I can see it now. This is nothing to do with keeping me safe. This is all about possession. I belonged to Richie – as Nat would have seen it – and he wanted me for himself. I expect he could cope all the time he was included in our plans, and maybe he thought that he only needed to bide his time and I would realise he was a better choice, but Richie was going to take me away, to somewhere so far from him that even a visit would be difficult. He wouldn’t see me for a year and all his work would be in vain. He couldn’t let that happen and he didn’t. Nobody would ever know, nobody would ever guess.
It’s later now, and it’s getting dark but I have left all the lights off. I’m past caring what he thinks about that, as I need to concentrate. I cannot eat, or drink, or sleep until I have finished working this out. This is a new situation and it calls for a different response. Strangely, I’m not even scared.
December 29th
Today, I am made of steel. I may look the same on the outside, pale and insubstantial, becoming increasingly like one of those colourless and semi-transparent creatures that live in caves where the light never penetrates, but inside I have changed. Bitterness and rage have transformed me, so now I am untouchable, unstoppable. I have a core as impenetrable as the wood of that door and he will find this out when he comes.
Not immediately though. First, I have to prepare him, so I feign sleep until it has been light for a while, just in case he is still in bed and misses my performance, then I get up and go to the bathroom. I shower – after a fashion, I still hate it – but all I need is to be wet, then I dry myself a little and put on only a pair of pants and the robe. I stand behind the door for a few seconds, taking a few deep breaths, then out I go, on stage. My robe is tied only loosely – why would I need to cover up, no-one is here to watch me? – and I let it slip open to the waist as I drift around making tea, defrosting bread, reaching up to the toaster.
There’s more of this, much more, as I eat and clear away, and then maybe I’m a little chilly, so I slip off the robe and wriggle into a bra and a tight top, but I love that robe, don’t I? I love it so much that I want to feel it on my skin, so, no jeans or jogging bottoms for me today. I don’t bother tying it, but let it flow around me, behind me, as I find excuses to move around the room. Now, that’s a good idea! I’ll tidy up my clothes, starting with the underwear, so I get it all out and put it in piles on the bed, which necessitates a good deal of holding it up for inspection, of wandering back and forth, then I have to put it back, with a lot more bending. At one point, I even sit cross-legged on the floor with the robe spread out around me, hoping I’m facing at least one camera as I fold T-shirts. There’s no stopping me today, and I put jeans, socks and another top on a shelf so they are ready when I need them.
I have other preparations. I carry them out too, but they are off-camera. All is ready. All I need now is for Nat to come, and I hope he has been watching my little performance. If he hasn’t, if he has decided to go to work without even looking at me, all this will have been in vain, but somehow I can’t see it. He will want to find out how I am reacting to his blunder, if I am throwing myself around with grief and anger, or hiding away like a little mouse. That is not what he will have seen. He will have seen things today that he has not seen before and I only hope it is enough.
Sure enough, he is here early today. I knew he would not be able to keep away, but I pull the robe around me and tie it as I hear the lock turn. After all, I am very modest when I am not alone. He looks apprehensive as he enters and he comes in one bit at a time, head round the door as if to check all is well, then an arm and a leg and a hesitant smile. I, of course, am delighted to see him. I have completely forgotten about any throwaway comment he may have made yesterday. Oh yes, it is banished from my mind and I only want to concentrate on that holiday.
“Did you bring the brochures?” I ask, a note of excitement in my voice.
“No, sorry, I haven’t had time to go to any travel agents, but I have my tablet.”
I can’t believe there is wi-fi here. It seems like such a strange anachronism, when I have spent a week in this room without even a radio, let alone a computer, but I keep that thought to myself and get up to make a drink. It is amazing how difficult to manage silk can be, and I am having a lot of trouble keeping the robe from slipping open today, especially as I approach him with two cups of coffee. I sit down beside him on the bed, put our coffees on the floor beside us and make a half-hearted attempt to cover my legs. I need to sit quite close as it is only a small tablet and how will I be able to read the descriptions otherwise?
