The Butterfly Effect (22 page)

It’s later now, and we are getting on quite well. He had some jacket potatoes in his bag, and a selection of meats and cheeses, so we microwaved the potatoes and spread everything out on the desk like some sort of buffet. Then we sat together on the bed and ate, and he started to relax, I could tell, and told me about something that had happened at work. It wasn’t that amusing to be fair, but I laughed and told him how funny he was. I even put a hand on his arm, briefly. I am playing my part, and it’s working.

I decide to go back to the idea of the conversion. Surely there is nothing more designed to show my commitment to him than the idea of living under the same roof, so I ask if he has any paper and a pen, but he has better than that. He has a tablet in his bag, and it has a drawing app that enables him to show me how the two flats are laid out. The room I’m in is not part of either of those, but is an attic room on the second floor.

“This could be a shared space,” I say, sounding excited. “We could make it comfortable, put a nice big screen in here, a big, squashy sofa ...”

I have to stop at that point, as this is all reminding me of Olga, and the days when we were planning our flat. Oh, if only I had gone ahead! If only I had moved in with her, I have a feeling that it all would have stopped. I don’t know why, but I can’t imagine Greg transferring all his energies to a different address. That is silly, of course, as stalkers routinely track their victims across much greater distances than the couple of miles we were thinking of, but I can’t help believing that was one of the most important mistakes I have ever made.

Still, we are getting somewhere, as now Nat is talking about the flats. He is wondering whether it would be better for me to have the one on the first floor, and I say I’d be happy with that. He thinks it would be better for me to use his address rather than have one of my own, and then we talk about my new name. Of course I will need a new name if I am going to disappear from Greg’s life, and we try some out. I would prefer to remain as Amy and to change only my surname, but he thinks we need to be more radical, and now he is deciding on the name, making it clear that he is the guiding force in this process. I’m not going to argue with that. It’s exactly what I want him to believe.

“I think Alice Wilson will do nicely,” he says, getting his tablet and typing it out so I can see how it looks. I agree to it, and it is quite difficult to keep a degree of detachment as the plans become more developed. I am throwing myself into this role, and I know he is convinced as I have not seen him this animated for some time. I almost see myself in one of these flats, choosing the paint, choosing the carpets.

But that is when it all starts to go wrong. I make the mistake of talking about teaching, about getting a job in London once we are settled in. I say I want to be able to pay my rent, but he looks at me sadly, as if I am a child he has just spent a whole lesson trying to help and none of it has worked.

“But Amy, you won’t be going out. Don’t you see, that’s the whole point of it? Elimination of risk. We can’t do that if you are travelling around London!”

Now I really blow it. What an idiot! I could easily say ‘oh, of course, silly me,’ and possibly get the conversation back on track, but I don’t. I’m too shocked by what he has said to go along with it, and the differentiation between the fake Amy who would agree to live with him and the real Amy who is acting a part becomes blurred. I start to ask him why it would be risky if I’m living in London under a different name. Surely the trail would be too cold for Greg to pick it up here? Even if he knew I was in London, how would he ever find me? But Nat is having none of it.

“You haven’t got a clue, have you?” he says, getting up. “I thought this could be the answer, but you are clearly no closer to understanding this situation than you were before. I’m very disappointed in you, Amy.”

He could hardly be more disappointed than I am with myself. All that work, all those hours carefully building up that picture, me and him in two nice flats, coming up here to watch a film together, and it’s all destroyed. He gets up to leave immediately, and refuses to say when he will be back. He ignores my apologies, my pleas, and with nothing more than a quick look around the room to make sure he has left nothing important behind, he is at the door.

“I have your Christmas present in this bag, Amy,” he says, waving the sports bag at me. “You didn’t deserve it yesterday, but today I thought you had really changed and I was looking forward to giving it to you. You’ve spoilt it all, and now I will have to take it home again.”

