The Butterfly Effect (23 page)

I’m on my own again. The room is a mess, with the ruins of the meal spread over the desk and wrapping paper and ribbons on the floor. He has taken the uneaten lasagne away with him, but there are balls of crumpled foil on the microwave and a little plastic bowl of oil has been spilled and is trickling down the side of it. Part of me is thinking about what I could glean here. What use might there be for foil? Is it worth keeping the wrapping paper? But everything I do will be recorded, so what is the point? Gone are the days of barricade building, of inventing ways to escape. My only hope now is psychological manipulation, and I appear to be spectacularly bad where that is concerned. I decide that a few tears might be understandable, and I’m not sure I can stem them anyway, so I throw myself on the bed and sob.

I’m spent. This is how I felt on the first day, when I’d been hammering on the door and screaming for an hour, but things are so much more desperate now. Can I stop shaking and focus again? Is it worthwhile anyway? I decide to get up and tidy away the debris in the hope that it will help to clear my head, but just as I’m on my feet, the lights go out.

It’s very dark, as only a weak glow comes in through the small, frosted window at the best of times, and I’ve had at least one light on since the day I woke up and found myself here. Even at night I have slept with the microwave door open, as it gives me enough security to allow sleep, but it’s closed now. I slip off the bed and feel my way over to the desk then across to where it stands, on the little bedside cabinet. I open the door, but nothing happens and I realise that it isn’t just the lights, it is the sockets too.

This is my punishment. This is what you get for having the audacity to fancy a bit of lettuce with your lasagne. Of course there might be a power cut, but I don’t think so. I think he has everything controlled by his phone, and he is sitting at home now feeling some kind of righteous justification at leaving me in the dark. Presumably the heating will go off soon too, but I don’t suppose he will care about that.

I get back into bed. Strangely, although I would never have believed this, I find the dark is quite comforting. For a start, he can’t see me, so that is a bonus and I know this room so intimately now that I am certain there is nothing to fear within these walls. There isn’t even a spider hiding in a corner that I don’t know about. That, and the knowledge that nobody, apart from Nat, even knows I am here, means that I am quite safe until morning at least. So I take off the silk gown and wriggle under the covers fully dressed, thinking that a good night’s sleep will do me no harm.

Unfortunately, sleep does not come, even though I lie still and try to empty my head. Something is troubling me, a worrying, nebulous little thought that dances around the periphery of my consciousness like a sprite, teasing me with its proximity, with its transparency. It’s something Nat said, a word or a phrase, something that jolted me at the time but then got pushed to one side by his anger, by the crackling tension and the fear. What was it? If only I could see the camera footage like he can, but I doubt he would find that section very easy viewing. No-one likes to see themselves out of control.

I try to imagine I am watching us. I pretend I have a laptop, and I can see us sitting at the desk, in the slightly blurred monochrome that became such a familiar part of my life. What happened? I am sitting on the chair and he has pulled the desk close so he can sit on the bed. I see myself rising and going to the fridge. I find the lettuce, the lettuce looks limp, so I sit back down. He stares at me, his eyes cold and hard, and asks me what I was doing so I tell him and his face darkens and he says ... he says I am ungrateful. No, that’s not right. That’s it! That’s what I’ve been trying to remember! He didn’t say ungrateful, he said I was unappreciative, and I thought at the time, briefly, that’s an odd word to use. But now I’m getting a shivery feeling creeping over me as I know where I’ve heard that word before, and it wasn’t Nat who used it. It was Greg.

It was in the first nasty letter. I read that so many times I could practically recite it, and I know I am right. But I don’t think Nat read it more than once or twice, so I can’t see how he could have accidentally picked up on the language. In fact, now I think of it, Nat’s rant this evening was very like some of Greg’s later letters and that is even more worrying. What does it all mean? What did Nat mean about choosing things for me? My mind is spinning and I can’t make sense of anything. Nat and Greg seem to be getting muddled up in my head, so maybe it is me going mad after all, but then another memory hits me and my blood runs cold.

