The Butterfly Effect (20 page)

“What?” I interrupt. “What are you talking about? How can it still be dangerous out there? There must be enough evidence against him now. He’s abducted me, for God’s sake! He’s brought me here, kept me locked ...”

Oh my God. He hasn’t, has he? I can tell by the look on Nat’s face that Greg didn’t do this, and suddenly I know that it was Nat’s hand holding the cloth over my nose and mouth that morning in the back yard, that it was Nat who brought me here.

I shake myself free of him and run to the bathroom, where I vomit my small breakfast into the toilet and slump to the floor, waiting for the convulsions to subside. He’s in the doorway, watching, I can sense it, and I try to clear my head. What is going on here? He must have gone mad, that’s all I can think of. All the stress of the past two years has got to him, much more than I ever could have guessed, and now he is having some kind of breakdown. He is so terrified that something will happen to me, and he will have to deal with it, deal with the feelings of guilt and loss, that he has made this plan to stop that ever happening.

Suddenly, everything is fitting into place. The familiar clothes, the shower gel, the food. It wasn’t Greg spying on me, it was Nat’s total familiarity with every aspect of my life that enabled this room to be fitted out exactly as if I had done it myself, and it is all so clear but all so ludicrous. This is Nat, my Nat, who is calm and sensible when everything else in the world is mad. It can’t be true. There must be another explanation so I turn around, kneel in the tiny space between the toilet and the door and beg him, plead with him to let me out.

“This isn’t like you, Nat,” I cry. “Something has happened, but we can make it alright, I promise. It doesn’t matter about all this, there’s no harm done. I won’t go out again, I promise!”

“Ah, but that’s where you are wrong, Amy,” he says quietly, so quietly that it is almost a whisper. “There is a lot of harm done. You have made me stop trusting you. You don’t know how many sleepless nights I’ve had, knowing that you are putting yourself in such danger and I doubt you would care much anyway. Do you think I enjoyed all this? Do you think I relished all the time and expense it took to get this room fitted out for you? Don’t worry, I’m not expecting any gratitude. I’m way beyond that.”

So at least I know I’m right. This is awful and my blood is pounding in my head so hard and fast that I think I may pass out. I want to throw myself on the bed and cry and scream, but in some little corner of my mind I feel sorry for Nat. Greg has managed to wreck two lives instead of just one, and now I have to find a way to get us both out of this.

I drink some water then he supports me back into the room. He is apparently gentle, considerate, concerned. He is just like his normal self, and he insists on helping me back onto the bed so I can lie down for a while. I really don’t want to lie down. I feel vulnerable, even though it is Nat and I know he won’t hurt me, but I do as he says. If I am going to talk him out of this I have to keep everything calm and avoid any kind of conflict. If he leaves without me, who knows when he may be back? If I’m right, and he is unstable, he could do anything – jump on a plane to South America, jump under a train. Then nobody would ever know what had happened to me.

It’s at that point that something else occurs to me, and I have to force myself to lie still, to keep my breathing even, to allow my eyes to close as if I am falling asleep. All this time, I have been assuming that the police are out looking for me, that Mum and Dad are worrying about where I am, that the wheels are in motion. But now I realise that nobody even knows I am missing. Nat will not have told anyone, of course he won’t, and it’s quite possible he has used my email address to contact Mum and Dad and spin some story about me going away for a break. Oh, if only! My body is outwardly calm, but my insides are churning and my brain is spinning. How am I going to deal with this?

I lie there for a while, my eyes closed, and eventually he gets up from his place at the end of the bed and starts moving around. I take a peek when I think it is safe, and I catch a glimpse of him carrying something from the door. It looks like a cool box, the kind you take camping. What on earth is he doing with that? The next time I look he is pulling the desk back to near its original position, and getting plates and cutlery out of the cupboard. When he starts the microwave I can’t lie there any longer, so I sit up and rub my eyes, hoping my actions are not too theatrical, and ask what he is doing. I hear the tremor in my voice and wonder if he hears it too.

“Dinner,” he says. “I promised you Christmas dinner, so here it is. Not quite as good as freshly-served, but nothing I can do about that.”

