Butterfly (3 page)

‘He’s over here.’ The nurse
walks into a four-bed bay.

Two of the beds have a privacy
curtain around them and one of the others is empty. She stops in
front of the only occupied bed, and I find myself looking at a
dark-haired guy. His eyes are closed. He looks peaceful. His long,
dark eyelashes fan against his cheeks. His forehead has a big red
lump, and two black eyes already bruise his skin.

A gasp escapes from my lips,
because this isn’t Jack. I have absolutely no clue who he is or
what possible reason there could be for my phone number on his
hand.

‘I…I’ve never seen him before.’
I stare at his bruised face as my thoughts race. I still can’t come
up with an explanation for this.

‘You’re sure?’ The nurse’s frown
grows more pronounced. ‘He had your number written on his hand.

‘I’m positive. I’ve never seen
him before.’

Her pager goes off, the sound
bouncing off the three walls in the bay. ‘Sorry. Emergency. I’ll be
back in a minute.’ Her shoes squeak against the lino floor as she
rushes back down the corridor.

I freeze, unsure what to do. I
want him to wake up so I can find out what he knows about me, but
at the same time, I don’t want to know. What if
he
gave him
my number? What if this guy is out to hurt me somehow?

I panic and turn to leave. Then
his croaky voice says, ‘Hi.’

My head whips back round to face
him, and I’m staring into two dark pools of chocolate brown
eyes.

It’s like looking into a mirror.
I can see something hidden in those depths. Something sad and
painful. Like he’s danced with tragedy and trauma and knows how it
all works.

His gaze penetrates mine, and I
can’t tear my eyes away. I’m hypnotized. The odd intensity of his
look should make me scared, but I’m not, and I don’t know why. It’s
like he knows me somehow, which is beyond bizarre because I’ve
never seen him before in my life. And instead of making me want to
run, the warmth and kindness exuding from that look turns my feet
to concrete, and I’m rooted to the spot.

4

BEN

My head’s killing me. I feel as
if I’ve been fighting in a championship title match, but of course,
that’s not possible. I haven’t fought in years. So, why am I in
hospital?

I see her now. I’d recognize
that hair anywhere. The way the light hits it makes it look alive
with fire.

She’s facing back towards the
corridor, preparing to leave, and although I’m in pain, I can’t let
her go. I need to talk to her, even if my head’s telling me to
close my eyes and rest.

‘Hi,’ I manage through dry
lips.

She jumps, jerking her head back
towards me. Her huge green eyes are wild with fright, and I’m lost
in them. Up close, she’s even more beautiful. She’s so tiny, like a
fragile, rare bird. It makes me want to slip my arms round her and
keep her safe.

‘What happened?’ I croak out,
wanting to keep her talking. To keep her here until…shit, I don’t
know. Nothing’s making sense anymore. Maybe it’s the hit to the
head I’ve obviously taken. I know I’m not thinking straight where
she’s concerned.

The tension in her forehead
relaxes its grip, and the crinkles smooth out. Something that looks
like concern replaces the fear.

‘You were in a car accident. Are
you feeling OK?’ She lifts her hand as if she’s about to touch me,
but it hovers for a second in the air before she drops it back to
her side.

I manage a smile, and my
forehead yelps in protest at the movement of my facial muscles. I
wait for a second, holding her gaze, trying to think of something
witty to say. Something that will impress her. Finally, the best I
can come up with is, ‘I’ve got a killer headache.’ I touch a huge,
tender lump on my forehead. I’ve had worse injuries fighting. ‘What
does the other guy look like?’

Her full, pink lips curve into
the ghost of a smile. ‘The other guy was a dashboard.’

I raise my eyebrows, and that
fucking hurts, too, but I don’t care as long as she’s talking to
me. ‘Well, Mr Dashboard won tonight, I think.’

Nervousness replaces her smile.
Her gaze flits around the room. She’s looking for an escape route.
‘Er…shall I get you a nurse?’