When you read that in a book, you think it is a metaphor. It’s not even a very original metaphor, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find it in a Year 8 creative writing exercise on building tension. But what you don’t realise, until you have been very, very scared, is that it is much more than a metaphor. I actually feel as if there is ice-water in the veins of my arms and legs, and all the little hairs are standing up on end, because I can remember Greg’s letter, and I can remember the silk scarf he complained I never wore. It was a lovely scarf, in a deep bronze hue, and the edges were beautifully finished with gold over-stitching and I know – in the way that sometimes you know things, without any evidence but without any doubt – that my new robe and that scarf were made by the same people. Oh my God.

Now that I have thought it, it can’t be unthought. Until a few moments ago I was dealing with a stalker who was certainly scary but tended to keep his distance, and a dear friend who had become a little unstable due to the stress of supporting me through that. Now I appear to be dealing with a friend who is way beyond unstable, and seems to have invented the stalker. Can this really be true? Surely he can’t have sent all those things, written all those letters?

The more I think about it, the more likely it seems, and it resolves all the unanswered questions. Why were Greg’s parents and the police so sure it wasn’t Greg? Because it wasn’t. How did Greg appear to be leading a perfectly normal life despite being apparently obsessed by me? Because he wasn’t obsessed at all – at least, not after he was warned off. Why was Nat so keen on using technology to protect me? So he could watch my every move without even coming to the flat.

If all that is true, and I’m certain it is, Nat must be suffering from a serious psychological disorder. I wonder if there is a name for it, this obsessive need to keep me safe? Then I think about Richie and the way he died, and I’m sure that was the trigger. The person he was closest to died in the most shocking circumstances and, having lost other people in his life, he resolved to stop anything bad happening to me. Obviously there is then a big jump from that thought to inventing a risk, but I can see how it happened. If he was going to be able to relax, he had to know I was safe. To know I was safe he could either live with me – and I rejected that – or he could watch me. Hence the cameras. To him, in this heightened state of anxiety about my safety, it would not be strange to pretend that Greg was still a risk. The world was risky and I needed to be protected from it; the end would justify the means.

So now I understand. Everything that has happened to me, from the moment of Richie’s death, is crystal clear and there is some relief in that. At least I know what I am dealing with. However, the situation is even more serious and complicated than I thought, and I have no psychological background to help me, apart from a bit of child development which is unlikely to be helpful.

What should I do? If I do nothing, merely submit to what he has planned for me, I will be here for the rest of my life, as this meets all his needs but none of mine. But if I do something and it turns out to be wrong, who knows what it might provoke? Is he capable of violence? His behaviour yesterday leads me to think he might be, but then there is the concern, the tenderness. I have to believe that the need to protect me will overcome everything else. If I don’t hang on to that, I may as well give up.

It’s still dark. I suspect he will leave me without power all night, to demonstrate his disapproval and exert his control, but I can use this darkness. I need to get my treasures and hide them in a safer place, somewhere I can retrieve them without his knowledge, and the only place I can think of is the bathroom. Slowly, quietly, I inch towards the edge of the bed, still breathing deeply as if in sleep. It seems crazy to imagine that he has super-sensitive microphones installed, but nothing is impossible. Now I am lying as close to the edge of the bed as I can get without falling out, so I slip one leg out and let it fall, wriggle a little more, and then the other, so I am beside the bed, on all fours.

I wait a while, then move across the carpet to the wardrobe, keeping as low to the ground as I can. This is the easy part, but now I have to open the door, pull the drawer, find the two socks containing the mirror and the screwdrivers, all in the pitch dark and without making any noise.

