Butterfly (2 page)

I don’t have the energy to fight
her on this one. When she leaves work, I’ll probably just take it
down and throw it away.

She sticks the advert to the
door and stands back to make sure it’s straight before the first
customer pushes the door open.

‘Hi. What can I get you?’ I ask
him. The attempt at trying to appear cheerful makes my voice crack
slightly. I force a smile at him, but inside I cringe. I hate being
this close to men now, and yet I have to if I want to earn a
living. Adrenaline pumps through me as my subconscious weighs up
the potential threat. My heart hammers so hard I’m surprised no one
can see it banging out a tribal beat beneath the apron.

‘I’ll have a double espresso and
a banana muffin, please,’ he says.

‘Let the madness begin!’ Lisa
whispers, joining me behind the counter as another customer walks
in.

~~~~

At half-past five, I wipe down
all the tables and clear up the rest of the shop as Lisa cleans the
coffee machines. There’s been some craft market in town, making us
crazy busy. We have no cakes left over for me to take to the local
homeless shelter, which is what I usually do with them.

‘You can go, Lisa.’ I give her a
grateful hug and glance over her shoulder at the clock. The
counselling meeting starts at seven, and I want to get there early.
I don’t want to walk into a crowded room and have all eyes on
me.

‘You’re sure? I haven’t finished
this machine.’

‘No problem. I’ll do it.’ I jerk
my head towards the door. ‘Go on. You must be exhausted.’

She’s rubbed her back for the
last few hours, and even though she’s started sitting down behind
the counter sometimes, carrying around all that extra weight must
be tough when you’re standing all day.

‘OK, hon. I’ll see you
tomorrow.’ She walks out with a wave, and I lock the door behind
her.

I finish cleaning the machine,
gnawing on my lip as I try to muster up the courage for what I’m
about to do.

I lock the shop and go up to my
flat, changing into black leggings and a black sweatshirt. I
reapply my lipstick, but it looks wrong on my pale face. My
foundation has sweated off during the day, and I look haggard with
dark circles under my eyes. The lack of sleep is taking its
toll.

I get in the Ford Focus that
Imogen left me, parked in the rear car park. It’s sign-written with
the name of the coffee shop and my mobile phone number, although I
don’t know why. It’s not as if we deliver coffee, but Imogen
insisted potential customers could see it when I’m out driving, and
it would be good advertising.

I arrive at the Women’s Centre
at ten past six. I’m very early, but I want time to prepare. To
compose myself.

My chest squeezes tight. Nausea
builds up in my stomach, and I desperately hope I don’t puke
again.

The building is old Victorian
redbrick and was a school at one time. I stare at the windows and
take deep gulps of air, trying to calm my frazzled nerves. I open
the car door, and my hands shake so badly I drop the car keys on
the concrete. Every muscle in my body is rigid and painful. I
scrabble for the keys and for a moment, I freeze.

I can’t do this. I can’t expose
myself. Lay my feelings bare. I lean against the car door and close
my eyes, gripping the keys so hard they dig into my palm. But maybe
the pain is good. Maybe it will take my mind off the thoughts
hurtling out of control.

You can do this. You can do
it.

I repeat it over and over in my
head like a mantra and force myself to walk up the front steps into
the building. I rub my stomach, trying to make the twinges
disappear. A sign in the hallway says the meeting is being held on
the first floor.

I take another deep breath,
steadying myself on the iron hand rail of the stairs, and walk up
to the next floor with heavy legs.

The corridor is quiet. My
footsteps echo as I walk along until I get to one of the doors
marked with
Rape Crisis Group Therapy Session.
I rest my
hand on the door, ready to push it open.

And then I’m suddenly back in
his bedroom again. He’s forcing himself on top of me, and I can’t
move.

My heart races.

A crushing pain squeezes my
chest.

I’m panting as my subconscious
tells my conscious mind to suck in more oxygen.

I can’t go in there. I can’t
talk about this with strangers. I can’t let people judge me. Don’t
want to be labelled. I just can’t relive it all.

And so I do the only thing I
still have the courage to do. I run back along the corridor and
down the stairs.

The tears are in full flow now,
drowning out my vision. I rush to the car and unlock it with
