evidence to link these materials to Mr Payne, but we will have a quiet word with him. That will almost certainly be enough, and you have done the right thing. I know you dealt with it yourself before, but that was actually a very high-risk strategy and could have put yourself and others in danger, so no more of that.” He looked hard at Nat.

“That’s why we’re here,” said Nat, a tinge of irritation in his voice. And then we left, with assurances that they would be in touch with me as soon as they had any news.