I don’t reply. The implication that all this is somehow my fault, that I could be eating Christmas dinner in my own flat if only I hadn’t been so reckless, is not one that I care to explore. I have to remember that Nat is not well. He would not be acting like this if he was in his normal state, and I must not make things worse, so I climb off the bed and go to wash my hands.

The little desk is set for two. There is only one chair in here, so he pulls up the cool box and puts one of the pillows on it. There are bright red napkins decorated with holly leaves and gold swirls, plastic wine glasses and even a tea light in a foil saucer. Then there are crackers, of course, and I have a vision of sitting here with a paper crown on my head, trying to be festive, and I’m not sure I can do it. However, I don’t seem to have much choice, as he bids me sit down and places my microwaved Christmas dinner in front of me.

“Thanks, Nat,” I say. “You really have thought of everything, but honestly, I’ll be fine to go back to my flat. We can eat this now of course, it looks lovely, but I’ve learned my lesson. You’ve shown me how vulnerable I was to attack, and you can be sure I won’t be going out again. Not without you, anyway,” I add with the best smile I can manage.

“Not now, Amy,” he says, and I can tell by his expression and his voice that this is not going to be easy. This is going to take all the patience and resolution I can muster, and I only hope I have enough.

We eat our food almost in silence. Nat is sullen, practically sulking, although I have said nothing to annoy him and certainly kept off the topic of returning to my flat, despite the fact that it is almost impossible to stop thinking about it. Eating is very difficult, especially as I still feel sick, but I force down as much as I possibly can and I’m thankful that he has obviously cooked this at home then brought it here rather than buying some dreadful supermarket offering.

“This is lovely, Nat,” I say, “but it’s beaten me. You know what my appetite has been like,” I add, hoping this will remind him that it is me who is the victim here.

“Hmm, well I thought with all your new-found independence you might have got your appetite back too,” he says, and I sense petulance in his voice. I’m sure I’m right about him. He really isn’t himself, so I ramble on again about how stupid I’ve been, how I should have listened to him, how I should’ve known Greg would never give up. He relaxes a little, picks up our plates and places them on top of the fridge.

“A little dessert?” he offers, producing two small, plastic sundae glasses. “My own version of tiramisu, not very Christmassy, but I know it’s your favourite.”

So I have to eat that too. How can I do anything else? My whole being is geared towards detecting any changes in his mood, any opportunities to persuade him to let me go, and I can’t see that rejecting his food is going to work in my favour. Normally, I would love this. It is rich and creamy, with layers of flavour and the warmth of the alcohol adding to the effect, but it is a struggle and it takes all my willpower to scrape out the last spoonful and appear to relish it. I tell him how wonderful it is, say it is the best tiramisu I have ever tasted and he seems pleased, so I have another try.

“So, shall we clear up and go now then? We can go to the flat and get back to our old routine. I’m sorry I was so stupid, but I won’t be again, really.”

“Look, can you stop, please? I’ve told you, you’re going to have to stay here for the time being. I don’t have any choice. It won’t be forever, obviously, but I can’t take any more chances and it’s affecting my work, keeping an eye on you. Do you know how much time I’ve had to take off?”

“But you don’t have to keep an eye on me! I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done, Nat, but I have to take responsibility for myself, don’t you see? I’ll be too scared to do anything now, but even if I wasn’t, even if Greg did get me, it would be down to me, not you. You don’t have to do this, Nat. I can see how it has affected you, but we can sort something out, can’t we?”

“What do you mean, ‘affected me’?” he asks. I have to back-pedal madly, talk about how much of his life I’ve taken up, talk about how I’ve expected too much of him, how much he has sacrificed. This isn’t far from the truth, he has done so much for me, but I can’t tell him what I really think, that the stress has tipped him over the edge, so I say I was talking about how his social life has been affected and I can’t bear the thought that now his work is suffering too. I think I am pretty convincing, especially as I am wound up tighter than any spring. It’s a wonder I can even string a sentence together, but it’s to no avail. Nat is adamant. I have to stay here for now, whatever that means, and then it becomes clear that he is actually preparing to go, and I panic, grab hold of him, beg him.

