The Butterfly Effect (16 page)

I wonder if I could sleep now, then I could carry on with forcing the screws further into the wood after I have rested, but I am hungry too, properly hungry, so I defrost some more bread and find some beans. Comfort food, and I am halfway through and actually enjoying it when suddenly I stop, the fork suspended between the plate and my mouth, as the memory hits me like a punch to the stomach. It was the day I first went back to Richie’s, on the last day of term, and there was a time at some point during the evening, when he stopped kissing me and stood up as if something was wrong. It was still so soon after we’d got together that I had a worried little stab of anxiety, but he was only messing about, full of mock shame.

“How could I be so useless!” he cried. “You’ve been here two and a half hours and I haven’t even offered you anything to eat! Stay, there, do not move, and I will put it right!”

And it was beans on toast, not unlike this, the toast over-done at one edge and limp at the other, the beans as hot as lava. It was all he could find in his cupboard, although as I found out later he was quite a good cook, and he served it on a tray covered by a tea towel. I can see him with that tray, as clearly as if he were here in the room with me. He was trying to carry it one-handed, balanced on his finger tips, but he kept nearly dropping it, and I was laughing and he was laughing and we were so happy. So, so happy. I can’t eat any more and I have to stop myself thinking like this, or I will begin to wonder why I am bothering with anything, the barricade, the plans, the hopes. Even if I get out I can never be really happy, as I can never see Richie again, never hold him, never wake up and know that he is there beside me.

***

It was incredibly difficult to drag myself into school the following Monday. I barely left the house all weekend but had done very little preparation, having divided my time between a number of new websites I had found, crying on my bed and looking out of the window. If only Greg would appear. I knew it would scare me, but he might be caught on camera. There might be something to act upon, instead of this terrible limbo. Nat was away, although he felt terrible about leaving me and offered to cancel his plans, but I wouldn’t let him. How many other people’s lives were going to be affected by this?

So, I walked into school that Monday morning feeling like a husk. I don’t suppose I looked a lot better, as I was losing weight and sleeping poorly and this had given me hollow cheeks and dark circles under my eyes. I was up in my tutor room, wondering if I had time to take down a display that had become scruffy and dog-eared, when one of the deputy heads came in. I could almost tell what was in her mind as she stood there. What on earth is going on here? What’s happened to the bright young teacher who made this room a cheerful and stimulating environment for her tutor group? She may have been thinking something else, I don’t know, but it didn’t stop her saying what she needed to say. She may have been sad for me, but she had no choice.

They more or less took me off timetable for the remaining weeks of my contract. They actually wanted me to take sick leave, but at least I was safe in school, so I got to do a bit of cover here, a bit of small group work there and I went on a lot of end of term trips. Sometimes, when we were far away, at some educational facility or learning how to canoe, I would forget for a moment about everything. I would relax and laugh with the kids, I would feel confident to discipline them if necessary and, mostly, they would respond. Then I would go home and deal with whatever Greg had chosen to send me, or wonder what he was planning if there was nothing, and I would know that it was all coming to an end. No contract for September, no school to escape to, no income.

That’s how I came to spend the anniversary of Richie’s death with a group of Year 9 boys with behaviour difficulties who had earned themselves a day at a theme park. I could just as easily have stayed at home, everyone would have understood, but this was what I wanted to do. Richie had worked with these boys, talked about how he was going to use Science to re-engage them with school. He had some success with an after-school club, thinking up increasingly bizarre and exciting experiments to keep them occupied and giving them opportunities to use equipment denied to them in mainstream lessons because of the perceived risk. This was my tribute to him, much more meaningful and poignant than weeping over the plaque where his life was commemorated. I did that later of course, but I didn’t want the whole day to be about what we had all lost, so I splashed down the log flume and screamed my head off on a series of increasingly terrifying rides with these boys and it was almost as if Richie was there with us.

I could hardly blame the school. If it had just been the rumours circulating about me, of course they would have dealt with it. There had already been some kind of communication to parents, assuring them that no teachers had been accused of inappropriate relationships with pupils, and that these rumours were vicious and completely unfounded. Rumours have a life of their own, and I knew they were still there on Facebook even if I hadn’t been named, but it was the problem with my teaching that sealed it. They knew it was all connected, they knew I had been doing well before all this started – even after I lost Richie I was hanging on in there – but they could not let the pupils suffer. I suppose I could have challenged it, especially if they’d replaced me with another teacher on the same terms and conditions, but I hadn’t the heart for it. I hadn’t the heart for anything.

That’s one of the reasons I didn’t do the one thing I should have done, to take a holiday, but it was so difficult. The stress of it all had taken away all my energy, all my enthusiasm for life, and planning a holiday was not the only casualty of this. Now I had to think about money. With my final salary due at the end of August, I could not afford to risk any unnecessary expenditure, or I would be dealing with homelessness as well as everything else. Of course Nat said it would never come to that, and I could stay with him for a while if necessary, but I wanted to stay where I was. Once I was inside, no-one could approach the flat without me knowing it, as Nat had shown me how to get a live stream from the cameras on my laptop, and my phone was always charged and ready beside me. Greg would never get past the locks and the bolts in the time it would take the police to arrive, so at least I was physically safe, if nothing else.

So, the weeks of the summer holiday dragged on slowly, bitterly. I had virtually no contact with the band, as I had given my apologies for the last few practices. I still felt unable to face Anton even though Olga had told me that he had calmed down and accepted my version of what had happened. It was not my fault, but it was still because of me that they had lost this opportunity, and there was no escaping from that. In any case, they took an extended break in July and August, as three of them were teachers and would be away for some weeks. Facebook was becoming my only contact with the outside world, and I spent hours looking at the photos and reading about all the exciting things my friends were doing, wishing I could share these experiences but getting pangs of anxiety when I even thought about it. If I took a holiday, Greg could follow me and then I would be exposed and at risk. Maybe I was better off where I was.

