The Butterfly Effect (25 page)

There’s more. I’m climbing the stairs sideways, like a crab, as slowly as I can, trying to block out what he’s saying, trying to think of something, anything I can do. I daren’t look away from him but I’m terrified to catch those dead eyes. Every step seems to take a lifetime and he has really lost it now, winding himself up, tormenting himself. We reach the top of the first flight and he prods me in the side so I start to climb the second flight.

“The problem is, I’m not sure if I can leave her alone now,” he mutters, pausing as if the act of thought is too hard to execute whilst climbing such a steep staircase. “Who knows what she will do next? Shall I tie her up? That would keep her out of trouble, but then how long could I leave her? How would she eat and drink? What about the toilet?”

I’m beginning to really panic now. There are only a few more steps and we’ll be at the top. What if he ties me up in there and doesn’t come back? It won’t take me weeks to die, it will be days. Suddenly, my semi-comfortable existence in that room seems safe and predictable and I almost wish I could have it back. I contemplate saying something, but his anger is almost palpable. It is burning a hole in my heart and I daren’t say a word to him as I don’t know what it might provoke. Now he is moving again and I have to shuffle on, almost crawling up the last few steps on my bottom, like a little child.

So now we are at the top of the stairs, crammed together on the tiny landing. Any minute now, he will reach around me or move me to one side, the door will open and then what? My heart is pounding like a steamhammer and I am clammy with fear. But what’s that?

There is a noise coming from below. A thumping sound, like someone banging on the door. It is someone banging on the door and my heart leaps. He turns around and I don’t even think about it. I put both my hands on his back and push as hard as I can.

He can’t stop himself. There’s only one banister and he doesn’t grab it in time. The stairs are steep and he tumbles down head first, head over heels, and crashes to a heap at the bottom. I don’t even wait to see if he moves, but I’m down those stairs faster than I’ve ever moved in my whole life. I’m like a gazelle as I leap over his still and twisted body, then I’m down the second flight and at the door screaming.

“I’m here! Help me! Help me! I can’t get out and he’s here. I think he will kill me!”

It takes ages for the police to break down the door. They ask me if I can get the key but I can’t. I’m sitting by the door to Flat A, my arms around my knees, and I’m shaking so much I can’t walk another foot, let alone up the stairs to frisk a madman for his keys.

They help me up, they help me out. There is a nice policewoman and there is Olga. They take one arm each and there is the street. It’s a dull, drizzly day, the sky is grey, the pavement is wet, the houses are hunkered down against the cold, but this is the most wonderful, the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. I will never forget this moment, as I step out wearing nothing but a silk gown. I will never forget the smell of traffic and the chill of the air, for I am free.

It’s hard to believe that I’m here again. The pounding in my chest, the butterflies in my stomach. After all that has happened in the past few months, can this really be true? But yes, it is. Despite everything.

There is no Nat to bother me now, that isn’t the problem. “Mad as a hatter,” says Olga, when she talks about him. She’s quite proud of the fact that she was the only one to see through him and yes, he is completely mad. Not that they used that terminology when they decided that he wasn’t fit to stand trial. Nat is a sociopath – which is apparently not quite the same as a psychopath but with many of the same characteristics – but he is high-functioning. Quite possibly, he would have carried on leading a relatively normal life if Richie hadn’t asked him to help sort Greg out. For some reason, he became fixated on me and looking after me. It gave him a buzz, and then that grew until he wasn’t happy unless he could have me all to himself and keep me safe all the time. That was when all his powers of manipulation came into play. I shouldn’t blame myself, they tell me. That’s what they are good at, people like Nat, and there wasn’t anything I could have done. There are even days when I can believe that, from time to time.

We will probably never know for sure if he killed Richie. He denies it – when he is fit enough to deny anything – but there is no evidence either way and there will never be any charges unless he gets better one day and admits it. I don’t know what to think. Some days I remember his face when he said Richie had it coming to him and I’m certain he did it, but sometimes I’m not so sure. Maybe it was just a random act, and Nat thought there was a kind of poetic justice in that. I suppose it doesn’t matter really, as Richie is dead and nothing will ever bring him back whether or not I find out the truth.

