Black Butterfly

by Mark Gatiss

  ‘I’ve got me own methods, you see. And they work,’ he muttered, pouring us some wine. ‘All that “Station T for Turkey” shite. Takes the fun out of it. But there you go. Anyway, listen to me bloody rabbiting on. How can I help?’

  I quickly told him about the queer deaths of the elderly dignitaries, Hooplah’s accident and Kingdom Kum’s threats on the train.

  ‘If the bugger’s in Istanbul,’ said Whitley Bey in a low voice, ‘we’ll find him.’

  I nodded. ‘Good. I hoped you’d say that. Oh, there’s one more thing. Hooplah said something as he was dying.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘“Le papillon noir”–the black butterfly. Mean anything to you?’

  Bey’s one good eye widened, stretching the dark skin around the sovereign. ‘You interest me, Mr Box,’ he said at last. ‘You interest me very much.’

  I drank some wine. It was rich and dark. ‘How so?’

  ‘It can get pretty rough out here,’ he replied, folding his trunk-like arms. ‘Gypsies. Russians. Mind, there’s very little actual crime here in Istanbul. We’re bloody lucky. Not many muggings. Bit of burglary…’

  ‘Or Bulgary.’

  ‘But what we do have a problem with is narcotics.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Shite floods through here,’ he went on. ‘It’s a gateway to the West just like it’s always been. Once it was spice, now it’s heroin from Afghan poppies. Then there’s the other stuff. More in your prescription line. Penicillin in the war…’

  He left a pause so pregnant it was practically having contractions.

  ‘And now…?’

  ‘We’ve been picking up whispers,’ he said. ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘A drug?’

  Whitley Bey nodded. ‘“Black Butterfly”. It’s a new one on me.’

  ‘Mm. Me too. It’s what the French call the dumps. Depression. So–what does it do? Do you know?’

  Whitley shrugged. ‘That’s what I hope we’ll find out. Tomorrow–at the Hagia Sophia. We’ve got a contact on the inside.’

  ‘The inside of the mosque?’

  ‘The inside of the organisation. We reckon the pills are made up in a part of the city called Beyoglu. It’s north of the Golden Horn. Nice area–dead posh back in the day. Up past the fish market there’s a wood. Used to be a park but it’s all overgrown, like. Has this big entrance like a ruddy fort. Our contact has only given us a few hints but me lads and I have pieced it together and we reckon that’s their base of operations.’

  I sipped some more wine. ‘The drug’s made there or distributed from there?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, pet.’ He straightened up and stretched. ‘These old gadgies who died: someone slipped them the drug, is that what you’re thinking?’

  ‘It’s perfectly possible. Question is, why?’

  ‘You reckon it’s this blackie lad?’

  ‘He’s obviously up to his neck in something. And he was with Hooplah when he went berserk.’

  Whitley Bey broke wind explosively and unblushingly. ‘What do you wanna do now?’

  I downed the rest of the wine. ‘Sleep,’ I said. ‘After all, there’s nothing we can do til we meet up with this contact of yours.’

  Whitley Bey stubbed out his fag and nodded to the boy waiter. Clearly payment wasn’t required. ‘Aye, fair dos,’ he said. ‘You must be knackered. I’ll call for you at nine, though them buggers in the minarets’ll have you up well before that.’

  .9.

  MURDER IN THE CATHEDRAL

  I was up and out early next morning, but the famous Istanbul bazaar was already active, heavy with the delicious scents of roasting meat and spices. Picking my way through the crowd, I suddenly felt my sleeve pulled by an ancient man wearing a suffocating brown cardigan. He grinned, exposing a nest of sugar-rotted teeth, and gestured at his treasure trove of carpets. Then Whitley Bey appeared, pushing the shopkeeper violently aside and greeting me with a thump on the back that set my own teeth rattling.

  ‘Sleep all right, sparrow-shanks?’ he asked, scooping a handful of green figs from a nearby basket. The pale sun sparkled off his sovereign eye, giving him a white-gold wink.

  ‘Not bad,’ I said.

  In truth, I had not slept well at all, my mind buzzing with speculations and my fitful dreams haunted by the slim, dangerous figure of Kingdom Kum. But after a cup of sweet, strong coffee, I was feeling a little better.

