So, the weeks of the summer holiday dragged on slowly, bitterly. I had virtually no contact with the band, as I had given my apologies for the last few practices. I still felt unable to face Anton even though Olga had told me that he had calmed down and accepted my version of what had happened. It was not my fault, but it was still because of me that they had lost this opportunity, and there was no escaping from that. In any case, they took an extended break in July and August, as three of them were teachers and would be away for some weeks. Facebook was becoming my only contact with the outside world, and I spent hours looking at the photos and reading about all the exciting things my friends were doing, wishing I could share these experiences but getting pangs of anxiety when I even thought about it. If I took a holiday, Greg could follow me and then I would be exposed and at risk. Maybe I was better off where I was.
It was about two weeks before the end of the holidays that Olga came round. I was watching daytime TV in my pyjamas when the bell rang and my heart started to pound. I grabbed the laptop and there she was, standing there in the sunshine, looking brown and healthy and holding flowers. My first thought was to pretend I was out. The curtains were drawn and there was no way she would know any different, but then something changed my mind. What was I thinking? This was Olga, not some stranger who could be a threat. I had seen no-one but Nat for at least a couple of weeks, as it was so much easier to get my groceries delivered and he popped in daily with anything else I might need, so it would be nice to talk to her.
I will never forget her face when I opened the door. I knew I had changed, but I hadn’t realised how much until I saw her jaw literally drop and her eyes widen and fill with tears. The flowers fell to the floor as she reached out and held me in a long embrace, but we were on the doorstep and this was not safe. I scanned the street over her shoulder and pulled away as soon as I could without being rude so we could go inside.
Such a lot of tears. I really did feel as if my heart were broken all over again by the time she left, but I’d had no choice. She had come to save me, she said, to release me from my imprisonment, but at that time I saw my flat as a sanctuary not a prison and I couldn’t do what she wanted. She wanted me to throw a few things into a bag and come with her, there and then. Her new flat wasn’t as big as those we had looked at together, but we could manage. It was time I picked up my life by the scruff of the neck and stopped being a victim; it was time I started taking control. She had spent her holiday reading a lot of the same websites as I had, so part of me knew she was right, and it was seductive, that resurrected vision of the two of us eating toast in our pyjamas on a Saturday morning. But it was only that: a vision.
It was a vision that was far too scary to become a reality, and anyway, what about Nat? How could I throw it all back in his face, when he had devoted months of his life and goodness knows how much money into making my flat as safe as it could be? What could I say to him? “Oh, sorry Nat, but you needn’t bother coming round tonight with that bottle of wine, or that box of chocolates, or whatever kind and thoughtful thing you have chosen to bring me today. No, I’ve moved in with Olga, yes, Olga, who I’ve barely seen for weeks, who said some pretty awful things about you, but never mind about that.”
I don’t even like to think of what she said about Nat. She said he was controlling, and she doubted his motives for helping me in this way.
“Very convenient, isn’t it, having you holed up here?” she said. She was getting worked up by this time, we both were, so I don’t suppose she meant to be so harsh. But the implication that Nat and I were anything more than friends really stung, especially as I had already told her I had no intention of ever replacing Richie. It was only a few weeks past the anniversary of his death, and the pain, when I felt it, was nearly as raw as the day he died. It was just that the gaps in between were longer and more manageable now, but that didn’t mean I was over him. Added to that, Nat had never shown any hint of wanting me in that way. I had been Richie’s girlfriend and Richie had been his best friend, so he had a duty to help me, that’s all it was.
I told her all this, but it made no difference. She was beside herself with frustration and anger and goodness knows what other emotions, and she presented me with a choice: either I could do it her way, and we would live together, sing together, repair my life together, or we could do it Nat’s way and I could stay cooped up in this flat like Rapunzel in her tower, waiting for my prince to rescue me. The only problem was that my prince had no intention of rescuing me, that’s what she said, and I couldn’t bear it. OK, so she didn’t like Nat and never had, but there was no cause to paint him as the villain. Greg was the villain, had she forgotten that, I screamed. She had no right to demand that I choose between her and Nat! Why couldn’t they both help me?
“I’m sorry, Amy,” she said, suddenly calm. “I’m not convinced you are ready to be helped, not properly. I won’t bother you again, not unless you change your mind, anyway.” Then she was on her feet, sweeping up her phone and throwing it into her bag, heading for the door. If it hadn’t been for the locks and bolts she would have been out before I had time to leave my chair, I had so little energy at that time, but I did manage to catch her as she finally opened the front door, swearing under her breath.
“Olga, please! Don’t let it end like this, you’re my best friend,” I begged, but she shook her arm free and left with one parting shot.
“You only have one friend, Amy, and I think you will find out one day that he’s no friend at all.”
