The Butterfly Effect (3 page)

I spent the rest of the second set basking in a warm glow only partly tempered by the fact that Richie obviously wasn’t going to turn up. Nothing, not even being stood up by someone who was pretty nice to look at and had seemed like a genuine guy, could spoil my enjoyment right then. It was a good night, as predicted, and there was quite a crowd bopping away at the front as 11 o’clock approached. The pub had a strict rule about finishing by then, as there were historical difficulties with neighbours’ complaints about noise, but there was such a clamour for an encore at the end of the last number that the landlord held up a finger to indicate one more and the audience cheered and clapped. I clapped too, but then I noticed a few people turning to look at me, still sitting at my table to one side where I had been joined by Anton’s girlfriend and Tim’s wife.

“They want you,” someone said, and then, before I knew it, I was back on stage next to Olga and we were singing. I didn’t know all the words, but I knew the chorus. It was ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’, that old Cyndi Lauper classic, and I think the rest of the room knew it too.

And didn’t I have fun! It was a couple of minutes before the audience gave up and realised that the landlord’s impassive stance, arms folded, indicated a man not to be moved. Nevertheless, there was a lovely feel-good atmosphere in the room as we left the stage to get a quick drink before clearing up, and several people stopped us to say how much they had enjoyed it. We found a table recently vacated by a large group, and pushed all the empty glasses to one side, but I had barely sat down before I realised that I hadn’t been to the toilet the whole evening. Now that I had relaxed a little, my body was demanding to be heard.

“Sorry,” I said, squeezing past Anton. “Won’t be a minute.”

The ladies toilet was right at the other end of the pub, down a long corridor behind the bar area, but I knew where to find it because of all the Sunday afternoon practice sessions. I wasn’t really looking where I was going or thinking about anything other than what had just happened. If I closed my eyes, even for a few seconds, I was back on stage again, feeling the thump of the bass and the heat of the lights and the tickle of Olga’s hair on my shoulders as we leaned in together to sing. I washed my hands and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I looked exactly the same, if a little flushed, but I knew it was a different me standing there; a subtle change had happened up there on the stage and I gave myself a little smile to show that I knew it.

I was probably still smiling as I dried my hands and opened the door into the corridor, and just as the door swung shut behind me, someone came out of the men’s toilet and stood there. He was smiling too.

“You were amazing tonight,” he said. “I’ve seen The Butterflies loads of times, but you really added something. Have you sung with them before?”

He was a nice-looking guy, about my age or a bit older. Dark blonde hair in an artfully tousled style, faded T-shirt with some kind of logo on the front, jeans. He wouldn’t have stood out in a crowd and he probably didn’t look unlike a number of other young men in the audience that night, but he had lovely, white, even teeth and it would have been difficult to get past him in that narrow space without completely ignoring him or being rude. Besides, Richie hadn’t turned up, I was in a good mood, and here was someone who wanted to say nice things about my singing.

I smiled back.

“Oh, thanks, I’m glad you enjoyed it, but actually it was my first time.”

“Oh. Well it worked, really it did. I’m not just saying that. Who were you with before?”

I told him it was my first time, not just with The Butterfly Effect but at all, my first time ever, and his eyes got rounder by the minute. I noticed they were a beautiful colour, an unusual grey with flecks of blue and green. I said ‘yes’ when he asked if he could buy me a drink, and I hurried back to the others. Would it be OK if I had a quick drink with someone? I’d only be ten minutes or so and I’d help with the clearing up afterwards.

“That’s fine, take all the limelight and bugger off, we don’t care!” said Anton with a smile, and there was a bit of good-natured teasing from the others, but Olga took my hand and squeezed it.

“Go for it, girl,” she said, “and take as long as you like.”

Olga knew I’d had a succession of doomed relationships in the past two years since splitting up with Arif, my long-term boyfriend from sixth form. The cultural difficulties between our families had defeated us in the end, and I’d had my heart broken. Everything that had happened since seemed designed to prove that he had been the only one I would ever really love, despite Olga’s predictions that ideal men were like buses, you only had to wait and any number would come trundling along.

I smiled and squeezed her hand back, and there he was, at the bar. I felt a funny little lurch of something – disappointment, I suppose – that it wasn’t Richie standing there waiting to tell me how much he’d enjoyed the night, but I pushed it to one side. It was his loss, and if he couldn’t even be bothered to turn up I was probably well shot of him.

He bought drinks, and we looked around for somewhere to sit. The pub was emptying fast, even though they were still serving, so I pointed out a table near the stage, as far away as possible from Olga and her encouraging smiles, and we sat down.

“I know I said it before, but I have to say it again. You’ve got a quite remarkable voice,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“No, really, it gave me the shivers – in a good way, of course. Are you going to be a regular now?”

I told him I didn’t know. Although it was pleasant to receive such glowing plaudits it felt a little over the top, and I really had no idea whether the band would want to include me again. I tried to change the topic of conversation, asked him the usual kind of things, but I didn’t get a great deal in response, only that his name was Greg and he worked in IT. By that time, I could see the band beginning to unplug the equipment and wind up the cables, so I swallowed the rest of my drink and thanked him.

“I’d better go. I can’t leave them to do all the packing up, but it’s been nice talking to you.”

“Oh, do you have to?”

I was standing by then, and I nodded. Yes, I really did have to go, but he looked so sad that I found myself agreeing to meet him again. Just for a drink, just so we could finish off the conversation, he said. I could see Olga glancing across at me, and because I felt guilty about not helping and guilty about taking a drink from him then leaving so quickly, I arranged to meet him the following Wednesday after work, at a pub in town.

There was an awkward little moment when I thought he was going to try to hug me, but it turned into a handshake and then he was gone. His hand had been warm and a little damp, so I ran my palm over my thigh.