  We found ourselves walking slowly down a narrow alley towards the Hagia Sophia. A boy in a striped jersey wandered past, lost in thought and scouring his nostril with a crooked finger. ‘You’ll forgive me for asking,’ I said to Whitley, ‘but you don’t sound like a local man.’

  He laughed explosively, and shreds of fig flew from his teeth. ‘Me mam, she was Turkish, like. But me dad was from South Shields. A brickie. He come out here looking for adventure. Didn’t find much, just more bricklaying. Mosques instead of churches. But he also found me mam and he married her. Then we all moved back to England till I was fifteeen. That’s how comes I speak like this and why I miss cheap fags. Woodbines, man. Nowt like ’em.’

  A big mongrel dog, hyena-striped with too much interbreeding, tottered past. Its tongue lolled, improbably pink.

  ‘I suppose you’ve found all the adventure your father lacked?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, hell aye. Never a dull moment,’ cackled the big man.

  ‘And this Black Butterfly contact of yours? You’ve met them before?’

  But Whitley’s contact, it seemed, was something of an enigma. Whispers about le papillon noir had reached the Jung Turks and they’d begun some discreet snooping. Shortly afterwards, hastily scribbled notes had been sent to Whitley’s HQ at the University, promising details and the names of those involved in the drug’s manufacture. The meeting in the silvery domed Byzantine wonder was to be the first physical contact between the two parties.

  And now the Hagia Sophia, at various times both mosque and church, loomed before us, its spindly minarets rising like rockets into the clear blue sky. We merged with the crowd of tourists and crossed through the arched entrance. The contrast from dusty heat to chilly shadow was like stepping underwater. Sunlight pierced the wonderfully sepulchral gloom, as though dappling a reef.

  High up, studding the ebony-hued balconies of the upper levels, were great Islamic roundels, chased in black and gilt, declaring the names of Allah, the Prophet and the Caliphs of old times. Huge chandeliers, like swinging incense burners, were suspended from the ceiling, and mosaic Christs gazed down blankly from the crumbling walls.

  We slipped into the shadow of a fat column. ‘This contact then,’ I said. ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘He’ll make himself known,’ intoned Whitley.

  ‘But you must have some idea.’

  The big man tapped the side of his nose. I rolled my eyes, weary of this obfuscation. Whitley chuckled. ‘Listen, pet. This is the East.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, when push comes to shove, things aren’t so different to how they used to be in the old days–when the Turks were having their turbans nailed to their heads by bloody Draclia.’

  ‘Dracula,’ I corrected.

  ‘Aye, whatever,’ scowled Whitley Bey. ‘The point is, you have to play by my rules or you’ll get yourself in trouble, d’you understand? Once–and only once–I’ve let me guard down and…’ He tapped his golden eye.

  I leaned back against the pillar and said stiffly: ‘What happened?’

  ‘A gypsy took my eye with a boat-hook. Mind, I had it coming.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Aye. I was having it away with his daughters, like. Twins, man. Bloody lovely,’ he laughed. ‘He was well within his rights.’

  I glanced over his huge shoulder as a knot of tourists began to ascend the stone stairway to the building’s next level. Vulgarly dressed Germans. A lone blond boy in a red jumper with his back to me. Americans with shopping bags and cameras. Was our contact among them?

>   ‘They offered me a glass ’un,’ said Whitley, tapping the coin that was screwed into his socket. ‘But I says I’d rather show off me patriotic colours, like. Me dad used to have this sovereign on his watch-chain, so…’

  ‘And what happened to the gypsy?’

  ‘Too early to tell,’ said Whitley in a low, dangerous voice. ‘I’ll think of something. One day.’ His good eye swivelled round as he checked his wristwatch. ‘They’re late. Seen any likely candidates?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ll go up a level. Have a look around.’

  There were too many of the broad stone steps, and I was panting by the time I reached the next floor. I crossed through the cool shadows to an ornate black balcony and looked down. Behind me, tourists began to cluster, laughing and daring each other to peek over the side.