‘No!’ It comes out too fast and
a little louder than I intend. Then I remember what happened.
Seeing her at the Women’s Centre, following her to the coffee shop,
the car turning in my path. ‘Are the people in the other car
OK?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what
happened. The hospital called me because you had my number written
on your hand, and they thought you knew me.’ Her frightened bird
look is back. A wave of uncertainty and fear washes over her face.
She swallows so hard the muscles in her throat bob up and down.
‘Why did you have my number?’ It’s barely a whisper, but I still
hear the fear there.

I close my eyes briefly to try
to hide the lie that’s coming.

Think, Ben. What reason can you
give?

I don’t want to say the wrong
thing, or she’ll run away from me.

When I open them again, I say,
‘I saw your car out earlier tonight, and it looked like one of your
brake lights wasn’t working.’ I pause, getting myself in deeper
shit, because she’s going to check and find it working perfectly.
‘I saw the phone number sign-written on the back, so I was going to
call and let you know.’ I smile again, going for sincerity, and she
seems to buy it. I hate lying to her, but I can hardly tell her the
truth. She’d bolt out of here in a shot.

‘Oh.’ Her eyes widen.
‘Well…thanks. That’s very kind of you.’

‘Maybe it’s an electrical fault,
or you need a new bulb. Or it could be an intermittent problem,’ I
add, trying to cover my tracks.

She chews on her lip for a
second before asking, ‘Are you a mechanic?’

‘No, although I can turn my hand
to most things practical.’ Which is not a lie. I’ve had a lot of
time to study and learn where I’ve been. ‘I can take a look at the
light for you when I get out, if you like?’ It comes out more like
a question than a suggestion. I don’t want to push too hard.

She glances around again.
‘Well…um…that’s very kind of you, but I’m sure you’ll be recovering
for a while.’ Her eyes narrow at my forehead, and her button nose
crinkles at the same time, making her look so cute.

She hovers from foot to foot, as
if wanting to ask more but not quite sure how. I’m about to say
something else to keep the conversation going when she asks, ‘So,
what do you do if you’re not a mechanic?’

‘At the moment, I teach women’s
self-defence. I’m also a counsellor and work part time doing young
adult and grief counselling. I moved down from London a couple of
years ago for work, but I’m looking to find something more
permanent. It’s not easy to get full time jobs in counselling.’
Again, it’s not a lie, but it’s not quite the truth, either. If she
knew the truth, she’d definitely be running out the door.

Something flashes in her eyes,
and I’m not quite sure what it is. She opens her mouth to speak.
Closes it again.

I’m about to fill the silence
when she says, ‘A counsellor? Wow. It must be great to help
people.’ She gives me that ghost smile again. I want to see more of
it, because it lights up her face, but I get the impression it
doesn’t happen often. She tries to hide behind a mask of normality.
It’s what Mia did. And although she does it pretty well, I can see
through it to the shadow of fear there and the scars deep inside.
Her eyes tell me all the secrets she’s trying to keep locked
away.

My own eyes water with emotion,
and I blink to clear away the thoughts. Even though it’s been over
five years since Mia’s been gone, and time has healed the rawness
of it all, it still hurts. And the worst part is, it was my fault.
If only I’d known, I could’ve done something about it. Done
something differently.

I’m so lost in old memories, I
don’t realize she’s talking at first until I hear, ‘…where do you
teach self-defence?’

‘At the Cambridge Women’s Centre
and the Leisure Centre Gym.’

Her gaze drifts off to the side,
as if she’s thinking about something. She’s back to chewing on her
lip again, and it’s adorable.

She takes a deep breath.
‘Well…I’d better go. I hope you get better soon.’

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I don’t want her to leave. I
want to talk to her all night. This can’t be the end. I don’t want
to pressure her in any way, so I hold out my hand and say, ‘I’m Ben
Hardy, by the way.’

She backs away and stares at my
hand as if it’s on fire.

Oh, you stupid idiot!
Why did you do that?

I retract my hand and keep my
smile even.

Her gaze moves from my hand to
my face, and her cheeks flush with relief. ‘I’m Grace.’

‘Nice to meet you, Grace.’

5

GRACE

As I leave the hospital, my
cheeks are flushed with warmth, and my steps feel lighter. I touch
my cheeks and think it must be the heat from the building. It’s so
damn hot in there, it must be making me lightheaded.

I exit through A&E into the
cool, dark night, not knowing what just happened.

