The Butterfly Effect (8 page)

I was still mulling this over as I opened them and glanced inside. I decided to say a personal thanks to any that were from children in my tutor group but to take the others home. It was very unlikely that pupils from my English classes would even remember they had sent me a card, let alone feel let down if I failed to mention it.

It was the third or fourth card that I opened. Even before I had looked inside, it had struck me as being rather elaborate for a pupil to have sent, but I had only vaguely registered this when I read the inscription:

To Amy,

Wishing you a very happy Christmas. I hope you liked the flowers. I am looking forward to seeing you sing again in the New Year, and I know our paths will cross.

Much love,

Greg

My first instinct was to tear the wretched thing into pieces, hurl them to the floor and stamp on them, but I didn’t. Maybe because I was feeling so positive, I was able to stop myself and read it through again. What did it actually say? There was nothing really threatening about any of it, when I analysed it phrase by phrase. He wished me a happy Christmas – fine. He wanted to see me sing again – fine. He had sent me some flowers – not fine, but hardly anything I could complain about. The only part that resisted all my attempts at a positive spin was about knowing our paths would cross, but even that could be ambiguous. I replaced the card in its envelope and put it in my bag. Maybe I would show it to Richie later.

I tried, I really did, but I could not forget it as the morning progressed. It was like knowing I was carrying around an unexploded bomb, and I found my stomach lurching every time my eye settled on my bag. Eventually, I put it in a cupboard, but that only transferred the anxiety from one inanimate object to another, and then I found myself trying to ensure that the offending piece of furniture was always behind me, teaching from a strange position to one side of the room. It wasn’t a great lesson and I knew I couldn’t go on like that, so when break came, I grabbed my bag and went to find Richie.

“This was obviously sent some time ago,” he said. “Look at the language. ‘Wishing you a very happy Christmas.’ That’s a wish for the future, or it would say ‘I hope you had a happy Christmas,’ so it’s at least a couple of weeks. Agreed?”

I nodded.

“We weren’t together then, were we? As far as he knew, you were still a single girl. He liked you – I get that – and he wasn’t going to give up that easily, but if he finds out you’re not single any more, my guess is that he’ll back off. It’s what I would do.”

“You wouldn’t fight for me?” I said, affecting a pout.

“No, not if I found out you were with somebody else before we had even kissed. I’d go away and lick my wounds, but I’m not a caveman and I doubt he is either, from what you’ve said. He’s just a bit sad. Let’s find a way to give him the information and see what happens. I don’t think you will hear from him again.”

It sounded reasonable and I hadn’t got a better idea, so I agreed and, that night, I posted a selection of photos of me and Richie at various events during the holiday. Me and Richie, arms around each other and holding glasses of fizz at New Year; a close up of our two faces, smiling the stupid smiles of people newly in love; me laughing at something off-camera and Richie with his head turned to me, smiling. All those smiles, and more. I almost felt guilty as I chose them, knowing that Greg couldn’t fail to feel hurt, but I had to do it.

“You have to be cruel to be kind,” Richie had said with uncharacteristic lack of originality, “otherwise he will just go on thinking he has a chance and he will never move on.”

Later, I checked Facebook and there were many likes and quite a few comments in response to my post. This was news to some of my more distant friends, and they were happy for me and wanted to know more. I spent some time on one more post then went to bed. There was nothing from Greg and no way of knowing if he had even seen my status, but I had done all I could do and now it was a matter of waiting. I didn’t know it then, but I would not have long to wait.

The gates to the car park were always open from about 7.30am. Anyone could drive in, but then they were closed a bit later to prevent parents clogging it up as they colluded with their offspring to avoid even the shortest walk to school. That’s how Greg was able to park in a space I could not avoid passing on my way to the entrance. That’s how he was able to jump out of his car and stand in my path as I hurried in with my bags of books and laptop swung over my shoulder.

“Hello, Amy.”

I was too surprised to answer, but I stopped. Maybe I should have tried to barge past him, told him to fuck off, but I would have needed the advantage of foreknowledge to do that. If I’d had that I would have arranged to walk in with Richie, but I was on my own and off guard.

“I thought you said you weren’t looking for a relationship,” he said.

I told him I wasn’t – hadn’t been – but sometimes these things just happen. I don’t know what I said, but it all blurted out whilst he stood there, impassive, unthreatening, unwanted, but there all the same. When I finally ran out of things to say he simply nodded and his lips tightened in a thin smile.

“Well, relationships are funny things. Sometimes they last and sometimes they don’t, so I just want you to know that I’ll be there for you. If, when, you need me, I’ll be waiting. I’ll see you at the next gig. Goodbye.”

“Well, I got that wrong, didn’t I?” said Richie, when I told him at break. I had decided not to tell him, to keep it to myself and see what happened, but it was always like that with Richie. It would have been like keeping something from myself, so it all came out, or what I could remember of it, as I found it hard to say what had actually happened. I knew I had said something to Greg, but what I’d said and what I wished I’d said had become somewhat confused. I think I may even have thanked him.

“Still,” Richie continued, “it may have been one last attempt. Ill-advised, granted, but understandable, given the rare beauty, intelligence and all-round gorgeousness of the object of his affections!”

“Don’t joke about it, please Richie,” I replied. I had a horrible feeling of anxiety, like watching the first few minutes of a horror film but without the pleasure. Everything is fine. The sun is shining and there is nothing for the characters to worry about, but you’ve seen the trailer and you know they will be pulled, inexorably, into something more awful than they could imagine. Now, I know that the logical explanation is that I had probably felt a similar feeling any number of times before, but nothing bad happened and so I only remembered the time when something did. That’s what my head believes. But what some other part of me knows is that I had a very strong feeling of presentiment, there in the warmth and safety of the staffroom, with Richie beside me and people coming and going as if everything were normal, so strong that I could not shake it off all day.