This is going very well. Nat is happy, I can tell. He has lost that prickly feeling he’s had a lot recently and I can concentrate on what I have to do without worrying too much about his mood.
“Look at that one!” I say, reaching across to point out a lovely apartment with a balcony overlooking a pool. “I can see us sitting there, can’t you? A couple of cocktails, you in your shorts, me in a bikini. It would be so lovely to feel the sun on my skin again.”
Nat scrolls through more pictures of the apartment. I gasp at the sumptuous shower room, murmur approval at the neat little fitted kitchen.
“Ah, it wouldn’t do,” he says, when the bedroom appears. “No twin beds.” I decide that now is probably as good a time as any.
“Would that be a problem?” I ask, with what I hope is a hint of a raised eyebrow.
“Well, I just thought …”
“What did you think, Nat? Did you think I want to live like a nun for the rest of my life? Did you think that I would ever consider a relationship with anyone else, after all you have done for me? There’s no point in either of us spending the rest of our lives single and unhappy, is there?”
There is a silence. I think I may have blown it, that he may explode any minute and start calling me a whore and all the other horrible things he said in those letters, but he is not angry, he is taking it in.
“I thought that Richie ...”
I can’t allow Richie to come in and change the mood now, so I place a finger on Nat’s lips. I feel a bit sick, but he would never be able to tell.
“Like I said yesterday, Richie would not want either of us to be lonely, and if the two people he loved best can make each other happy, well I think he would approve. We can’t live in the past, Nat. We’re both too young for that. Why don’t we see what the future can offer us?”
God, I’m good. I am even better than I thought I would be. I take my hand away and look at his mouth as if I’m expecting my finger to have left an impression there. Maybe it did.
“I don’t know what to say,” he says.
“Well, in my experience, when you don’t know what to say, it’s best to see what you can do,” I reply. There is a stone where my heart used to be. I had to put it there last night, or this wouldn’t have worked, but I hope it holds out. I take the tablet and put it on the floor, then I take his hand and pull it across so it is resting on my thigh, on the silk. My stone heart is beating fit to bust and I have a roaring in my ears, but I’m acting. Hang on to that, I tell myself. This isn’t real. This isn’t you. This is the Amy who has been sent to save you and you have to let her do her work.
It isn’t long before he has moved closer and pulled me to him for a kiss. I knew this would happen, it is part of the plan, but it is worse than I thought. This is what he wanted to do in Cornwall, that evening we were alone and a little drunk, and I let him hug me because that song had made me cry. Him too. I had only let it continue for a few seconds as it didn’t feel right, but now I have to respond. I have to act as if I am enjoying it. As his tongue begins to explore mine and his breathing increases, I seriously think I am going to be sick, so I pull away gently.
“Wow,” I say, breathily. “Actions do speak louder than words, don’t they?”
I can see that I have him now. The evidence for that is pushing against his chinos for all to see, so I allow my eyes to drop, then look back up at him. I undo the robe and wriggle backw
ards so I am sitting on the bed with my back to my pillow. He turns to look at me.
“Are you going to join me?” I say.
Nat does not move. Conflicting emotions sweep across his features. This has all happened very quickly and he is suspicious. I would be, in his place, however much I wanted it to be true. Have I blown it?
“Nat, do you remember Cornwall?” I say.
He does not reply, but his eyes catch mine. I move across the bed so I am behind him and I start to hum. ‘Street Spirit’, that lilting refrain, quietly, gently, inches from his ear. I place two fingers on the back of his neck and run them up and down slowly, in time with the song. Then I stop.
“Do you remember that night? We were talking and ‘Street Spirit’ came on. It made me cry – you must remember Nat, I could see it meant something to you too. And you hugged me – we hugged each other. We connected that night, didn’t we? Being here together is making me remember that. It’s making me think.”
I start to hum again. My fingers are back on his neck. I move a little closer.
“What is it making you think?” he asks. His voice is husky and he has to clear his throat.
“Can’t you guess?”
“I’d like you to tell me,” he says. He is leaning backwards.