This isn’t me. I don’t talk to
strange men. I don’t have actual conversations with them, other
than asking their coffee requirements. And I definitely don’t give
them my name.

What the fuck have you just gone
and done?

He saw my car; he knows my
number, which means he knows where I work. But instead of feeling a
rising panic, I just feel…confused. When he looked at me, it seemed
as if he was staring deep inside me. As if he knew me. Really knew
me. Not the mask I wear, but the woman inside who desperately wants
help but is too afraid to ask. But how could he?

When I get home, I go through my
ritual with the door locks. I check the deadbolt at the top. The
Yale lock is next. Then the chain. Finally, the bottom deadbolt.
When I’ve finished, I check them all again from start to finish ten
times. It’s my only escape route, and it has to be done
correctly.

Taking off my coat, I lean
against the door and exhale a deep breath. He’s a counsellor? And
he teaches self-defence.

I don’t believe in fate and
happy endings. Not after what happened to Mum. Not after what
happened to me. I want to believe, but it just doesn’t happen,
except in novels and romantic films. But…I need a counsellor, and I
probably need to learn self-defence. And if he does those things,
he can’t be a threat, can he? He must be a good guy. And deep down,
despite everything, I still know they’re not all bad. Is that why I
didn’t feel threatened by him? I can’t shake the feeling that what
if there
is
a reason for this? Like someone, somewhere,
knows something I don’t.

But then I question my
judgement, which must be seriously flawed. I obviously can’t trust
my own instincts about people, so what am I even thinking? And I’ve
never been friends with fate or destiny, or whatever you want to
call it. It’s all bullshit.

Kicking off my shoes, I realize
I’m actually hungry for the first time in ages. I peer into the
fridge, but it has little to offer. A mouldy carrot, a couple of
eggs I can’t even remember buying, and a half-eaten packet of
cheese, probably way past its sell-by date. In the freezer, I spy
half a loaf of bread, so I pop a couple of slices in the toaster
and uncork a bottle of rosé.

My drug of choice: wine. I like
to think it helps me sleep, but I know it doesn’t. Nothing does.
Still, it’s better than taking sleeping pills, so I sip a glass of
it and wait for the toast to brown.

As I chew slowly on the toast,
the wine makes me drowsy. I’m so bloody tired, but my body is still
on high alert. Hyperaware of every noise inside the flat. The
central heating ticks and bangs under the floorboards. The kitchen
tap drips into the sink. This building is old, and the pipes are
full of lime scale. I should get a plumber out to fix a few things,
but I don’t want to be alone in here with a man. Even the thought
of it makes my skin crawl.

A woman screams outside on the
street, and my breath catches in my throat. I hold it. Then she
laughs loudly, followed by a man’s laughter. Just a couple walking,
having fun with each other, probably coming back from the pub up
the road.

I reach for my wine glass. It’s
empty. Instead of pouring more, like I normally do, I head for
bed.

Slipping under the clean, cool
sheets, I reach for the knife under my pillow, reassuring myself
it’s still there. I close my eyes, knowing
his
face will
appear, but it isn’t his face I see for once as I drift off.

It’s Ben’s.

~~~~

At three-thirty a.m., I’m
throwing up into the toilet, the acid from my stomach burning my
throat. A voice screams in my head.

This is not normal! Get some
help!

I can’t go on like this. I know
that. And I have the same conversation with myself every day. My
life is just one continuous loop. Like
Groundhog Day
gone
seriously warped. It’s just that knowing it and doing something
about it are two incredibly different things.

By half-past-four, I have my
mask of makeup on, and I’m inside the shop, baking. While I’m
measuring and mixing ingredients, cleaning the shop and checking
the equipment, I forget. For a few hours, I actually forget. And
it’s heaven. Doing this anesthetises me. I don’t even notice it’s
daylight until Lisa knocks on the door with a beaming smile.

‘Morning!’ She hugs me tight,
and the warmth of her bump presses between us.

‘You’ll never guess what
happened last night,’ I say, surprised I’m smiling what feels like
a proper smile. One that stretches right up to my eyes.

‘Brad Pitt came in wanting a
cappuccino on the way home?’ She smirks.