The Butterfly Effect

by Julie McLaren

  “Shall I go away again?”

  I looked up, and part of me wanted to make a pretence that everything was fine, but it was overwhelmed by the apparently greater need to burst into tears and tell him the whole thing. There was a moment when I thought I’d blown it, as he, naturally enough, thought there was some kind of relationship between me and Greg and didn’t want to get mixed up in anything complicated. But when I told him what had happened, he was sympathetic and sat me down at one of the tables.

  “Look, do you want someone to cover?” he said. “We’ve only got ten minutes until the bell, but I could say you suddenly felt sick, or dizzy or something.”

  I didn’t want that. It was the last day of term and I had cards for my tutor group, each with a little chocolate snowman or Santa inside. I wanted to hand them out myself and, besides, it was only a bunch of flowers. I was over-reacting. I shook my head and said I just needed a couple of minutes to fix my face and look respectable, then I would be fine.

  “Thanks for listening, though. I bet you think I’m completely flaky now, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t think that,” he said, and then he patted me on the shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze. “I’d better go, and so had you, but I’ll catch you later.”

  So that was when it all started properly, and who knows what might have happened if Greg hadn’t sent those flowers? I might not have been in my tutor room when Richie came to find me, I might have been in the staffroom, having a coffee. And our paths may not have crossed during the day, and maybe the PE teacher with the raven hair – such a dark, glossy black that sometimes it almost appeared blue – maybe she would have made a play for him after a few glasses of wine and then who knows? I like to think that he already felt enough for me to reject her advances, but if she’d been draped around him just as I stumbled across them in a corridor – well, the chances are I would have gone home in a huff and then … Well, there is no point in pursuing this, but maybe I have to thank Greg for Richie; that’s all I’m saying.

  The rest of it seemed to happen as if it had all been decided at that moment. I saw Richie only briefly during the day, but when we assembled in the staffroom for the Head’s Christmas motivational address, he came and sat beside me and we were simply together from that point. I don’t even remember discussing it. It was as if we both knew and understood what was happening without the need to express it in words, and I had an amazing feeling of calm, and relief, whenever I looked up and saw him by my side. Naturally, I also had the butterflies and increased heart-rate that are the staples of the start of a new relationship, but it was different this time. It was like coming home.

  We left the party as soon as we could without causing too much comment but, again without any real discussion, we headed to Richie’s car which was parked in a side street so he could collect it the next day if he’d had too much to drink.

  “Do you want to go into town?” he asked, but I shook my head.

  “Not really. Somewhere quiet, where we can talk.”

  “It’s quiet at mine,” he said, with a little smile, and we both knew that was the perfect idea.

  The rest is history. It all is, of course, but that evening is engraved in my mind like fine carvings in a cathedral, even if those memories will die when I do. We didn’t fall upon each other as soon as we closed the door, but we started the journey that would only end when he fell prey to the random madness of the street. Poor Richie. Poor me. We couldn’t know what was in store for us. We felt as if we had our whole lives before us, and even if we weren’t expressing it then, I think we both believed that we would be spending them together.

  I didn’t say a word about any of this to my parents, when I finally forced myself to appear at their house on Christmas Day. I didn’t tell them that I had seen him a couple of times since, or that we had spoken every day. I didn’t tell them that I was floating on a cloud of happiness, even though I was still being careful about what I said on Facebook and Twitter, the spectre of Greg still lurking there in the background. If they were different people, they would have seen something in me when I let myself in, laden with bags, to face the inevitable reproach.

  “We thought you might have been a bit earlier than this. Your mother has been cooking for hours.”

  “Happy Christmas, Dad,” I said brightly. “Yes, I’m sorry, I meant to, but I was out late last night. Sorry, Mum.”

  Mum presented me with her usual excuse for a smile and told me not to worry, so I ignored the tone of her reply and busied myself putting presents under the plastic tree, chatting about the weather, which was unremarkable, and school. This was, at least, one subject they would struggle to imbue with negativity, as they had both been teachers themselves and had wanted nothing more for their only child than that she would follow in their footsteps. Growing up, it had been such a part of my life, as it stretched out before me, that it had become a reality almost without my knowing it. It was something of a minor miracle that I loved it, that they had been right.

  So, it was no surprise that they didn’t notice how happy I was, any more than they would have noticed if I’d been sad. Emotions were not discussed in our house unless it was absolutely necessary, so nobody remarked upon the sparkle in my eyes or the glow on my cheeks and I wasn’t going to spoil it by presenting them with the opportunity to find a fatal flaw in my rosy vision of the future. I could imagine Mum’s lips pinching together in the way that always heralded a criticism. Deep lines had formed around her mouth, although she had never smoked, carved out by a lifetime of disapproval.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” she would have said. “It will be very difficult if you split up, being in the same school.”

  Or something like that, I don’t know. I didn’t give her the chance to think of some other reason why Richie and I would not be happy together, because I knew we would be. I knew it with a certainty I have felt about little else, and that got me through the rest of the day unscathed.

  As I remember, it wasn’t as bad as I had feared. There appeared to be a lull in hostilities between my parents, most of the time anyway, and they seemed to like the presents I had bought them. Naturally, their gift to me was destined to sit in my bedroom until a decent enough period had elapsed for me to take it down to the Oxfam shop, but I had expected nothing more. Dad left all the Christmas shopping to Mum, and she relied entirely upon a catalogue that featured a range of young women wearing middle-aged women’s clothes, so there was little hope of a happy outcome there. I smiled as I held up the horrendous lilac jumper she had chosen for me, and said all the right things. If we all lived long enough, maybe the Christmas would come when I would wear such a thing, so at least there was that to look forward to.

  Richie laughed when I showed it to him the next day. We hadn’t been able to see each other for several days, but now, as we sat snuggled up on the sofa in my flat, we shared our respective family Christmases and vowed this would be the last time we would ever spend Christmas Day apart. That’s how it was. We’d only been together a matter of days, but we were able to talk about being together in a year without any feelings of awkwardness as if one of us was rushing things or making assumptions. I got a little shiver when I remembered how I had felt when Greg’s mother had talked about Christmas dinner. That had only been a couple of weeks into the future but it had felt creepy and intrusive. Now here we were, still getting to know each other, but in no doubt about how that would happen. I pushed Greg and his mother out of my mind and leaned closer into Richie.

  “I think I quite like you,” I said.

  The rest of the holiday passed as holidays do. Quickly. New Year was a mad round of his friends and mine, as we were both at that stage when you are desperate to show off your new love to everyone you know, and there was nothing to burst our bubble. Olga was delighted, and told Richie he’d better be nice to me or he would have her to deal with, laughing and hugging us both as she did, and then we left that party and went on to another at about 11. He whisked
me around, smiling this huge smile and introducing me to his friends, some of whom I recognised but none of whose names I could have remembered then. That was almost certainly the first time I met Nat. I’d had quite a lot to drink by that time, and although I love him to bits, Nat isn’t the kind of bloke I would normally even register, but I’m sure he must have been there. He was Richie’s best friend and they had known each other since uni, so I can’t see them being apart at New Year.

  So, that was the holiday over. I had been single at the start of it, and now I wasn’t. I had been a mess, worrying about something that, almost certainly, was much less significant than it seemed, and now I hardly thought about it at all. I arrived at school early, full of optimism and enthusiasm, and picked up the contents of my pigeon hole on my way up to my tutor room. I could see that there were a number of envelopes, almost certainly containing cards from pupils, and I wondered how I should acknowledge them, now that I had taken all the others down from the pin board. Should I display them on my desk just for a day or so?

  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.