I put my hands on his shoulders and whisper in his ear. “It’s making me think I’ve been given a second chance. I thought my life was over, but I’m beginning to see a future. It’s all about being safe Nat – that’s always what I’m looking for – and you’ve given me that. You’ve given me hope.”
A bit more humming in his ear, a few words of the lyrics, a little breathless sigh, a tongue that just happens to brush his earlobe and he’s kissing me again. We fall back against the pillows. My robe is a sex toy, I can tell he loves the feel of it, so I let my hand wander down to the bulge which is now straining against his buttons and I undo them, one by one. My hand creeps around, teasing him, and now I have one leg over him. But then I stop, sit up.
“What’s wrong?” he says, his mouth wet and blurry.
“Nothing,” I say, “apart from these chinos getting in the way.” I make a point of taking them off slowly, insisting he lies there still. I return to keep the fires burning with a little stroke, a little pressure, a teasing little kiss on the thigh, until I have his trousers off and I have put them on the chair. I return to him, lie next to him then slowly work my way over until I am astride him, moving up and down for a while, then nuzzling his neck and lying not quite still, then doing the whole routine again. I undo the buttons of his shirt and run my tongue over his nipples. Now he is practically crazy for it, and one hand creeps down and starts to fumble with his pants, with mine, so I know the time has come.
I start to make some little moans. I whisper his name, I talk dirty to him. I put my tongue in his ear, and my hand under the pillow and I find it. I hold it tight, then I raise myself, hands either side of his head, as if this is the moment, this is the moment he has been waiting for, then I lift my hand and I strike. It is the moment I have been waiting for, and he doesn’t scream or shout, only makes a little grunt of surprise.
“That’s for Richie!”
There is a mini-screwdriver sticking out of his chest and a little trickle of blood running down to his armpit. But it’s not where I intended it to be. It is nowhere near his heart, and I scramble to get off him as I know I have no time. In my haste, my knee catches his groin and I wish I’d thought of that, I wish I’d done it properly, as now he’s doubled up and groaning.
“You fucking bitch! You fucking lying bitch.”
But I have no time to waste. I have no time to tell him how much I hate him, how much I wish he was dead. I pick up his trousers and shake them, grab the keys and hurl myself towards the door. My hands are quivering so much I can barely fit the key in the lock, but I do it, turning back to see what is happening on the bed. He is still hunched up so I can’t see whether he is bleeding much or not. I’m through the door and down the steep steps in seconds. There’s no time for the clothes I had placed in the wardrobe, no time for shoes. I don’t even care that my robe is open and I am half-naked underneath. I don’t even take the keys.
Now I am at the bottom of the second flight of stairs. There is Flat A and there is the front door. I am only six feet from freedom, and I nearly skid on all the junk mail that has accumulated in the hall as I rush to the door. It is a Yale lock but it won’t turn. Why won’t it turn? I shake it, I rattle it, but then I see that there is a lock on the inside too. Nat has thought of everything and now it is all slipping away. I can’t be this close to freedom and not achieve it, so I turn to look at the hallway but there is nothing. Just the one door, Flat A, the faded wallpaper, the mosaic-tiled floor and the heap of mail stacked in a corner and spread around by the door.
That’s when I hear him.
“Amy.”
He’s on the stairs, and he’s saying my name. He is not shouting, he is not crying, but he is getting closer.
I fly to the front door again, beat my fists on the stained glass panels, scream and cry. “Help! Help! Somebody help me, please!”
But it’s pointless. He is walking down the stairs to me. He is wearing his trousers now, but no shirt, and there is a small hole where the screwdriver was. Blood trickles down his chest but he seems oblivious to this. He is slow, he is quiet, he is calm.
“Ah, there you are,” he says. “Are you going to be sensible and come back upstairs with me or am I going to have to take you?”
He sounds like my mother. There is no point in resisting, any more than there was resisting her, and I am scared by his blankness. He looks like a computer-generated image, with dull eyes and thin, tight lips. I know when I’m beaten if I know nothing else, so I edge around him and walk back to the stairs, keeping him in my sight.