He’s gone, and I throw myself onto the bed and cry. Now what can I do? I am probably further away from persuading him than I was yesterday, and I am also seriously worried about his thought processes. This is way beyond some kind of minor stress-related over-reaction. He really wants me to stay inside and never go out again, and that is a serious obsession with no hold on reality. It makes Greg’s actions pale into insignificance. What on earth am I dealing with here, and how am I ever going to get out?

Oh, how different I feel this morning. Yesterday I had my strategy to work on and I’d had a reasonable night’s sleep, but today all my plans are in tatters and I have spent the night tossing and turning, dreaming of all sorts of secret routes out of here. In one dream, the house had expanded to some kind of labyrinth, with so many doors and corridors, hatches and tunnels. I had Nat’s tablet, and all I had to do was find the folder where the plans were saved and I would be able to follow the route, but I kept losing the tablet and finding it again, kept turning a corner to find I was in my own flat again only to realise it wasn’t really my flat at all, kept taking the wrong path and having to squeeze through dark, narrow spaces.

I feel as if I’ve been beaten up. My head is aching and heavy and my eyes are sore, but all that is nothing compared to the sickness. I don’t have a bug, the food was perfectly fine. No, I am sick with worry. It doesn’t seem possible, but I am beginning to think it is a long time since Nat had any intention of supporting me back into the outside world, and I’m afraid he is much more ill than I could ever have guessed.

Still, I have to do something. The alternative is to sit around and let events take their course, but I can’t do that. It seems I still have some reserves left, so I try to think of something that will either give me some control or provide me with information. Information is power, there is no doubt about that, so I turn my attention to the issue of the cameras. If I can establish their existence, without letting Nat know, that must lead to some kind of advantage. Maybe I can enact some little scenario that will provoke him into doing something I want. I don’t know, it may be pointless, but I think I know what I’m going to do.

I get up and sit on the edge of the bed. I really do have a headache, but I exaggerate its effect and massage my temples before standing up. Next, I get a cup and walk slowly into the bathroom, wobble a little as I fill it with water, steadying myself on the basin. There could be a camera in here after all and I don’t want to waste any opportunities. Then I walk slowly towards the desk, but before I get there, I stagger again before falling to the ground and spilling the cup of water.

I lie there for a minute or two, possibly less, then I pull myself up on my hands and knees and crawl over to the bed, where I apparently manage to stand up long enough to almost fall onto it. I wriggle up until my head is on the pillows, then I close my eyes. I will lie very still so he will wonder whether I am unconscious, and then later, maybe he will be sufficiently concerned to take me to a walk-in centre where I will tell anyone who will listen what has been happening. Of course I know that won’t happen, he won’t take me anywhere, but it is a nice idea, and I allow myself to let it run, to imagine all the fuss the nurses would make when it all came tumbling out. Then they would need to check me over, but I could be back in the flat by this evening.

***

So, it seems my pleasant little daydream turned into a proper sleep and I feel better. My head is still a little muzzy but, although I am still anxious and tense, the worst of the sickness seems to have dissipated too and I think I will be able to function. However, I remember that I am still performing; everything I do from now on will have to be planned and considered. So I make a show of rising slowly and sitting up for a while, rubbing my temples. Next, I wash and dress – I can’t stand the thought of that shower cubicle – and eat a slice of toast. The bread is running out, and I think I must remember to ask Nat for some more. That would imply I am resigned to staying here for a while.

Now it must be about the time Nat arrived yesterday, so I start to prepare for him. I do everything slowly, sitting down frequently to rest, and I run my hand over my forehead at intervals. If I ever get out of here, I might take up amateur dramatics instead of singing, I think bitterly. I push aside the nasty, insidious thought that there is actually only a small chance that I will ever be able to make that choice. If only I hadn’t lost so many friends. If only I had a better relationship with my parents. It could be weeks before they begin to doubt whatever Nat has told them, or I wouldn’t be surprised if he is using my laptop to email them purportedly from some far away retreat where I am escaping the stress of the past two years. I could be dead by the time anyone begins to look.