Somehow, I do it. Every tiny sound is like an explosion in my ears; the creak of the door, the slight clunk of the drawer as it slides open. But I have my treasures in my hand, and now I creep back across the carpet, forcing myself to be slow, and back into bed. All I have to do now is to act waking up, feeling my way across to the bathroom and going to the toilet, making as much noise as I like. So I do all that and ease the lid of the cistern up with one hand as I flush with the other, posting the mirror and the screwdrivers in. The sound of the water flushing hides any sound they make as they drop, so I can wash my hands and return to my bed. Job done. I don’t know how, or even if they will be useful to me, but they are all I have and now they are safe and accessible. I wish I could say the same about myself.

Something wakes me early. I don’t know how early, but it is dark outside, and then I realise that it is the light from the microwave. I suppose I could be wrong about Nat, it could have been a very long power cut, but I don’t think so. I think he couldn’t resist having a look at his little caged creature, and he needed light to do that so he switched the power back on. I slip out of bed and pad across to the main light switch, and yes, that is working too, although I switch it straight off again and return to bed. I don’t want to make his life any easier by flooding everything with light and I even close the microwave on the way, as if I had left it open by mistake. In any case, it is freezing in this room this morning and I need to wait until the heating kicks in.

Now I curl up and pretend to sleep – that will make interesting viewing for him – but in reality there is no chance of that. My mind is buzzing with all of yesterday’s revelations, if they can be described as such. I go through it all once more, minutely. Have I got this wrong? Is Nat really responsible for all the misery I have endured? But, unfortunately, it all seems clearer than ever today and I cannot escape the fact that I have been Nat’s victim for the past two years and Greg is merely the more or less harmless eccentric I first thought him to be, all that time ago. The only positive I can find is that Nat needs me. OK, he needs me in a completely unhealthy and obsessive way, but I would imagine that he needs me alive, and to continue living is about all I can hope for, at least for the moment.

So now I have to decide what to do. It really is crunch time. I remember Dad asking about the endgame and I didn’t really have an answer – only that we would go back to the police when we had gathered enough evidence – but I am at that point now. This is the endgame. It occurs to me that even if I try to spin it out for days or weeks, we can’t continue as we are. Something will happen. I will say something he doesn’t like and he will snap, and then who knows? He thinks this is what he has wanted all this time, but already he is finding it hard to manage. I have to find a way to make the past seem more attractive than the present. Persuade him that we can go back to that if only he will agree, but how?

I’m drifting in and out of sleep now, and Richie keeps coming into my mind. I wonder what he would do in this situation, and then I think that he may actually be the key. If I can help Nat to remember how things were before Richie died, how light-hearted we were, what fun we had together, maybe he will believe we can be like that again. It doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not. Nothing has been the same since he died, and I know that nothing ever will be, but I don’t have to admit to that. No, maybe I can make Nat yearn for the days when we all went out clubbing together, or met at the pub on a Friday night. Even the holiday in Cornwall was a wonderful, beautiful memory, and Nat was present for that too. Yes, today I am going to immerse us in the past and I only hope it does not backfire on me, as I have another tactic too.

I wait as long as I can before getting up. I know he will be watching me and it is so, so tiring, being careful about everything I do, wondering what interpretation he will give my every action. If I have one cup of coffee, will he think I don’t like it enough to have two? I can’t have toast as the bread is all gone, so I will have to eat granola with powdered milk, but will he notice my lack of enthusiasm, how I explore the bowl with my spoon to avoid the lumps of undissolved powder? Given that he comes every day, I really don’t understand why he can’t bring some fresh milk with him, but somehow I don’t think I will mention that. I suspect that he enjoys the giving and withholding of favours and who knows what he may withhold next?

I am almost robotic in my movements today. If anyone had told me how familiar this strange routine could become, within less than a week, I would have laughed, said what nonsense! But I wash and dress – the robe over jogging bottoms and a loose top – eat, rinse my cup and bowl, place my laundry in the bag Nat has provided for me and tidy the bed, all as if I have been doing this for years. I’m sure it would have been more difficult if I hadn’t spent all those months confined to the flat, but even so. This must be a good sign. It shows that I can adapt to each new circumstance as it arises, and I will be calm when Nat arrives. I will. Even though he is now so far removed from the person I thought he was, I will behave exactly as if nothing has changed. He must not realise that I have sussed him out, or the whole edifice may tumble and reveal a much more frightening reality underneath, a reality in which he has nothing to lose.

