The Butterfly Effect

by Julie McLaren

  Dear Ms Barker,

  My colleague, DI Vernon and I attended the home of Mr Gregory Payne yesterday evening. We interviewed both him and Mr Payne (snr) and Mrs Payne, his parents. Mr Gregory Payne denied any attempt to contact you since he was visited by the late Mr Richard McCowan and Mr Nathaniel Drury and informed us that he no longer entertains any thoughts of a relationship with you.

  Mr Payne (snr) and Mrs Payne both confirmed that their son has not mentioned you for some months and has had at least two girlfriends in that period.

  In the absence of any evidence linking Mr Payne to any of the communications, there will be no further action from us at present, although we did make it clear to him how seriously we would take it if his involvement was subsequently proved. However, if you continue to receive other unsolicited communications, or if you have evidence which links Mr Payne to these events, please do not hesitate to contact me, on the number below. Of course, if you would like to discuss this in more detail, please do not hesitate to do that also.

  That is the gist of what it said. I don’t know now, when I think about it, what other outcome there could have been, as Greg was already concealing his name and going to some lengths to ensure that his communications and presents were untraceable, so he was hardly likely to admit to anything. My only hope was that this would scare him off, and as I had received nothing in the intervening days, I allowed myself to believe in a little glimmer of light at the end of this very long tunnel.

  The first inkling I had that something new had happened was when I started to get messages from teacher friends expressing sympathy for my problems. A couple of them urged me to call them, and one, Natalie, asked if I was in a union. None of them lived anywhere near me, and I hadn’t contacted them for some time, so I could not work out how they knew what was happening. More worrying was the mention of union membership. What did Natalie know and how could she possibly know it? Had word about my discipline problems spread beyond the school and into other local authorities? This didn’t seem likely, but there was only one way to find out so I waited until the weekend then called her.

  By the end of the conversation, I felt completely sick and my head was swimming. According to Natalie, I had been posting on at least two teacher forums in the past couple of weeks, wanting advice about my current suspension. This was apparently due to the fact that I had been caught in a compromising position with a fifteen year old boy, but I had been challenging the fairness of this as he was perfectly willing and had actually made the first move. I had even made a very inappropriate joke about the situation. It did not take long to persuade Natalie that this was all completely false, and she assured me she had found it all very hard to believe, but it had seemed so real, and why would anyone make up something like that?

  Why indeed? It was clear now that Greg’s response to the visit from the police was not what we had hoped for. Instead of scaring him off, it had angered him, and now his campaign would be malicious rather than loving. He would wear me down one way or another, and then, when I was weak and broken, he would come and claim me. That was his plan, Nat said, but he agreed that we would delay taking this new development to the police until I felt a bit stronger. I shook violently even at the thought of explaining all this to anyone. Suppose they believed it was true? Suppose they went into school and talked to the Head? There is smoke without fire sometimes, but I did not want this kind of accusation known by anyone, regardless of how ridiculous it might seem. I just wanted it all to go away.

  Nat said that Greg had obviously been scouring all the teacher forums for any with my membership, then hacked into my accounts. It wouldn’t be all that difficult for someone in his line of business, and he certainly wouldn’t have left a trail that anyone could follow. Now, all I could do was log in and make the necessary denials, then wait and see what happened.

  I did this, with Nat at my side, and it was horrible. The anger and invective I had received from total strangers made me feel tearful and guilty, although I had done nothing wrong, and I had a real fear that some people would not accept my denials or believe that my accounts had been hacked. I wanted to delete my membership of those forums and any others that Greg might abuse, but Nat said it was important to monitor the response and counter anything else he might post. So that became another nightly task, added to checking the camera footage, filing any letters and browsing the stalking websites for stories of people in a worse situation than me. These gave me a strange sort of comfort, and I spent hours reading about women whose stalkers would approach them with threats of physical violence, including rape. At least Greg wasn’t that bad.

  It was towards the end of June, around the time that I would have been moving in with Olga, that the campaign started reaching out beyond the confines of my life. I was still forcing myself to go to band practice, as it was about the only form of pleasure I had left. Although I had never been able to bring myself to sing solo again, Olga and I had half a dozen songs that worked well with us singing together and the band seemed quite happy to include some of them at each gig. Sadly, my relationship with Olga had not entirely recovered from the issue with the flat, and she never asked me about Greg and what was happening. I think she found it all too difficult, as she simply could not understand how I had allowed it to affect me so badly. So, rather than cause any more discord, she carried on as if it wasn’t happening, but I rarely accepted her invitations for a night out these days, and she rarely argued when I refused.

  I had been looking forward to the gig – as much as I ever looked forward to anything at that time. It was at a pub well-known for promoting good quality live music, and there was always an enthusiastic crowd, so it was quite an achievement for The Butterfly Effect to have been invited to play. Practice sessions had been serious and focussed in the weeks leading up to the gig, and Anton in particular was clear that we must be as polished and professional as possible. There would be no chopping and changing the playlist and no kidding around on stage.