“Please Nat, please! Don’t do this! Don’t lock me in here again! I’ll be good, I promise. I told you, I won’t set foot outside the door if you’ll only let me back into the flat.” I’m crying now, pulling on his arm as he gathers up the remains of the meal and puts everything into the cool box. He shakes me off, then gets his coat and takes out his phone, walking round the room, holding it out in front of him from time to time, as if trying to get a signal. I follow him, clutching hold of his sleeve like a beggar in the street.

“Stop it, Amy. You’re becoming hysterical. Get a grip on yourself. You’re perfectly safe here, I don’t see what the problem is. No-one else is going to come. You’ve got food, drink, heating, lighting. I’ve made it as comfortable as possible and you’re acting as if I’m leaving you in a dungeon. You’ll be grateful one day, even if you’re not now.”

Somehow, I can’t see that happening, but I don’t want to fall out with Nat. For a start, it could be dangerous, but, also, I am still fond of him, even if he is acting completely irrationally. It’s not my fault, but it’s another case of the toxic side-effect I seem to have, as if I am carrying a chaos virus around with me and infecting everyone who gets too close. I never would have predicted this could happen to Nat, who always seemed so calm and strong, but there is no point in being angry with him now. It would be like being angry with my grandmother when she got cancer and could no longer care for my grandfather. Really, Grandma, this is most inconvenient! You know Granddad has dementia and needs you to look after him. You could have chosen a better time!

So I give up. There is no point in trying to persuade him, and I certainly don’t want him to have to physically push me away. If he is angry when he leaves, it may be longer before he comes back, so I try to pull myself together, even though I am crying, and I thank him for the food, thank him for looking after me and ask him when he will be back.

“I don’t know, Amy. I can’t spend every spare minute I have round here. You’ve got everything you need.”

And then he is gone. I hear the lock turn, and I press myself against the door so I can listen to his footsteps, but the stairs must be carpeted and although I think I can hear a door slam somewhere below, I can’t be sure. It could be my imagination. He could be standing right outside this door, waiting to see if I do anything stupid, but I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I am on my own again, so I go back to the bed and sit back against the pillows as I did before.

How can I process this? When I watched the slats give way, I was terrified by the thought of Greg, or even some stranger, coming here to take possession of me, rape me, even kill me, and I don’t have that to worry about now. But Nat turning out to be my kidnapper? My whole world has been turned upside down, and now I have no-one to rescue me as my hero turns out to be the villain.

But he’s not a villain really, is he? Poor Nat. Now I have to think of him in a different way, as another one of Greg’s victims. I have to try to look at it all from his point of view, and then I may be able to find a way to reassure him. I only hope this condition he has, whatever it is, is not too serious, or he may lose all touch with reality and then it will be hopeless. But, to my admittedly untrained eye, he did not seem psychotic whilst he was here. Moody, irritated, but still recognisably Nat. Maybe there is hope yet.

***

I’ve no idea what time it is now, or how long I have slept. All the emotional upheaval seems to have finished me off, and I fell asleep sitting up on the bed, no further ahead in my deliberations. Maybe there is no point anyway. Maybe I will just have to wait and see what mood he is in tomorrow.

I decide to tidy up, to ensure that everything is orderly for when he returns. I want to demonstrate that I am calm, sensible and capable. So I wash the plates and cutlery, dry them and put them away, wipe the desk down and put the napkins in the bin. That leaves only the crackers, which we didn’t pull in the end, as even Nat must have realised this was a step too far.

I am about to open them up and take them apart, but then something stops me and I put them in the bin too. What was Nat doing with his phone? Why would he be looking for a signal just then? He didn’t make a call, or appear to text anybody, and why not wait until he got outside and he could do it in the peace of his car? He must have driven here, as he could hardly have managed that large cool box on public transport. My guess is that he was activating a camera – I saw him do it when he installed mine outside the front door – but this will be a tiny one, hidden in a corner or concealed in the furniture. Maybe there is more than one.