You might think that this kind of vindictiveness towards Nat would have blunted the pain of the break-up with Olga, but that was not the case. I knew she was wrong, you can’t be as close to someone as I’ve been to Nat without getting to know what makes them tick, but I knew her motives were pure. It was what she really believed, and that was, had been, one of the things I loved about her, that complete lack of deceit. If Olga said something, you knew she really meant it, and it wasn’t because she disliked Nat, or even that she was jealous of him and had decided to turn me against him. No, she really believed that he was acting out of some twisted kind of self-interest, however unlikely that seemed. So, I wasn’t angry with her, not in any lasting sense, but I was bitterly sad and bereft that our relationship seemed to have run its course.
My memories of time spent with Olga were all good. They belonged in those sunlit days of sitting outside the college bar with pints of lager, walking down to catch the bus on a Friday night, dressed up and laughing at nothing much; cracking up at some funny story about school, band practice, precious moments on stage. We had so much in common we even had our own shorthand. If one of us was out, the other might text to ask about the scenery and that would elicit a response about the quality of eligible males. A question about attainment would require an answer about more intimate matters. It was silly but it encapsulated our history and Olga sometimes felt like the sister I’d never had.
That was a life I had lost, and she couldn’t seem to fit into the one that replaced it, whereas Nat barely knew the old me and played such a small part in my life before Richie died that he could operate with no concern about freedoms I may have lost. All he wanted was for me to be safe, and that was all I wanted too, at the time. That’s why it was no contest, but it was unbearably painful to have to make that choice.
***
I wonder what Olga would do, if she were here now instead of me? Would she be moping around, thinking about all she had lost, her head almost permanently in the past? Or would she be up on her feet, fierce and determined that he would never get the better of her? I think I know the answer to that, but I have also heard of incredibly strong women who have been worn down by a stalker, so it is simplistic to transfer the Olga I knew into this situation and imagine that she would be unaffected by what had gone before.
However, I can imagine her now, standing with her hands on her hips, rousing me to activity.
“For God’s sake, girl,” she says, “get off your arse and do
something! Are you going to sit here quietly and submit to whatever he has in mind for you?”
No, of course I don’t want to do that, but it’s dark outside and I’m tired. Can’t I sleep now? Surely he won’t come this late in the day? But then I think maybe that’s exactly what he will do. I remember with a jump that it is Christmas Eve. I remember how important today must be in his house, and I think about all the things his parents will want him to do. Or maybe he will still be at work. Lots of firms continue right up until lunchtime or even later, and then there may be social events to attend. Greg will have to behave exactly as he has on every other Christmas Eve, if he’s not already in custody of course, but the evening may be his. He could still come now, and those screws are not secure, so I pull myself to my feet and get on with it. I have no choice.
It is incredibly hard. My fingers are still sore and the coin is so tiny, that each screw moves only a fraction of a turn before I have to let go, and then the coin drops and I have to find it again. The head of one of the screws is so mangled that I have to give up with that one, but the others are still worth the effort, if only my fingers hold out. Sometimes I scream with the misery of it, my voice sounding strange and detached as if there is another prisoner in here, screaming with her own pain. Sometimes I will myself into a kind of trance, push and turn, push and turn, this screw for a while, then that. At those times I get more done, or at least it feels that way, but when I finally have to stop, to let the pain subside, I see that there is still a way to go. The two screws in the door frame are almost fully inserted, but the two in the door have at least a centimetre to go and that means the slats are still wobbly, but it will have to do.
I have come to the end of my resources, so I run the cold tap and hold my hands in the freezing cold water for as long as I can bear, then wrap them in a towel and lie on the bed. Christmas Eve. I thought last year was about as bad as it could get, but it seems however bad things are, there is always the possibility they will get worse.
***
I never told Nat about what happened. Of course he knew that Olga had visited, as the camera footage showed her on the front step, showed the two of us hugging, but I didn’t tell him we had parted in what seemed like such a final way. All the same, he was such an empathetic person he could tell I was unhappy, and although he didn’t ask, he made an extra effort to keep my spirits up that evening, staying with me to watch a film I’m sure he never would have chosen, and keeping my mind off it all with little stories and jokes. By the end of the evening I was convinced that I had made the right choice, and the next few weeks provided further proof if ever I needed it, as that was when Greg started to get really nasty.
It was quite possibly the next day, but if not it was very soon afterwards that I started to receive the next round of unsolicited goods. I had heard of this happening to other victims, the pizza delivered late at night and so on, but this was different, as everything I received was related to my impending death. It started with a series of literature and visits from salespeople wanting to sell me life insurance. He must have put me on some sort of list, as it was unending for a while, and I had to stick a notice on the door explaining that I was the victim of a hoax and did not want to buy any form of insurance at all. So that stopped it, but then there was a whole barrage of funeral-related material, with emails about making plans for my death, links to will-writing services and a visit from the local Co-op funeral home. The poor man was very embarrassed, as the person he had been informed was dead actually opened the door, but he couldn’t have felt any worse than I did.