  “If we can get a regular gig at The Stag we will be able to afford a new mixer in a few months,” he said. Despite the fact that I had no idea what difference a new mixer would make, I could see that this was an important moment for the band and I resolved to do my best to make it a good one. I even practised a little at home, something I had not done for months, although it made me sad as I remembered the days when I had just started to sing, or later, when Richie would hear me and tell me how great I sounded regardless of the truth.

  The gig was on a Friday, so I had little time between arriving home from school and leaving for The Stag. It was a big pub just out of town to the north, and it would only take fifteen or twenty minutes to drive there, but Anton wanted us to set up early and I was aware that Friday evening traffic could still be a factor, so I left school as soon as I could and hurried up the front path to my flat. My heart sank as I pushed open the front door, as I could feel the weight of the post behind it, and once I was inside it was clear that there were a number of items from Greg. The packages contained a young adult novel entitled ‘Young Love’ and a pack of Valium tablets, or most likely something calling itself Valium but made up of cheap and dangerous ingredients. I put them to one side. Maybe they would be traceable. Maybe, just once, he would slip up, and then we would have him.

  The first letter contained only a newspaper article about a teacher who had been found guilty of grooming a pupil in his school and had received a prison sentence, so that was filed, and the second was a typed sheet, filled from top to bottom with what I can only describe as a demented rant about me and my imagined behaviour. I only read it a couple of times, as it had such a bad effect on me that Nat had to take it away and keep it himself, but it was in a totally different league to anything else I had received. I was a whore and a slut. He had seen me flirting with men, unspecified men, and pupils alike. He had seen the way I looked at the boys when I was on gate duty or seeing them onto the buses, he knew what was in my mind. He knew what I got up to when I
got home, about all the filthy websites I visited, and it was only a matter of time before it all caught up with me. There was a lot more, all on the same theme, and all completely unhinged.

  I don’t know how I forced myself to put it to one side and concentrate on getting out. Something told me that if I didn’t do this, if I didn’t make it to the gig, he would have won, and I still had just about enough resolve not to let that happen. I scanned the camera footage to confirm that the letter had not been hand-delivered despite the apparent stamp and postmark, and spent a few minutes - or what I thought was a few minutes - on my favourite stalking website, looking for advice about this form of abuse. That meant I had left myself much less time than I had intended, but I changed quickly, repaired my make-up and rushed out, still determined that my evening would not be spoiled.

  I could see the van in the car park of The Stag as I arrived, but the sliding door was closed and there was no evidence of the others. Had they set up already? I was only about fifteen minutes late, so they must have arrived very early if that was the case. I parked and rushed inside, ready to give my apologies, but I was met by a furious-looking Anton as I entered.

  “No point in going in there,” he growled, “as if you didn’t know!”

  “What are you talking about? What’s happened?” I asked, my stomach clenching, but he pushed past me and barged outside, the door slamming behind him. I didn’t feel inclined to follow, so I walked further into the pub.

  Olga and the others were round the corner, leaning on the bar and looking glum. They looked up as one when I approached.

  “What on earth were you playing at?” asked Olga sadly. When I told her that I had no idea what she was talking about, she told me that I had emailed the landlord some weeks ago, and had explained that The Butterfly Effect had unfortunately double-booked and would have to pull out. I had signed it on behalf of Anton who, I had said, was away at a conference and could not be contacted. The landlord had not been happy, as he planned his events weeks in advance and advertised them widely, but he had managed to get a replacement and they were setting up now, as she spoke. I remembered seeing another van in the car park as I locked my car, but I had thought nothing of it at the time. It was true, the gig was off, but it wasn’t me. I hadn’t emailed anyone! Why would I do such a thing?

  I don’t know whether they believed me. I suppose they did, in a way, especially when I told them what had been happening recently, but the damage was done. I found the landlord and explained it all to him, tears running down my face, but he had no more slots for us to fill and he could hardly send the replacement band away again. Yes, he would bear us in mind if there was a cancellation. Yes, he would bear us in mind when he started his next round of bookings, but that would not be for months. Our chance had gone. They knew it and I knew it, and I could think of nothing better to do than to go home and hide, to lick my wounds and ponder on this new turn of events. I was poisonous, and now the poison was leaking out and hurting my friends and I couldn’t bear it.

  ***

  I’m tired. Physically tired, in a way that I have not been for some time. It occurs to me that I must have become incredibly unfit in recent months, as I took almost no exercise. Even when I was leaving the house, I would either drive or Nat would take me, as the risks were obviously reduced that way. Even my own street seemed like a set from a horror film, with shadows at every turn and strange rustles and sighs coming from every tidy hedge. You hear about people who are hostages, or unfairly imprisoned, and how they keep themselves fit by doing press-ups in their cells or running on the spot. How do they do that? Where do they find the strength, the energy? I felt like a prisoner, although I can’t truthfully compare myself to people like that, but I could no more have done a series of press-ups than flown to the moon. It was as much as I could do to take a ready meal out of the freezer and put it in the microwave. Maybe that shows how spineless I am.