But still he doesn’t come. I am running out of things to do, and I can’t spend the whole day walking around looking shaky. I’m beginning to feel like the heroine in a silent movie, all dark eyeliner and silk, wafting around with a tragic look on my face. I have to be careful not to overdo this, so I make myself another slice of toast and a cup of tea, eat it as normally as I can, then wash up and clear away with more bounce in my step. There, the Amy on film is feeling better. She had a bit of a funny turn, but now she is back to her old self and she is very sensible. Look how sensible she is, Nat! Look how she has taken the almost-empty bread wrapper from the freezer to remind her to ask for more. Look how she is putting the dirty clothes in two neat piles in front of the wardrobe, so she will remember to talk about laundry.

That kept me occupied for a while, and I have allowed myself another little rest on the bed, but now it is getting dark outside and I am still alone. Have I driven him away? Has he washed his hands of me completely? That doesn’t seem likely, and anyway, he could hardly sell the house with me locked in the attic bedroom, alive or dead. But there is the risk that he has done something stupid or lost the plot completely. Suppose he was so angry when he left, that he drove like a madman and crashed the car? He could be dead, or in a coma in hospital and no-one would ever find out about me. Or suppose he went completely mad and had to be locked up? They would think I was a figment of his fevered imagination.

I don’t want to cry on camera, that is going to spoil the impression I’m trying to give, so I take a cup to the bathroom and drink some water, composing myself as I do. The Amy that looks back at me is pale and haggard, so I won’t have any trouble acting that part. But I must not look tearful, so I splash my face with water and dab it dry. I will do, but I don’t know how long I can keep this up.

I’m back on the bed again, almost resigned to dying a slow death here in this room, when the lock clicks and I’m on my feet. I have to resist the urge to run to the door and hug him, my gaoler, the man I thought was my friend, as that will imply that I am not happy here in the peace and tranquillity of the haven he has made for me. Instead, I smile a friendly smile and ask if he would like a drink. I busy myself fetching the water, heating it, making up the dried milk and all the time trying to work out if he has been watching me.

It doesn’t take long to confirm that I was right. Not only does he remark on my pallor and ask after my health, but I also catch him bending to feel the damp patch on the carpet where I spilled the water. It is visible, but I doubt he would have noticed it in normal circumstances.

“What happened here?” he asks.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that, but it’s only water. I dropped a cup this morning.”

He doesn’t reply, but he looks different today, softer, more concerned.

“Are you sure you’re OK?” he says later, as I reach across to take his cup. “No, let me do that. You stay there. I don’t think you can be eating enough. I’m going to make us some food and you are going to rest.”

So, now I know. He has been recording me and he has been watching the footage. I don’t know whether he sits and observes my every move in real time, or whether he scans it later as we used to do at the flat, but at least I have that knowledge, that information. It means I can be careful not to give anything away, and it means I can plan and act out what I want him to see. I feel a small bud of excitement in my stomach, alongside the anxiety. I’m not giving up yet.

Meanwhile, Nat is busying himself with the contents of his sports bag. I offer to help but he waves me away, insists I remain on the bed. He has various foil-wrapped packages which he brings to the desk and arranges in a line, then he sets about unwrapping them and putting the contents onto plastic plates. He is whistling a little tune as he works, and this is very heartening, as I did not know how to respond to the sullen and argumentative man who was here yesterday and this one is more like the Nat I know. Maybe he was just having a bad day, or maybe he needs me to be weak and vulnerable in order to be happy. Well, that’s a part I’m happy to play for as long as it takes, so I sit there looking vaguely pathetic and watch him getting everything ready with what I hope are big, grateful eyes.

After a while, when everything appears to be ready and the microwave is whirring, he goes back to his sports bag and takes out a present. I can tell it is a present, as it is wrapped in red and gold Christmas paper and decorated with a golden ribbon, split and pulled into a multitude of spirals. Somebody has taken a lot of care with this, but I cannot help feeling sad. Who wants to receive a gift in these circumstances? Still, receive it I must, so I fake an excited smile as he walks towards me, holding it out.