***

I remember that feeling. It became quite familiar, and I have it again, or something like it. I know it now as dread, but I did not have a name for it back then. Having felt it for so long, having lived under its cloud, I know that it is a dangerous feeing to indulge. How many days of my life have I lost, waiting for something terrible to happen, and then going to bed knowing that I am another day older and I have done nothing, experienced nothing and yet there was nothing tangible to stop me? This is different, I have no choice but to be here, but I must not sit here all day thinking, I must work on my defence.

Naturally, my barricade is still in place. Nobody has been here to test it, but now, as I look at it again, I realise that it is pretty hopeless. A few hard kicks and the door would push it to one side or topple it over, and I know I must find a way to strengthen it, so I have to think again. I rinse my plate and mug in the tiny bathroom basin and try to make my brain work. I need to look at the situation in a different way, as I have exhausted all the possibilities offered by furniture shifting. There is nothing big enough in this room, but what else might it offer? I will never know unless I try to find out, so I conduct a fingertip search of the floor, starting in the corner by the bed and slowly moving, on hands and knees, along the wall to the corner by the door to the bathroom.

The carpet is fitted but not new, so I prise it up a little where I can and wriggle my fingers underneath. Mostly it is nailed to the wooden floorboards with tacks, so I can’t just rip it up, but when I turn the corner to the space where the desk had been standing, I find a tiny coin wedged between the carpet and the skirting board. It is an old halfpenny. I don’t remember seeing one before, so maybe it will bring me some luck. There! This room may have other secrets to uncover, and my spirits rise, possibly rather more than would be suggested by such a small find.

The remainder of that wall reveals nothing, and the carpet is firmly tacked down all along that section. However, when I get to the door it seems looser, so I drag my barricade out of the way and pull the carpet from under the metal strip by the door. I can lift it just enough to fit my hand under, and I can feel the dust, dry and gritty, on the floorboards and paper. It is probably newspaper, used instead of underlay, and I pull some of it out, but it is brittle and fragile and I can’t see a date or anything useful, so I push it back. I don’t want Greg to know what I have been doing.

I flatten the newspaper as best I can, then push my hand a little to each side. There’s something else here. It’s paper, but it is thicker, smoother, so I tease it out. It’s an envelope, yellow with age and grey with dust. It has been opened carefully, with a clean, straight cut along the top, and it is empty. It is addressed to a Mrs E Bellingham at an address in London NW1. The name means nothing to me, but is that where I am? My knowledge of London districts is poor, but I know it must be north of the river, and if that is the case, if that is where I am, what are the chances that anyone will ever find me? I have no connection to London and my flat is at least a hundred miles away. Did Greg ever mention London? I wrack my brains, trying to remember our conversations, but he only ever wanted to talk about me so it is hopeless.

For a while, I sit on the floor with the envelope in my hands. It has taken all my enthusiasm away, but I have to replace my useless barricade, if only to demonstrate that I am not sitting here waiting for him as if it were some romantic tryst. If he is going to have me, at least I will put up a struggle, so even his warped mind will not be able to tell him I wanted it really. I am crying now, as the awful reality of my situation becomes clear. No-one is going to come charging up the stairs to rescue me. I am somewhere in London, the best place in the world to hide, and Greg has had two years to work all this out. He has won, and all our resolve, all Nat’s technology, could not save me in the end, as I was the weakness in the plan.

I replace the barricade, then continue my search. I have no expectation of finding anything useful, but at least it passes the time. I cannot move the fridge-freezer or the wardrobe, so those sections have to be missed, but then I get to the bed. I could just about squeeze enough of my upper body underneath to reach the skirting board, but then I have a better idea. If this bed is as new and cheap as it looks, it may not have a solid base, so I drag the mattress and bedding onto the floor and yes, I was right. It’s just as I imagined, a rectangular frame with a series of wooden slats at regular intervals from top to bottom. Now I can see the space under the bed perfectly, and I reach through to slide my hand along the skirting board, but all I find is a couple of loose tacks and now I am back where I started.

What do I have to show for my exertions? A coin, two tacks and an empty envelope that may or may not give a clue as to my whereabouts. Mrs E Bellingham may have lived here, but if she did, she may have lived in London previously and brought the letter with her. How can I tell if I am in London? I remove the chair from the barricade and take it to the window so I can peer through the tiny patch of slightly less-frosted glass. Are these the shapes of London houses? Is there anything in the distance, some kind of landmark?

But the answer to all these questions is the same as before. No, there is nothing to help me to know where I am, and what use would it be anyway? Wherever I am, it is Greg who has left me here, and he is most probably planning his next move right now. All along, it has been inexorable, the progress towards this moment, and I should have seen it at the time.

***

There isn’t much point in remembering everything that happened in the weeks that followed. It has all become muddled, and it all leads to the same point anyway. What does it matter if the next lot of flowers came first or the hand-made card? What difference does it make when I first saw his car parked in the street at home time? It happened enough after that, but all the time, he was so nice, so pleasant. He never again approached me in person, but he let me know, through all these little acts of supposed kindness, that he was not giving up and that was actually worse in some ways than if he had been threatening.

It was the same with my friends. He had sent friend requests to a lot of them, and several must have accepted him, but what could I do? I didn’t want to ask them to block him as it seemed so hysterical, but now he was embedded in my network. Even if I held back on posting, I could hardly expect my friends to do the same, so there were the photos of me with the band, of Richie and me at a party, of the pair of us with a crowd of happy faces as this pub or that club. We had a great social life and the evidence was there for him to see, however painful it must have been. He followed the people I followed and he liked everything that included my name, and there was nothing I could do about it.