  I wonder if I could sleep now, then I could carry on with forcing the screws further into the wood after I have rested, but I am hungry too, properly hungry, so I defrost some more bread and find some beans. Comfort food, and I am halfway through and actually enjoying it when suddenly I stop, the fork suspended between the plate and my mouth, as the memory hits me like a punch to the stomach. It was the day I first went back to Richie’s, on the last day of term, and there was a time at some point during the evening, when he stopped kissing me and stood up as if something was wrong. It was still so soon after we’d got together that I had a worried little stab of anxiety, but he was only messing about, full of mock shame.

  “How could I be so useless!” he cried. “You’ve been here two and a half hours and I haven’t even offered you anything to eat! Stay, there, do not move, and I will put it right!”

  And it was beans on toast, not unlike this, the toast over-done at one edge and limp at the other, the beans as hot as lava. It was all he could find in his cupboard, although as I found out later he was quite a good cook, and he served it on a tray covered by a tea towel. I can see him with that tray, as clearly as if he were here in the room with me. He was trying to carry it one-handed, balanced on his finger tips, but he kept nearly dropping it, and I was laughing and he was laughing and we were so happy. So, so happy. I can’t eat any more and I have to stop myself thinking like this, or I will begin to wonder why I am bothering with anything, the barricade, the plans, the hopes. Even if I get out I can never be really happy, as I can never see Richie again, never hold him, never wake up and know that he is there beside me.

  ***

  It was incredibly difficult to drag myself into school the following Monday. I barely left the house all weekend but had done very little preparation, having divided my time between a number of new websites I had found, crying on my bed and looking out of the window. If only Greg would appear. I knew it would scare me, but he might be caught on camera. There might be something to act upon, instead of this terrible limbo. Nat was away, although he felt terrible about leaving me and offered to cancel his plans, but I wouldn’t let him. How many other people’s lives were going to be affected by this?

  So, I walked into school that Monday morning feeling like a husk. I don’t suppose I looked a lot better, as I was losing weight and sleeping poorly and this had given me hollow cheeks and dark circles under my eyes. I was up in my tutor room, wondering if I had time to take down a display that had become scruffy and dog-eared, when one of the deputy heads came in. I could almost tell what was in her mind as she stood there. What on earth is going on here? What’s happened to the bright young teacher who made this room a cheerful and stimulating environment for her tutor group? She may have been thinking something else, I don’t know, but it didn’t stop her saying what she needed to say. She may have been sad for me, but she had no choice.

  They more or less took me off timetable for the remaining weeks of my contract. They actually wanted me to take sick leave, but at least I was safe in school, so I got to do a bit of cover here, a bit of small group work there and I went on a lot of end of term trips. Sometimes, when we were far away, at some educational facility or learning how to canoe, I would forget for a moment about everything. I would relax and laugh with the kids, I would feel confident to discipline them if necessary and, mostly, they would respond. Then I would go home and deal with whatever Greg had chosen to send me, or wonder what he was planning if there was nothing, and I would know that it was all coming to an end. No contract for September, no school to escape to, no income.

  That’s how I came to spend the anniversary of Richie’s death with a group of Year 9 boys with behaviour difficulties who had earned themselves a day at a theme park. I could just as easily have stayed at home, everyone would have understood, but this was what I wanted to do. Richie had worked with these boys, talked about how he was going to use Science to re-engage them with school. He had some success with an after-school club, thinking up increasingly bizarre and exciting experiments to keep them occupied and giving them opportun
ities to use equipment denied to them in mainstream lessons because of the perceived risk. This was my tribute to him, much more meaningful and poignant than weeping over the plaque where his life was commemorated. I did that later of course, but I didn’t want the whole day to be about what we had all lost, so I splashed down the log flume and screamed my head off on a series of increasingly terrifying rides with these boys and it was almost as if Richie was there with us.

  I could hardly blame the school. If it had just been the rumours circulating about me, of course they would have dealt with it. There had already been some kind of communication to parents, assuring them that no teachers had been accused of inappropriate relationships with pupils, and that these rumours were vicious and completely unfounded. Rumours have a life of their own, and I knew they were still there on Facebook even if I hadn’t been named, but it was the problem with my teaching that sealed it. They knew it was all connected, they knew I had been doing well before all this started – even after I lost Richie I was hanging on in there – but they could not let the pupils suffer. I suppose I could have challenged it, especially if they’d replaced me with another teacher on the same terms and conditions, but I hadn’t the heart for it. I hadn’t the heart for anything.

  That’s one of the reasons I didn’t do the one thing I should have done, to take a holiday, but it was so difficult. The stress of it all had taken away all my energy, all my enthusiasm for life, and planning a holiday was not the only casualty of this. Now I had to think about money. With my final salary due at the end of August, I could not afford to risk any unnecessary expenditure, or I would be dealing with homelessness as well as everything else. Of course Nat said it would never come to that, and I could stay with him for a while if necessary, but I wanted to stay where I was. Once I was inside, no-one could approach the flat without me knowing it, as Nat had shown me how to get a live stream from the cameras on my laptop, and my phone was always charged and ready beside me. Greg would never get past the locks and the bolts in the time it would take the police to arrive, so at least I was physically safe, if nothing else.