“This is what I have been wanting to give you since Christmas Day,” he says. A little cloud of disapproval of my previously unreasonable behaviour dulls his smile for a moment. “But that’s all behind us now, isn’t it? I hope you like it.”

Actually, it is beautiful, and I do like it. Even here, even in this most bizarre scenario, I cannot help but recognise the quality of this gift. It is a pure silk dressing gown or robe, in the softest, palest dove grey that looks silver as the light hits it in one way and then blue, and then silver again. I hold it up, feel how the fabric hangs in ripples and waves, as if someone had fashioned it from a twinkling stream on a summer’s day. Every seam is over-stitched in silver, and I don’t have to act at all as I hold its softness to my face.

“Oh, Nat, it’s wonderful! Fantastic! Thank you so much! It must have cost a fortune, and I love it.”

He tells me to try it on – over my clothes of course – so I do, and it fits perfectly. I suppose there’s no surprise there, given his intimate knowledge of my wardrobe, but I do not dwell on that thought. Maybe I was panicking too soon as I imagined all those dreadful endings. He must be very fond of me to spend so much and to choose so well. Surely there is something to build on here.

I decide to wear the robe whilst we eat. I can’t bear to take it off, I tell him, and he smiles.

“I want you to be comfortable,” he says and I don’t say a word about how much more comfortable I would be in my own flat – I have learned my lesson in that respect. So I tell him how well he has anticipated all my needs, ask for another loaf, and even raise the issue of my laundry with nothing but a positive response.

The meal is very good, despite having been transported from wherever he prepared it. We start with olives, sun-dried tomatoes and ciabatta bread with oil and balsamic vinegar, and then there is his home-made lasagne, which he knows I love. It occurs to me that it would benefit from the addition of a little salad, and there is a lettuce in the fridge, so I get up and open the fridge door to see if it is fresh enough to eat.

“What are you doing?” asks Nat.

“I’m just having a look at this lettuce,” I say, taking it out of the crisper, “but actually I think it’s had it. Never mind.”

I sit down again, but then my heart begins to thump and the blood sings in my ears as there is a very different look on Nat’s face.

“You are unbelievable,” he says, and I know better than to ask why. “I have never known anyone as unappreciative as you. I go to all this trouble, spend the whole morning making this lasagne for you, knowing it’s your favourite, and this is how you repay me! Lettuce! Fucking lettuce! You wouldn’t see an Italian fussing about lettuce if somebody served this up for them. It’s just typical of you, Amy, nothing is ever good enough for you. Whatever I do, however much time I spend choosing things, you always throw it back in my face.”

There is more, much more. He is raving, there is no other word for it, and it is as if he has had all this stored up inside him for months, years even, and the mention of lettuce has broken the dam. I can’t imagine what I’ve done to deserve it, and I can only assume it is part of his illness, but I am genuinely scared as I sit there and look at his face, red with rage, eyes narrowed, spit flying from his mouth. He is a man possessed and I can only sit and wait for this to end, as I am afraid of what might happen if I attempt to move.

Eventually, he calms down, but only after he has swept the lasagne into a carrier bag. I find myself thinking what a waste that is, but really I am more worried about how this will end, as now he has turned his attention to the gown.

“You’d better give that back to me too,” he growls, grabbing hold of one sleeve. But I beg him, tell him how much I love it, tell him how sorry I am about the food.

“It wasn’t a criticism, honestly,” I say. “I know it was thoughtless, but ...”

“There is always a ‘but,’ isn’t there, Amy?” he replies, and then it is just like yesterday. He is gathering everything up, preparing to go, but this time I don’t try to stop him. Although the thought of being left here is terrifying, the thought of being with him in this mood is equally bad, so I retreat to the bed and wrap the gown around me, hoping he will change his mind about taking it. It has symbolic value, and if he takes it home it will prey on his mind, allowing him to feel angrier and angrier, whereas if I wear it here, wear it continuously, he will see me enjoying it and maybe mellow a little. It is a forlorn hope, but the only one I have right now.