Death of a Butterfly

by Simon Brown

  I remembered the way Edward would touch me when he brought me my morning teas, when I slept in his spare room. I wondered why he was so intense, but now it all made sense. I was his prey, and there I was in his lair. I remembered once watching a wasp attacking a caterpillar in my garden. The buzzing black and yellow, overwhelming the soft, pale, silent green. Edward had started preparing me by telling me it was over with Edwina and then, when he was ready, made his move.

  Could rejection turn love to hatred so quickly? No, not love, it would have been lust, desire or a primal attraction. I considered that if Edward could kill Mathew so easily, then why not me? As I stood by the living room window I saw Edward leave his house. I ducked back behind the curtain quickly as he looked round. I opened a small crack between the curtain and window frame. As Edward walked past my home he stopped and turned so he looked straight at me. His eyes were piercing, cold and unblinking. He affected one of his martial arts postures. I squatted down on the carpet keeping my eyes just above the window ledge. He was wearing a yellow jacket and black trousers. I gulped as I looked down at my long, pastel green top. Sweat formed across my forehead.

  “Fiona, Fiona, please come quickly!”

  I heard the kitchen chair scrape across the floor, footsteps, and then saw Fiona enter the living room.

  “He’s outside.”

  Fiona looked alarmed.

  “Who?”

  “Edward. I think he killed Mathew and now he wants to kill me.”

  Fiona walked over to the window and looked out.

  “There’s no one there. Look, come and see.”

  I heaved myself up and peered up and down the road with my face pressed against the cold glass.

  “See, no one’s there,” Fiona said comfortingly.

  “He must have gone. He was there, I assure you.”

  I noted the look Fiona gave me. Suddenly I was playing the mad victim in a Hitchcock film. I told Fiona my theories about Edward. She sat passively. At the end she told me that her boss had interviewed Edward and that they had searched his home. They had nothing to link him to Mathew’s murder or the threatening letters.

  The next morning Inspector Pride came round unexpectedly. Fiona had left and was to be replaced by a new PC, so I assumed Pride was bringing my new companion, but she trudged up to my door alone. I showed her into the living room.

  “Mrs Blake. I would like you to come down to the police station so I can ask you some more questions.”

  “Can’t you ask them here?”

  “I would prefer a more formal setting and to have one of my colleagues present. In particular I would like you to go through your version of the events that took place the day Mr Blake was murdered.”

  My heart missed a beat and I stood motionless. The inspector’s eyes looked cold. She swayed slightly from one foot to another. She raised her eyebrows and glared at me. I snapped out of my trance. I picked up my large brown, floppy shoulder bag and loose black coat. Just before leaving, I went back for my laptop. If police stations were like hospitals, I would have plenty of time on my hands.

  We got into Pride’s green Ford Mondeo. There were boxes and paper bags full of files on the backseat so I sat next to her. The smell of cheap perfume was repulsive. I leant against the window and opened it slightly. I realised there was something I was not comfortable about with Pride. She veered from being sweet to sudden displays of aggression.

  So now I was the suspect. Did she think I was sending myself those awful letters? Although, I was almost absolutely sure I was innocent, the seed of a thought that I killed Mathew had sprouted. Each time it only lived for a few seconds, before my rational mind recovered, but during those brief moments, the rogue thought induced a feeling of terror.

  Pride felt too big for the car. The intensity of her mood was oppressive. I became nauseous with the violent swaying of the car. My fists tightened around the edges of the seat. I began to have a panic attack. My heartbeat doubled, I felt a pounding in my chest, my breathing became frantic and yet I could not get enough air. I was too scared to let my lungs open. My eye twitched strongly. I kept rubbing it but a nerve just below my eye kept contracting spasmodically.

  Pride drove through the country lanes. The car radio played “Summertime” even though it was winter. We came to a small village with cottages arranged along one side of a village green. I felt a pain in my chest each time I breathed in. I felt starved of air. The November sun was low in the sky and shone onto the dirty corners of the windscreen the wipers could not reach. Pride lowered her sun visor. I thought I must be having a heart attack. I wanted to tell Pride but no sound came from my throat. Three children were riding bicycles on the grass, chasing each other. As we approached, a child in a red top nudged a boy in a black top causing him to lose balance. In an effort to regain stability, he swerved into the road in front of the car. The inspector slammed on the brakes, throwing me forward against my seat belt. The box and bags flew forwards off the rear seat. I could feel something hit the back of my seat.