It was about two weeks before the end of the holidays that Olga came round. I was watching daytime TV in my pyjamas when the bell rang and my heart started to pound. I grabbed the laptop and there she was, standing there in the sunshine, looking brown and healthy and holding flowers. My first thought was to pretend I was out. The curtains were drawn and there was no way she would know any different, but then something changed my mind. What was I thinking? This was Olga, not some stranger who could be a threat. I had seen no-one but Nat for at least a couple of weeks, as it was so much easier to get my groceries delivered and he popped in daily with anything else I might need, so it would be nice to talk to her.

I will never forget her face when I opened the door. I knew I had changed, but I hadn’t realised how much until I saw her jaw literally drop and her eyes widen and fill with tears. The flowers fell to the floor as she reached out and held me in a long embrace, but we were on the doorstep and this was not safe. I scanned the street over her shoulder and pulled away as soon as I could without being rude so we could go inside.

Such a lot of tears. I really did feel as if my heart were broken all over again by the time she left, but I’d had no choice. She had come to save me, she said, to release me from my imprisonment, but at that time I saw my flat as a sanctuary not a prison and I couldn’t do what she wanted. She wanted me to throw a few things into a bag and come with her, there and then. Her new flat wasn’t as big as those we had looked at together, but we could manage. It was time I picked up my life by the scruff of the neck and stopped being a victim; it was time I started taking control. She had spent her holiday reading a lot of the same websites as I had, so part of me knew she was right, and it was seductive, that resurrected vision of the two of us eating toast in our pyjamas on a Saturday morning. But it was only that: a vision.

It was a vision that was far too scary to become a reality, and anyway, what about Nat? How could I throw it all back in his face, when he had devoted months of his life and goodness knows how much money into making my flat as safe as it could be? What could I say to him? “Oh, sorry Nat, but you needn’t bother coming round tonight with that bottle of wine, or that box of chocolates, or whatever kind and thoughtful thing you have chosen to bring me today. No, I’ve moved in with Olga, yes, Olga, who I’ve barely seen for weeks, who said some pretty awful things about you, but never mind about that.”

I don’t even like to think of what she said about Nat. She said he was controlling, and she doubted his motives for helping me in this way.

“Very convenient, isn’t it, having you holed up here?” she said. She was getting worked up by this time, we both were, so I don’t suppose she meant to be so harsh. But the implication that Nat and I were anything more than friends really stung, especially as I had already told her I had no intention of ever replacing Richie. It was only a few weeks past the anniversary of his death, and the pain, when I felt it, was nearly as raw as the day he died. It was just that the gaps in between were longer and more manageable now, but that didn’t mean I was over him. Added to that, Nat had never shown any hint of wanting me in that way. I had been Richie’s girlfriend and Richie had been his best friend, so he had a duty to help me, that’s all it was.

I told her all this, but it made no difference. She was beside herself with frustration and anger and goodness knows what other emotions, and she presented me with a choice: either I could do it her way, and we would live together, sing together, repair my life together, or we could do it Nat’s way and I could stay cooped up in this flat like Rapunzel in her tower, waiting for my prince to rescue me. The only problem was that my prince had no intention of rescuing me, that’s what she said, and I couldn’t bear it. OK, so she didn’t like Nat and never had, but there was no cause to paint him as the villain. Greg was the villain, had she forgotten that, I screamed. She had no right to demand that I choose between her and Nat! Why couldn’t they both help me?

“I’m sorry, Amy,” she said, suddenly calm. “I’m not convinced you are ready to be helped, not properly. I won’t bother you again, not unless you change your mind, anyway.” Then she was on her feet, sweeping up her phone and throwing it into her bag, heading for the door. If it hadn’t been for the locks and bolts she would have been out before I had time to leave my chair, I had so little energy at that time, but I did manage to catch her as she finally opened the front door, swearing under her breath.

“Olga, please! Don’t let it end like this, you’re my best friend,” I begged, but she shook her arm free and left with one parting shot.

“You only have one friend, Amy, and I think you will find out one day that he’s no friend at all.”

You might think that this kind of vindictiveness towards Nat would have blunted the pain of the break-up with Olga, but that was not the case. I knew she was wrong, you can’t be as close to someone as I’ve been to Nat without getting to know what makes them tick, but I knew her motives were pure. It was what she really believed, and that was, had been, one of the things I loved about her, that complete lack of deceit. If Olga said something, you knew she really meant it, and it wasn’t because she disliked Nat, or even that she was jealous of him and had decided to turn me against him. No, she really believed that he was acting out of some twisted kind of self-interest, however unlikely that seemed. So, I wasn’t angry with her, not in any lasting sense, but I was bitterly sad and bereft that our relationship seemed to have run its course.

My memories of time spent with Olga were all good. They  belonged in those sunlit days of sitting outside the college bar with pints of lager, walking down to catch the bus on a Friday night, dressed up and laughing at nothing much; cracking up at some funny story about school, band practice, precious moments on stage. We had so much in common we even had our own shorthand. If one of us was out, the other might text to ask about the scenery and that would elicit a response about the quality of eligible males. A question about attainment would require an answer about more intimate matters. It was silly but it encapsulated our history and Olga sometimes felt like the sister I’d never had. 

That was a life I had lost, and she couldn’t seem to fit into the one that replaced it, whereas Nat barely knew the old me and played such a small part in my life before Richie died that he could operate with no concern about freedoms I may have lost. All he wanted was for me to be safe, and that was all I wanted too, at the time. That’s why it was no contest, but it was unbearably painful to have to make that choice.