  Far below, footsteps echoed hollowly off the marble. Whitley Bey was where I’d left him, leaning casually against a pillar, and smoking. Suddenly a woman–tall, blonde and wearing a belted mackintosh–detached herself from a corner and crossed the floor.

  Her heels beat a tattoo on the cold marble.

  Clack, clack, clack…

  Was she the contact?

  Clack, clack, clack…

  She was heading towards Whitley Bey. I leaned over a little too far and felt a sudden vertigo, the chamber below seeming to leap up at me. In the same instant, I noticed another figure behind a pillar, whippet thin in a charcoal suit and sunglasses. His dead straight fringe seemed to cleave his smooth face in two. Kum again!

  My pulse quickened. The boy flattened himself against the stonework and pulled a pistol from his jacket. The muscles in his neck stood out like whipcord. He took aim at the woman. I opened my mouth to cry out–

  –there was a soft phut, a gory hole appeared in the woman’s forehead and she collapsed to the floor.

  Appalled, I began to turn away from the balcony, only to feel a heavy shove in the small of my back. My stomach connected with the rail and suddenly I was falling through space.

  Christ Almighty, or someone very like Him, zipped past my boggling gaze as I scrabbled at empty air, senses reeling, my blood turning to ice. Desperately, I managed to claw hold of something wooden, embracing it like a long-lost lover. My vision swam. Mosaic archangels with great dark, tragic, Byzantine eyes and crumbling Cyrillic texts–all span round and round. I struggled to catch my breath, then realised with a start that I was hanging onto one of the great wooden roundels next to the balcony. Now, with my nose pressed flat against the peeling woodwork, the Islamic script appeared huge in its faded gilt glory.

  Attempting to get a better purchase, I stiffened as a stream of plaster trickled from the wooden frame.

  ‘Help me!’ I yelled. ‘Help me, for God’s sake!’

  I threw a panicked glance towards the balcony. Horrified tourists looked on helplessly. I could just see the thin blond hair of the little boy in the red jumper.

  ‘Help me!’ I gasped, every muscle in my old limbs begging for release.

  A chorus of screaming erupted from below as the masses looked up and spotted yours truly hanging there. I was desperate not to look down. I hugged the black shield, knuckles whitening, sweat flowing freely over my brow and down my back. Then I tried to shift my feet again, sending another rivulet of ancient plaster spilling over the toes of my shoes. Gasping with effort, I pressed myself even harder against the roundel and managed to haul myself up a fraction, giving me the chance to move my foot and get a tiny bit closer to the balcony.

  I threw a quick look down. The floor seemed to do a giddy dance and nausea gripped me again.

  Suddenly, without warning, a whole chunk of the wall gave way beneath my foot and smashed to the floor. My audience shrieked. With absolute desperation, I dug my fingernails into the ebonised woodwork and wrapped both legs about it for good measure.

  Then, amongst the impotent knot of people at the balcony, jerking out their arms towards me and gabbling away in a riot of languages appeared–thank God!–Whitley Bey!

  ‘Hang on, hinny!’ he cried. ‘Just hang on!’

  With no thought for his own safety, he clambered onto the balcony rail, others gripping him by his huge legs as he attempted to reach across and grab me.

  Just at that moment, there was a strange, bright popping sound, as one of the bolts fixing the shield to the pillar sheared off. It sang past my ear and there was a fresh outbreak of wailing from the tourists. Then a huge sigh as, with a protesting groan, the roundel suddenly moved beneath me, turning clockwise like a great cog on its axis. I shifted my weight and splayed my fingers, as I attempted to grab hold of Whitley’s outstretched hands. His thick fingers waggled, tantalisingly distant.

  The big Geordie, securely held at the waist by the rest of the crowd, was now wobbling on the lip of the balcony.

  ‘Reach, man! Reach!’

  A second bolt shattered, exploding outwards. I pressed my face hard to the wood and grimaced as the lethal nugget tore past my cheek. The shield shifted again and I with it, legs akimbo. Two more bolts spat out from the masonry, leaving my fate to the solitary fixing that remained. The black shield gave a great lurch, creaking from its housing and now hanging at a perilous ninety degrees.