trembling hands. It takes several attempts before I can fit the key
in the lock. I push my long hair out of my eyes and jab the key in
the ignition.

I have to get away from
here.

2

BEN

I park outside the Women’s
Centre and look at the clock. I’m way too early. All I have to do,
really, is set up the mats for the self-defence class, but I don’t
socialize anymore. so what else is there to do but sit at home and
think? I’m tired of thinking about it all. Exhausted with it.

Tapping my fingers on the
steering wheel, I think about driving off and coming back just
before eight when it starts. That’s when I see her flying through
the front door and running towards a car.

If I’d seen her in any other
circumstances, the first thing I would’ve noticed is her hair. It’s
the colour of rich, warm auburn. Silky smooth and trailing down her
shoulders. But today the first thing I notice is her eyes. No,
that’s not quite true. It’s not the eyes so much as what’s behind
them. I can see the pain etched somewhere deep in her soul. There
are things reflected in her eyes that she should never have seen.
Never have gone through. The weight she’s carrying around on her
hunched shoulders presses down, trying to squeeze the life right
out of her. It’s exactly the same thing I saw in Mia.

For a second, I don’t know what
to do. Should I get out of the car and approach her? But she can
only be here for one reason. The rape crisis therapy session runs
before my class. I don’t want to scare her. Shit, she’s already
scared out of her mind.

Before I know what I’m doing, I
grab a pen from the glove box and scribble down the phone number of
the coffee shop that’s written on her car onto my hand. The Ford
jerks out onto the main road. I don’t know what I intend to do with
the number. It’s not like I can phone her and say, ‘Hi, I saw you
were a bit upset coming out of the Women’s Centre. Do you want to
talk about it?’

I shake my head. I don’t know
what I’m thinking. All I know is that I need to help her. Maybe
it’s some way I can atone for all the guilt inside. I couldn’t
protect Mia from everything that happened. I couldn’t save her, but
maybe I can save this woman.

I start the engine of my beat up
Volkswagen with the thought of trying to follow her and see if she
leads me back to this coffee shop. As we head through town, it
feels as if I’m stalking her, which is so damn creepy. But I can’t
help myself, because she reminds me so much of Mia. Not physically.
She doesn’t look like her. But I know. I can tell what she’s been
through. What she’s going through. And the thought of it makes me
so fucking angry and sick.

When her car indicates off the
main road at the edge of town, I question again what the hell I’m
doing. I slow just enough to watch her park in a car park behind
the coffee shop. I still don’t know what I’m going to do about it,
if anything, but I can’t get her eyes out of my head as I drive
off.

I’m so consumed with the
memories of Mia and that night threatening to suffocate me that I
don’t see the car turning in front of my path until it’s too late.
I plough straight into the side of the vehicle.

My forehead cracks on the
dashboard. My ears buzz.

Then nothing but blackness.

3

GRACE

I must’ve been crazy to think I
could go through with it. To expose all these wounds and let
everyone see how dirty and soiled I am. I can’t afford a one-to-one
therapist, but deep down some instinct tells me I need to talk
about what happened.

So I have nothing left. No one
to turn to. I don’t want to break apart, but if I can’t talk to a
crisis group, I have to do the only thing I can do. The thing I’ve
been doing for so long. Fake my existence. Pretend I’m OK. Suffer
the nightmares and the irrational behaviour. Live with my
fears.

But I want more. I want so much
more than that. I want to be happy. I want to live and not just
exist. I just don’t know how to do it.

I check my flat’s front door
locks for the tenth time. Running my hands over each one from the
top to the bottom and then starting again. I know they’re locked. I
know it. But it doesn’t help my ritual. He knows where I live. He
knows everything about me. He could get inside.

Tonight.

While I sleep.

If I sleep.

I sit in front of the door with
a kitchen knife in my hand and stare at the locks, the fear making
my head throb. My eyes water; it must be from focusing so hard. It
can’t be the tears again. I have none left tonight. I don’t know
how long I sit there, grasping the knife.

My mobile phone sounds suddenly,
making me jump in the cold, hard silence that rings in my ears.