“He seemed nice,” said Olga.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“He’s a good-looking guy. No spark there?”

“Maybe,” I said. There hadn’t been a spark, not really, but I’d agreed to meet him now. I would see what happened on Wednesday and take it from there. Everyone told me I gave up too easily on relationships, dismissed people before I’d had a chance to really know them, so this would be a chance to prove them wrong.

The weekend passed in a blur. I cleaned the flat, washed clothes, planned lessons; I did all the normal things that had to be concertinaed into a weekend and had a night out on Saturday, but all these familiar tasks were completed in a new, unfamiliar context that was me as a singer. It sounds completely ridiculous as I think about it now, but I felt like a different person. I had to keep looking at myself in mirrors as I sorted clothes or tidied up the week’s debris. Who was this person looking back at me?

And the flat, my precious flat. That thought has made me remember it so clearly. It was hardly a flat at all really, just two rooms and a bathroom, but it was the first place I’d lived in completely alone and I loved it. It was my little haven, away from the chaos of student life and the unending misery of my parents’ house. The day I left it, the day I picked up the last box and loaded it into the back of Richie’s car, I almost cried, even though I was deliriously happy to be moving in with him.

But that is jumping on too far, too fast. The weekend passed, and then it was back to school. There, I would still be the same Miss Barker as I’d been when I drove out of the gates on Friday. No amount of praise for my singing would provoke the Year 7 class into showing a glimmer of interest in Romeo and Juliet unless I taught it well and instilled something of my love of the language into my teaching. I had to put these silly, vain thoughts to one side and concentrate on my job. I was not going to be a famous singer – most probably not any kind of singer at all – but I did want to be a good teacher. This is what I told myself as I drove to work that morning, along with some other stuff about trying to avoid Richie McCowan. It wasn’t that I cared, it was simply that it might be embarrassing.

I sorted out the materials for my first lesson, checked the smartboard was working, checked it again, then headed off to the staffroom for a quick coffee. Clearly my body was paying absolutely no attention to what I had told it in the car, as my pulse was racing even before the shot of caffeine, and I knew what that was all about. Would Richie be there and what would happen if he was? I refused to exclude myself from the staffroom on his account, but really. Why did I feel so anxious?

A surreptitious glance around the staffroom told me I was safe, so I made myself a coffee and sat down at the end of one of the rows of metal-framed upholstered seats. There was the usual hum of conversation, people coming and going with piles of books and laptops under their arms; the usual moans and groans of a Monday morning. Nobody bothered me, and I drank my coffee and pretended to look at my phone whilst the clock inched towards 8.30am and registration. I was just about to get up and rinse my cup when I looked up and saw Richie. He had seen me and was walking directly towards me. There was no escape.

“Amy, I’m so sorry about Friday! Did it go well?”

I shrugged and leaned forward to gather my things from the low, wooden table in front of me. This meant I could avoid looking at him without blanking him altogether.

“Yeah, it was fine thanks.”

“Look, I’m really sorry. I wanted to let you know, but I don’t have your number, or any way of contacting you. My dad was taken into hospital and I had to take my mum up there – she was in such a state she couldn’t drive – and it was all a bit hectic. I’m really sorry.”

What could I say? There was no reason to disbelieve him, so I said not to worry and I hoped his father was OK, but it was all very cool and stilted. The staffroom was emptying as everyone went off to registration, so we parted then, with formal thin-lipped smiles that were imbued with finality. Whatever there had been, it was gone now, if it had ever existed and even if it wasn’t his fault, I was meeting someone else on Wednesday so it was too late anyway. That’s what I thought as I hurried off to my tutor group, although if the way my heart was pounding was any indication, I didn’t seem to be entirely convinced.

***

I have to stop this now or the tears will exhaust me. Those precious days. Sometimes there is comfort in them, but not now. I have to do something, as the light is fading outside and then he will come, I know that. He is so clever, he will have gone to work as usual, acted normally, done his job with no hint of what is in his mind, but he will be secretly relishing the thought that now he has me. And then I will hear the lock turn and he will be there. Will he smile as if I have come willingly to this place, as if this is some hotel room assignation he has dreamed of? Or will he be angry that I have resisted him for so long, thwarted all his attempts to win me with love, made him resort to force?

I can’t bear it, I have to make some sort of stand, so I get to my feet and work my way round the room again. There must be something I can drag across to the door. A barricade, that’s it. It won’t be a long-term solution, as I can’t get out if he can’t get in, but it will keep me safe until the police find me. It won’t be long before Nat comes to the flat, and he’ll be anxious enough, knowing what I was going to do today, so maybe he will be earlier than usual. But even if it’s early evening, when he rings the bell and I don’t answer, and then when he lets himself in and I’m not there, then it will all start. The police will be round at Greg’s house in a flash, and, even if he’s out, if he’s here, trying to get in, it won’t matter. They’ll be going through his stuff, confiscating his computer, grilling his parents. Something will give it away.

So, what I’m doing is buying time. I have to remain calm, I have to be practical. I have to believe that they will find me before too long and all I have to do is stay safe in the meantime, so I put my back against each piece of furniture to see if it will shift. I don’t really have much hope for the wardrobe, it’s huge and does not budge an inch, but the fridge-freezer seems like a good proposition until I see that it is fixed to the floor with two strong metal clamps, one on each side. The bedside table can be moved, but it is flimsy and light, so that only leaves the single dining room chair, the desk and the bed. I take the chair across to the door, but it is too short to fit under the handle in the way that I have seen people do in films, so I take it back and sit down. Would the bed be heavy enough to withstand someone pushing hard from the other side of the door? It’s only a single bed, and it looks new. If only it were a great, big antique thing like the wardrobe, but it’s pine, probably a self-assembly kit, with a tiny headboard.