  ‘Jump!’ yelled Whitley Bey. ‘You’ll have to jump, man! It’s your only chance!’

  I glanced down and wished I hadn’t. The gawping faces and the patterned floor sixty feet below me see-sawed as though viewed through a distorting mirror. And there was Kingdom Kum, staring up at me, the light from the chandeliers setting fire to his expensive sunglasses.

  The shield groaned. There was nothing for it. I uttered a prayer to God, Allah, and whichever other deities may have been included in the building’s heritage, took one great breath into my aching lungs, and leaped towards the balcony.

  My hands connected with the ironwork just as the last of the bolts gave way and the massive roundel crashed to the floor in a great cloud of dust and ruined masonry.

  Brown arms scrabbled over the balcony, attempting to reach me. Hands clutched at my wrists. But I’d used up the very last of my strength leaping from the shield. In spite of everything, I felt myself begin to slide from their grasp.

  .10.

  FINDERS, WEEPERS

  Then, salvation! Whitley Bey’s huge hairy hands reached down, grasped me by the shoulders and hauled me up to safety. He lowered me gently onto the balcony and deep shadow covered me. I gasped and panted, the air burning in my lungs.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ demanded Whitley.

  I shook my head, scarcely able to speak.

  The crowd of tourists swarmed over me like flies, questioning, cajoling, rebuking. Hands moved everywhere, checking that I was unharmed. I pushed away an elderly woman in a shawl. ‘Thank you, madam,’ I managed. ‘I am…perfectly well.’

  Pulling myself up, I leaned over the balcony and looked straight down. At the back of the crowd, clearly having waited to see the outcome of my fate, Kum was now beating a hasty retreat. He flashed a smile up at me, smoothed his tight trousers over his arse, and disappeared through the arched entrance.

  ‘Him!’ I croaked. ‘After him!’

  I grabbed Whitley by the arm and staggered towards the stairs, the stone stained red and green by the massive windows. I pushed aside some Americans, too concerned with the chase to register their protestations.

  In the main chamber of the Hagia Sophia, amidst a sea of haversacks and cameras, tourists and attendants streamed over the ruined shield and the dead body of the woman in the mackintosh. Attempts were already being made to close the place. I heard the distant wail of a police siren. Whitley and I raced outside.

  The sunlight was like a smack in the chops after the crypt-like gloom of the interior. The crowd outside seemed vast, jabbering, deranged, and I felt a fresh wave of nausea and disorientation. Whitley craned his neck to see over the mêlée and I struggled to follow his example, scouring the crowd for any sign of the assassin. I winced as something flashed in m
y line of vision. Those damned sunglasses again! I rose up on tip-toe just in time to see Kingdom Kum dive into a taxi that roared off in a cloud of mustard-coloured dust.

  Playing cat and mouse again, I hailed another. It screeched to a halt before us and we collapsed gratefully into the back seats. The vehicle stank of hot plastic. I issued garbled instructions to follow the cab in front and then sank back, utterly spent.

  We careered through the dust-choked streets. I wound down the window, blurred impressions slaloming past my exhausted eyes. Smoke, steam, coffee, voices. Plaster walls crumbling like white scabs. Dusty beggars clustered in corners as though they were patches of mould. A green pharmacy crescent, gently rusting. A tiny orange kitten abandoned on a square of cardboard. But no sign of Kingdom Kum. At last, exhausted and defeated, I instructed the driver to return us to my hotel.

  But no sign of Kingdom Kum. At last, exhausted and defeated, I sank back into my seat. ‘Brilliant! Our only contact murdered before our eyes.’

  Wearily, I instructed the driver to return us to my hotel. Whitley picked at his teeth. ‘The Black Butterfly people must’ve cottoned on to her. Sent the lad to knock her off before she could spill the beans. What now?’

  I sighed, narrowing my eyes. They were gritty with dust. ‘Well, they know we’re onto them. They might well be preparing to up sticks.’

  Whitley nodded, running a finger under his tight collar. Sweat ran down his leathery forehead. He lit one of his treasured Woodbines and coughed wheezily. ‘My thoughts exactly, pet lamb. I reckon we should hit the base at Beyoglu. Hit it hard. And tonight.’