“Up you go.” His voice is very flat and I’m trying to work out how to deal with this as he continues to speak.
“I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. How could I let myself be tricked by a cheating little bitch like this? After all the times she’s lied to me, let me down, thrown my kindness back in my face! But that’s women for you, isn’t it? They always do it. Well, this is the last time. No fucking bitch is going to get inside my head again, especially not this one.”
There’s more. I’m climbing the stairs sideways, like a crab, as slowly as I can, trying to block out what he’s saying, trying to think of something, anything I can do. I daren’t look away from him but I’m terrified to catch those dead eyes. Every step seems to take a lifetime and he has really lost it now, winding himself up, tormenting himself. We reach the top of the first flight and he prods me in the side so I start to climb the second flight.
“The problem is, I’m not sure if I can leave her alone now,” he mutters, pausing as if the act of thought is too hard to execute whilst climbing such a steep staircase. “Who knows what she will do next? Shall I tie her up? That would keep her out of trouble, but then how long could I leave her? How would she eat and drink? What about the toilet?”
I’m beginning to really panic now. There are only a few more steps and we’ll be at the top. What if he ties me up in there and doesn’t come back? It won’t take me weeks to die, it will be days. Suddenly, my semi-comfortable existence in that room seems safe and predictable and I almost wish I could have it back. I contemplate saying something, but his anger is almost palpable. It is burning a hole in my heart and I daren’t say a word to him as I don’t know what it might provoke. Now he is moving again and I have to shuffle on, almost crawling up the last few steps on my bottom, like a little child.
So now we are at the top of the stairs, crammed together on the tiny landing. Any minute now, he will reach around me or move me to one side, the door will open and then what? My heart is pounding like a steamhammer and I am clammy with fear. But what’s that?
There is a noise coming from below. A thumping sound, like someone banging on the door. It is someone banging on the doo
r and my heart leaps. He turns around and I don’t even think about it. I put both my hands on his back and push as hard as I can.
He can’t stop himself. There’s only one banister and he doesn’t grab it in time. The stairs are steep and he tumbles down head first, head over heels, and crashes to a heap at the bottom. I don’t even wait to see if he moves, but I’m down those stairs faster than I’ve ever moved in my whole life. I’m like a gazelle as I leap over his still and twisted body, then I’m down the second flight and at the door screaming.
“I’m here! Help me! Help me! I can’t get out and he’s here. I think he will kill me!”
It takes ages for the police to break down the door. They ask me if I can get the key but I can’t. I’m sitting by the door to Flat A, my arms around my knees, and I’m shaking so much I can’t walk another foot, let alone up the stairs to frisk a madman for his keys.
They help me up, they help me out. There is a nice policewoman and there is Olga. They take one arm each and there is the street. It’s a dull, drizzly day, the sky is grey, the pavement is wet, the houses are hunkered down against the cold, but this is the most wonderful, the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. I will never forget this moment, as I step out wearing nothing but a silk gown. I will never forget the smell of traffic and the chill of the air, for I am free.
Six months later
It’s hard to believe that I’m here again. The pounding in my chest, the butterflies in my stomach. After all that has happened in the past few months, can this really be true? But yes, it is. Despite everything.
There is no Nat to bother me now, that isn’t the problem. “Mad as a hatter,” says Olga, when she talks about him. She’s quite proud of the fact that she was the only one to see through him and yes, he is completely mad. Not that they used that terminology when they decided that he wasn’t fit to stand trial. Nat is a sociopath – which is apparently not quite the same as a psychopath but with many of the same characteristics – but he is high-functioning. Quite possibly, he would have carried on leading a relatively normal life if Richie hadn’t asked him to help sort Greg out. For some reason, he became fixated on me and looking after me. It gave him a buzz, and then that grew until he wasn’t happy unless he could have me all to himself and keep me safe all the time. That was when all his powers of manipulation came into play. I shouldn’t blame myself, they tell me. That’s what they are good at, people like Nat, and there wasn’t anything I could have done. There are even days when I can believe that, from time to time.
The Butterfly Effect Page 20
