had called her Butterfly Girl because she took so many pictures. He’d teased her, saying the Blue Triangle was common out there – nothing special. ‘You need to search out a Richmond Birdwing,’ he’d said, his smile seeming so genuine. She’d thought he loved her. Perhaps he had in his warped way – that’s what Roxanne had said in a bumbled attempt to heal her.
‘The Richmond’s wings stretch almost sixteen centimetres,’ Carl had gone on. ‘Saw one once when I was a kid.’ Now the thought of his smile – and the way he’d later morphed into a monster – sent a shudder down her spine.
‘How did it get in?’ she said, her words barely audible, as she glanced around at the sealed apartment windows.
Jack looked up from shoving clothes from his holdall into the washing machine. ‘Sorry?’
‘A butterfly.’ She felt strangely helpless. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘Ah.’ Jack rose and slammed the washing machine door closed. ‘I found it by our front door yesterday. Forgot to say. I know you like butterflies, and . . . ’
‘On our doormat?’
‘Yeah. But I’m pretty sure the poor thing’s dead.’
She gently touched its wing once more. ‘It’s not dead, Jack. I don’t think it’s real. It’s made of silk or something. What the hell was it doing on our doorstep?’
He shrugged. ‘No idea. I just brought it in. Thought it might get a new lease of life.’
‘It’s silk, Jack. I just told you that.’
‘Yeah, well I didn’t know that at the time.’
She held it in her palm, a slight tremor in her hand. ‘What was it doing out there?’
‘I guess somebody must have dropped it. The bloke upstairs likes weird and whacky things. Maybe it’s his.’
‘What bloke?’
‘Some professor type, moved in while you were away.’ He stepped towards her, and she flinched, dropping the butterfly, and it floated to the ground. ‘It’s just a butterfly, Isla.’
‘No, it’s not just a butterfly, Jack.’ She was close to tears. ‘It’s the Blue Triangle, found in Australia.’
He looked at her for a long moment. ‘Isla, I don’t get what the problem is. Is this something to do with Carl . . . ?’
‘No. No, of course not,’ Isla cut in. ‘Ignore me, I’m just a bit jet-lagged, that’s all.’ She pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes to stop the tears.
‘You sure you’re OK?’ he said, and she looked up to see him studying her face.
She couldn’t tell him that Carl had burrowed his way into her head. That she was worried he could be out, but was too afraid to find out. He’d be upset she hadn’t told him about the appeal – and then he would worry about her – she couldn’t have that.
Jack stepped closer and pulled her gently into his arms, where she leant against his chest. A tear burnt the corner of her eye, before rolling down her face.
Two years ago
‘It closed in 1994,’ Jack said coming up behind Isla as she photographed Aldwych Station in London.
She turned into the bright sunshine, squinting as her eyes met his. Taking in that he was tall and slim, and wearing a faded Captain America T-shirt and a cap over dark hair. His hands were rammed into the pockets of knee-length shorts.
‘Sorry?’ she said.
‘The underground station.’ He nodded towards the building she was photographing. ‘It opened in 1907, closed in 1994.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She turned away from him. She’d already researched the building ready for an article on London undergrounds she’d been commissioned to write. ‘And before Aldwych, it was Strand Station.’
‘Yeah, but the sign gives that away.’
She glanced at the ‘Strand Station’ sign on the red-brick wall above the closed metal gate.
‘So that’s kind of cheating,’ he said.
A smile flickered on her lips, as she aimed her camera.
‘Did you know it’s been used in films?’ he said.
‘Aha.’ She kept her eyes focused. ‘Atonement.’
‘Superman.’
‘28 Weeks Later.’
‘V for Vendetta.’
‘The Krays.’
He smiled through a brief silence, where they locked eyes, before saying, ‘So are you a professional photographer, or . . . ?’ He stopped talking and took off his cap, glancing down as he brushed hair from his forehead with the back of his hand.
A feeling she hadn’t felt for a long time absorbed her body. A good feeling – a feeling she thought had died four years before.
‘Sorry,’ he said, turning and stepping away, ‘. . . being nosey . . . ignore me.’
Her instinct was to shove her camera into her rucksack, and disappear into the London crowds. She was having good days now. More good than bad, since she’d accepted she would never be quite the same person she’d once been, and found ways of dealing with that. But she still avoided strangers – especially men. There was something about Jack though. Something about his innocent boyishness that she liked.
‘I’m a freelance writer and photographer,’ she said, pushing her camera into her bag, and he turned back. ‘Photography is my passion. It’s amazing how many fascinating and beautiful places there are in Britain.’ And the world, she’d wanted to add, but she had felt her days of travelling abroad were over.
He smiled. ‘Yeah, I grew up in Dorset,’ he said. ‘Some stunning places down that way. Have you ever walked along Chesil Beach?’
‘Yes, I went last year.’ She’d done a series of pieces on the area for a travel magazine. ‘An amazing part of the country.’
He moved closer. Not so close that he invaded her space. ‘So, can I see your photographs anywhere?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve had articles published in magazines and Sunday supplements,’ she said. ‘But they’ve come and gone. Ooh, and I wrote a small guidebook on York that you can probably still get in . . . well, York.’
‘Cool.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Jack Green, data analyst by day, London film location tour guide by weekend.’ He paused, a smile dancing around his lips. ‘I’m guessing by your face you didn’t realise that was your cue to be impressed.’
She laughed again, taking his outstretched hand. ‘Isla,’ she said and, for the first time in four years, her guard lowered.
Within a month they were seeing each other every moment. He even gave up his tour guide job, so they could spend weekends together. The passion was great, but it was more than that.
‘These are amazing, Isla,’ he said the night she showed him the photographs she’d taken before everything went so wrong. Pictures of the Taj Mahal, Humayun’s Tomb, and the warren of back streets in India, and those she’d taken in Australia and New Zealand too. He read her words about her early travels, as she looked on, cross-legged on the floor, cradling a glass of wine, and finding herself wondering what their children might look like, whether they would have his amazing eyes. ‘You’re so talented,’ he went on. ‘You should put this together. It would make a great book.’
She laughed, embarrassed, but pleased.