By the end of October I had reached such a state of despair that I hardly opened the door at all, unless it was to Nat. I could guarantee that any visitor would have been sent by Greg, as there was no-one else left to visit. I had no social life, no job, next to no interaction with the outside world. In many ways I may as well have been dead, and this was a thought that occurred to me from time to time, but I never got closer than thinking about it. Sometimes, I would open the bathroom cabinet and look at the bottle of paracetamol, and I would get a feeling almost of comfort. Not today, but one day, if it all gets too much, I could do it. There would be a way out if I wanted it.
It’s very strange that it was Mum and Dad who triggered some kind of a change in me. Given that they had been pretty useless parents, certainly since I reached adolescence, and any support I had received had been cold, distant and practical rather than emotional or loving, they would have been the last people I expected to come swinging into action. But that shows how wrong you can be where people are concerned.
It was just after lunch and I was debating whether I should bother getting dressed at that stage. It would only mean another set of clothes to wash and there would be nobody to see what I wore, apart from Nat and he didn’t mind. But then it would give me something to do, as I had only a minuscule quantity of washing up to occupy me until the round of afternoon TV quizzes started. This was how small my life had become, but then suddenly, before I’d had the chance to make any decision, the door bell rang and my laptop screen flickered to life.
It took a few seconds to register who they were. They looked older, less upright, less sure of themselves than I remembered, but it had been a long time since I saw them away from the comfort and security of their own home. My home, it had been, but I had long since stopped thinking of it in that way. It always surprised me how many of my friends talked about ‘going home’ when referring to visits to their parents’ homes, so I suppose I must have been the unusual one. My home had always been wherever I was living at the time, and never more so than now, when its walls were also the horizons of my life.
But what were they doing here? Although it was hardly more than a twenty minute drive from their house to my flat, I had barely seen them since Richie’s death. Mum tended to phone every couple of weeks, and I would ask about their various medical conditions, she would ask about my job and that would just about exhaust our resources unless there was a cousin getting married or having a baby to tell me about, which she would do with a suitable degree of irritating wistfulness. So, when I stopped working, one half of our conversational repertoire disappeared, just like that. Our exchanges became punctuated by so many pregnant pauses – the only things likely to become pregnant – that eventually I suggested that I would call next time I had some news, an offer that she seemed to accept gratefully. By news, I meant a job of course, as she would not be interested in anything else I was likely to acquire, but I didn’t tell her there was no chance of that, as I could not leave the flat in order to attend any interviews. Somehow, the fact that I was being stalked by a man whose intentions became more frightening by the day would end up being my fault, so I kept it to myself and told her jobs were hard to come by at the moment, with all the cuts to public services.
It didn’t even occur to me not to let them in. Although the prospect of anything enjoyable or positive was much less likely than it had been when Olga stood in the same place, I suppose the old filial deference kicked in, as it does. You can’t leave your parents standing on the doorstep and pretend not to be at home, can you? I couldn’t, anyway, so I opened the door as quickly as I could and ushered them inside. To be fair to them, they made a better job of hiding their surprise at my appearance than Olga had done. However, it was clear that they did have some normal, parental feelings for me after all, as Mum was having a hard time hiding her tears and Dad was white as a sheet.
At least I didn’t have to explain, as it seemed they already knew just about everything. They would not say who had told them, but the amount of detail they had led only to Nat or Olga, and my money was on Olga. Nat, having had a chequered and fragmented childhood, was less likely to see parents as a source of support, but Olga came from a large and close family. I suspected she had sought out my parents to see if they could succeed where she had failed.
And, to an extent, they did. They were not passionate as Olga had been, but they asked questions, in that way that we
teachers do, and some of them were questions I found hard to answer. How long was I prepared for this to continue? What was the endgame? Why hadn’t the police been kept informed as the situation had evolved?
Of course I found answers at the time, answers that were founded in the many conversations I’d had with Nat, night after night, often with a film playing in the background and a bottle of wine on the table, the film barely watched but the wine always finished. We never stopped talking about the time when all this would be over, when we would be able to present the police with the irrefutable proof that Greg was the stalker and that he was a real and physical threat to my safety. But there were no timescales as such, and this played on my mind after they left. Was I really going to live – exist – like this for the foreseeable future? Nat was wonderful in many ways, especially where technology was concerned, and if it hadn’t been for him there is no telling what might have happened, but it was possible that he, too, had become trapped in a certain way of thinking. It was time to go back to the police.
So that’s what we did. Nat was not at all certain it was worth it as, he said, all we had was a greater body of evidence – quantity rather than quality – and none of it led directly to Greg. But still, I had enough spirit left in me to insist, so we gathered it all up, contacted the detective I had met on the last occasion, and kept our appointment one rainy morning in November. It was November 13th, as it happened, but that did not bother me unduly. With the sort of luck I’d had in the past couple of years, I couldn’t see how numerical superstition was going to make it any worse.
The Butterfly Effect Page 13