Now that I have done all that, and there is nothing else to do, the fear sets in. I have never had an operation, not even a minor one, but I imagine it must be something like this, waiting for it to happen. I am dreading the moment when I hear the click of his key in the lock, but at the same time, the anticipation is killing me. I need to get it over with, I need things to start moving before I have time to talk myself out of it again. I would love to get on my feet, to pace up and down this space, to feel my body in motion, but I know I must be still.

I lie on the bed and think about happy times. This is what I need to do, so I try to remember all the occasions we were together, having fun. As I do, there is a dull, creeping realisation that Nat was an almost constant feature of our social lives and there are far too many to remember them all. OK, he wasn’t there with us in the flat, or at my place before I gave it up, but he was there pretty much the rest of the time.

I wonder why I didn’t remark on it at the time? He wasn’t there at the gig, but from New Year onwards he tended to arrive with Richie wherever we were going and I simply accepted it. If it made Richie happy it made me happy, and we were usually with other people anyway. I would still go out with Olga and her crowd sometimes, but being with Richie often meant being with Nat and that was fine. There was nothing about him to dislike - although Olga wouldn’t agree - as he was friendly, cheerful and helpful. Often, he would volunteer to drive, so we would all bundle into his car and go out into the country to funny little pubs with skittle alleys, to places with lovely gardens in the summer or roaring fires in the winter. It’s hard not to cry when I remember those times, but I will use those memories when he comes. I have to.

At last, he’s here. My heart is practically jumping out of my chest and I really need to rush to the toilet, but I force myself to remain on the bed, the robe draped around me. I think there is a very small chance that I have attained the serene and passive look I am hoping for, but this is the best I can do. My eyes strain as the door opens. How will he look at me? Will I be able to read his body language? Will he still be angry?

“Good morning, Amy,” he says. His features are set in a rather blank expression but at least he does not appear cross.

“Oh, Nat, I’m so glad to see you,” I say, jumping off the bed and hurrying towards him. I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to last without running to the toilet, but this moment is important.

“There’s been a power cut, almost the whole night. It started shortly after you left, and it didn’t come back on until early this morning. I’ve been OK, just a bit cold, but I really wished you were here!”

“There wouldn’t have been anything I could do,” he says, and I suspect he does not like my interpretation of events. However, he is not going to admit to being the cause of it either, so I decide to change the subject.

“I’ll make us a drink,” I say, as brightly as I can, and I take a couple of cups into the bathroom to fill, solving another problem at the same time.

By the time I come out, he is prowling around the room. He used to do this in my flat, and I always assumed he was checking up on my supplies, making certain I had everything I needed, but now I am not so sure. I put one of the cups in the microwave and open the little cupboard.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee,” he says, but nothing more. Now he is opening up the wardrobe, running his hand along the shelf at the top, pulling open the drawers. I daren’t say anything, certainly nothing I would like to say, like what the hell are you doing looking in my underwear drawer? I have to maintain this act of complete submission or there will be no chance of a positive conversation later, but I am so relieved I moved my treasures last night that I almost have to stop myself smiling.

At last he sits down. I am on the bed, at once hoping and dreading that he will come and sit next to me, but he chooses the chair.

“I had a long time with my thoughts last night,” I say, “with the lights being off and all that. I was thinking about all those pubs we used to go to, you know, before Richie died. Do you remember? There was that one with the garden by the canal, I loved it there. And that one with the huge fireplace and the log fire. Nat, do you think you and I could go to places like that, one day? I’d be safe with you, I’m always safe when you’re around, and we deserve some fun after what we’ve been through, don’t we?”