Olga says that being a sociopath, high-functioning or not, shouldn’t be an excuse. She thinks he should stand trial anyway, but actually it’s his psychosis that is keeping him in a secure ward at present and she knows that really. She also says it’s a pity I didn’t finish him off, but I’m glad he didn’t die. I know I had enough of an excuse and I doubt very much I would have gone to trial, but I would have to live with it forever. Strangely, I don’t even hate him any more. Why waste time and energy hating someone like that?

Of course I’m more grateful to Olga than I can ever express. If our friendship was ever in any doubt, it certainly won’t be again. Her suspicions were aroused when she saw posts on Facebook, apparently from me. These described my trip to Scotland, and said what a lovely hotel Nat had found for me and how much I was looking forward to him joining me for New Year. There were photographs of the hotel and one of me wrapped up in a warm coat and woolly hat, standing by a stretch of water. All this appeared to be fine at first, and she was glad that I seemed to have got away from Nat for a few days if nothing else, so she sent me our usual little coded message: What’s the scenery like, chick?

My reply was a post about how I could see mountains in the distance and a loch from my bedroom window, and that’s when Olga knew for certain that something was wrong. I would have known, just as she did, what that question really meant and it was nothing to do with mountains or lochs, so she hurried round to my flat. When she got there, she found Nat just leaving, so she questioned him about my trip, asked for the name of the hotel and where it was, but he refused to tell her. He said it had to be kept a secret because of Greg, but she didn’t believe a word of it and went straight to the police.

She still likes to tell the story sometimes. Although I was obviously in a much worse state, it was traumatic for her too, and she’s never been one for bottling things up. So we sit there in our new flat on her big squashy sofa, just like I had dreamed we would do, and she tells me how difficult it was to persuade the police. She describes the agony of waiting for the authorities in London to track down a property in Nat’s name and laughs when she describes how she remembered about Nat’s inheritance.

“Do you remember?” she says. “You told me about his aunt leaving him a house, and I said maybe I could like him better after all. Maybe a house in London could make him quite attractive!”

I laugh along with her, but I don’t remember that conversation. There’s a lot I either don’t remember or don’t choose to, and I certainly don’t want to spend hours recounting what happened in that room. Being in an almost permanent state of shock for so many days has its effect on you, but Olga understands and we confine our reminiscences to my rescue. This is something that is likely to achieve legendary status the way things are going, but that’s fine. It’s perfectly fine by me.

So, it’s not Nat, and of course it’s not Greg who is causing my butterflies. I went to apologise to him and his parents, not that long ago, and they were amazing. They knew all about it and they completely understood how I had been tricked. Greg is still with the same girlfriend and has put any thoughts of me out of his mind, but he still likes his music and he still comes to gigs. Maybe I will see him tonight.

The room is filling up now and I’m sitting at that same table, my guts churning away, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. But it’s too late to change my mind now, as Anton is at the mic.

“And now, please welcome Amy Barker. She’s been away for a while, but we’re delighted to have her back!”

I walk across the floor and take the couple of steps up to the stage. I stand behind the mic. The lights are in my eyes, but Olga is there beside me and she gives me a smile as we link arms and the intro starts. For a moment, I think I’ve lost it, that my voice will never return, but then I imagine Richie is there watching me and I know I’ll be alright. I can do it. I really wish he could be there in the audience, smiling that proud smile of his, I wish it so much, but he can’t be, so this one’s for him.

I’m only singing the chorus – one step at a time, after all – but, when it comes, Olga and I belt it out together, just like we used to, just like we will do again.

It’s ‘Girls Just Want To Have Fun’, but it wouldn’t matter what it was, because the audience is joining in, everyone is smiling and dancing and I think yes, it’s OK. I really am going to be fine after all.

The End

Other books by Julie McLaren

The Butterfly Effect is my fourth novel. The others are all available from Amazon and are as follows:

The Music of the Spheres
– a comic novel of little people with big ideas.

Deceiving Ellie
– a thriller about an inexperienced student

Chickens
– a  tense, psychological novel about a man whose life is turned upside down

                     when he starts to mentor a boy in care.

Read more about these, and my next novel,
'That Far Gone',
on my website and Facebook page:

http://juliemclaren.com/

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Julie-Mclarens-author-page/803528612994071?ref=bookmarks