Only a few people ever ring my
number. Aunt Imogen, who rarely calls, and Lisa, or the occasional
office worker who phones the coffee shop wanting to know if we do
deliveries of coffee and cakes.

I uncross my legs, the stiffness
from being in one position for so long evident when I stand up. I
grab my mobile from my handbag and look at the number. I don’t
recognize it. Unless it’s him. He hasn’t called me since it
happened. He hasn’t come to my flat or the shop. But it could
happen.

The phone rings in my hand, but
I don’t answer it. My guts do a loop-the-loop. When it stops
ringing, the buzzing silence is back again. I have to know if it’s
him or not, so I dial my voicemail and listen for a message.

‘Hi, this is Nurse Anderson from
Adenbrooke’s Hospital. We’ve just had a male brought into Accident
and Emergency who’s been involved in a car accident. He’s
unconscious, and we’re trying to find out who he is. He has this
phone number written on his hand, so you might know him. Could you
please give me a call back as soon as you get this message? Thank
you.’

I frown at the phone and replay
the message. It must be some kind of mistake. Who would have the
coffee shop number written on their hand?

I call Lisa. Maybe her husband,
Jack, wrote the number down in case he wanted to get hold of her at
work, and he’s been in some kind of accident.

The phone rings, but no one
answers. And now I’m worried about them both.

I phone the number given and
pace my kitchen floor.

‘Adenbrooke’s Hospital, Nurse
Anderson speaking.’

‘Hello? My name’s Grace Elliot.
You phoned me about a man in A&E with my number on his hand.’
My voice rushes out, high-pitched with worry.

‘Yes. Thanks so much for calling
back. Do you know who he could be? He’s about twenty-five years
old. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Around six-foot-three.’

‘Jack?’ My breath hitches in my
throat. It sounds like him, but where’s Lisa? ‘Was he with a
pregnant woman?’

‘No. He was on his own. Is it
possible for you to come down and identify him? He’s got a head
injury and he’s stable, but we really need to try and find out who
he is and if he has any allergies to any medication. The police did
a check on his vehicle registration number, but it’s still listed
with the previous owner.’

‘Yes. I’ll be there in about
fifteen minutes.’ I hang up and reach for my car keys. The only
thoughts going through my mind as I run down the stairs are of Jack
dying and never seeing his unborn daughter.

I park the car at a haphazard
angle in the hospital car park and rush through to Accident and
Emergency. A female nurse is standing inside the entrance behind a
podium with forms piled up on it.

‘Hi, I’m here to try and
identify a man who was brought in with a head injury,’ I say.

‘Oh, yes, Nurse Anderson told me
you’d be coming. He’s been moved to…’ She looks down at a
clipboard. ‘He’s in Florence ward.’ She points to some double
doors. ‘Go along the corridor until you reach the lift, and it’s on
the fifth floor.’

I follow her directions and get
in the lift, avoiding the gaze of a young male doctor in a white
coat. In any other circumstances, I’d wait for another lift—an
empty one, or one that had more people in it, but I have to get to
Jack and find out if he’s OK. As the doors shut, I feel trapped,
stuck inside a coffin, buried alive. I press myself against the
wall, my eyes on the emergency button, trying to slow down my
breathing. I look out of the corner of my eye at the doctor who’s
reading through a file. I want to be invisible.

I count the floor numbers in my
head as the panel on the side of the lift lights them up. One, two,
three, four, five. I push off the side of the lift before the
door’s even fully open, ready to take flight and escape, trying to
ignore the palpitations in my chest.

The ward is to my left. I go
through more doors and rush to the nurses’ station in front of
me.

A nurse in her mid-thirties
pauses from filling in a chart and glances up at me, her forehead
pinched in a harassed frown. ‘Hi, can I help you?’

I explain again why I’m there,
and she leads me down the corridor. I haven’t set foot in a
hospital since Mum died. The smells of disinfectant, antiseptic,
and illness seep into my senses and bring it all back. The muscles
in my stomach clench tight. I try not to look at the patients in
bays on either side of me. I’m so close to turning around and
running out of here. I’ve had enough sensory overload for one day.
I just want to be at home behind my locked door.