I’m using the word ‘we’ as often as I can, and I’m painting a picture. I carry on, talking about the places we could go together, becoming almost enthusiastic as I do. One part of me never wants to spend another minute with this man, but I do want to do these things again, one day, so it’s not too hard to describe what it might be like. I talk about a narrowboat holiday. Wouldn’t that be fun, just the two of us? We’d be perfectly safe, and we could chill out and recover together. I describe pulling up near a pretty canal-side pub on a spring day, walking along the towpath and ordering lager and sandwiches. I’m well into this now, all my drama, all my English teacher resources in play, and I can see that he is listening. I don’t think he is ruling it out.

I pause for a moment. I need some kind of response, so I shift further down the bed in order to sit as close to him as possible. I take a deep breath and reach out for his hand.

“What do you think, Nat? I’m not expecting anything straight away – I know I have no right to expect anything at all – but can I hope? Can I hope that we can have some fun together away from here, when you’re ready?”

“It all depends on you, Amy,” he says, but he does not remove his hand. “We wouldn’t be in this situation if it wasn’t for your reckless behaviour.”

I tell him I know that. I know it’s all my fault, I know I should have listened to him right from the start, but I’m beginning to sound like a damaged soundtrack and there is a danger that I will appear insincere, so I go back to Richie.

“You know, Richie wouldn’t want us to be unhappy,” I say, exerting a little more pressure on his hand. “You know how he was. He wouldn’t begrudge it. Just because he can’t be here himself, it doesn’t mean that we can’t carry on without him.”

This is really difficult for me, and I hate myself for saying it, even though I do not mean a single word. It is probably true, Richie would not want me to be unhappy, but he would hate Nat for what he is doing now. I’m so glad I do not believe in any form of afterlife, as I can’t imagine what he would feel if he could see me now. But it has to be done. I have to say these things. I have to imply that I’m beginning to get over Richie and that maybe Nat could take his place. I’m not pushing the physical side of things as even the thought of it makes me sick, but the idea of two mates out and about, one caring and protective and the other eternally grateful and submissive, is something that I think he is beginning to like.

I think that is enough for now. I need to let the notion settle in his mind for a while. Maybe he will like it better the more he thinks about it. I have done the best job I could and called upon all my powers of description and persuasion, so I gently remove my hand and talk about lunch.

Fortunately, it appears that Nat has forgiven me for my ingratitude where food is concerned and he has brought more supplies in his sports bag. There is a sliced loaf for the freezer, but also some lovely rustic rolls in a variety of flavours – one with cheese, one with walnuts, one with olives – and we eat these with rich camembert and a herby cream cheese.

“This is almost like being abroad,” I joke, and my heart leaps, as there is a little smile on his lips.

“Maybe that could be arranged,” he says.

I can hardly believe my luck. He really does want me in his life, and he is clearly vulnerable to this kind of tactic. I have to think fast. I was not expecting to achieve this much in such a short space of time and my plans are only sketchy. What should I do next? There is only one thing for it. I will have to play my final card, so I get up and stack the plates. He’s on the bed this time, so I sit next to him. Close, but not too close. Friendly, companionable, devoted even. I don’t care any more, this is my opportunity and I have to exploit it.

“I had a dream last night,” I say. He doesn’t reply, but he is listening. “We are walking on a cliff, you, me and Richie, and it isn’t very safe. The edge is unstable but we have to do it, I don’t know why. You know how it is with dreams. Anyway, just as we are nearly there, a big chunk of cliff starts to crack and it’s about to fall into the sea, taking Richie with it, but you grab him by the arm and pull him up, even though it nearly takes you down too, and I love you so much for saving him. It ended there, the dream, but it is so true Nat. I know you would have given your life for Richie if you could have, and I think my dream was telling me that I must trust you, whatever happens.”

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. There is a silence, but I know something is going to happen as I see his hands clench into fists. When he speaks, his words are cold enough to frost the inside of the window, if it wasn’t frosted already.