  The inspector flung the door open, heaved herself out of the car and slammed the door shut. The black-topped boy got up, pulling his bike off the road. He must have been about eleven. Pride started yelling at him. I opened my door for fresh air. The cold felt good, not sitting next to Pride felt good, being still felt good. I undid my safety belt and let myself expand.

  I could hear Pride yelling at the children. She turned, kicking a stone as she returned to the car. Pride slumped back into her seat. Our eyes met. Hers looked fierce. I panicked. I could not be in the car with her. I could not go to the police station with her to be interrogated. I turned to scramble out of the car. Pride grabbed my sleeve. I wriggled out of my coat, grabbed my bag and ran across the green. I heard the inspector start her car and drive fast around the end of the green to cut me off. I ran across the road ahead of her but she sped up. I could hear the engine screaming. She swerved the car and aimed it at me. I jumped across the ditch at the side of the road as the car flashed past and crawled through the hedge. I felt pain in my left leg. I limped across a small grass verge and into the woods beyond. I heard Pride yelling to me.

  “Amanda, come back! I know you did it!”

  I did not turn back or stop. I ran with a wounded half-skip through the woods. I felt a mild pain in my left knee each time I put weight on it. I began to pant as I pushed myself deeper into the woods. The cold air started to rasp against my throat causing an increasing pain around my tonsils. I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest as my legs began to weaken. I had visions of Pride calling out the whole of Hertfordshire’s police force and that I would be tracked down by police dogs. My right foot got caught on something and I tumbled forward. I put my hand out in front of my face as I fell to the ground.

  “Fiddlesticks,” I cried out.

  I lay trying to get my breath back. The pain in my chest had gone. I scrambled upright and looked around to see if anyone had heard me. I started to trot more carefully. My right hand was bleeding. I slowed to a fast walk and hobbled down a narrow path avoiding a tangled mesh of brambles.

  The path led to an old hut. It was covered in sheets of corrugated iron, moss, ivy and leaves. The dark entrance faced me like an open snarling mouth. It looked distorted and misshapen. I was struck by a childish fear. I felt like running back from it. For a moment I could not pass. I recoiled and tried to talk some sense into my distorted mind.

  I forced myself forward, picking my way through the undergrowth around the hut. I crossed a muddy ditch and then walked down a steep hill. At the bottom was a deep, red-bricked lined pit. I looked over and saw black liquid mixed with leaves and branches at the bottom. There was an upturned shopping trolley in the corner. I baulked for a moment like a hypersensitive horse, afraid to pass. I moved on into a clearing. I joined a larger path and met a silver haired man in a green, waxed cotton jacket, taking his black Labrador for a walk. I smiled as he said, “Afternoon.”

  I panted, heavy footed, along t
he path. My mind tried to make sense of everything. What was Pride’s intention? She said she wanted me to go through the events leading to Mathew’s murder. She screamed out that she knew I did it. What did she know?

  I could see a lane ahead of me. As I approached, a police car passed slowly. I instinctively crouched behind a tree. The greenery was thick here and although I could see a uniformed policeman peering out of the passenger seat, he seemed to look straight through me. The car drifted on. Once the car was out of sight, I edged up to the road. I needed to get my bearings. I listened carefully before walking out of the woods. I could see the lane led down to a main road. I could follow the woods on the right most of the way. I started walking along the edge of the road, ready to jump back into the woods as soon as I heard or saw anything. I paused to wrap my bleeding hand in my handkerchief.

  About halfway, the sound of a car sent me diving back into the woods. I lay behind a fallen tree. I could smell the peaty, damp earth. A small maroon hatchback passed. The driver was an older lady. I continued along a small track, parallel to the lane. As I approached the field leading to the main road I saw a police van speed past with its blue lights flashing. Now I needed a plan. I sat on a raised earthy mound and thought. Oh Mum and Dad, what should I do? Please help me out of this mess. My father would want me to go back to the police. My mother would be more inventive and creative. An image of her sewing my fancy dress party clothes flashed through my racing mind.

  Yes, I needed a disguise. I frantically searched through my bag. I had some long nail scissors, sunglasses, a pink scarf, mascara, lipsticks, a small mirror and black leather gloves.

  I started cutting my hair as short as possible. My hands were shaking. Long strands of soft, fair, wavy hair fell among the leaves around me. It took longer than I thought but the end result was that I now looked like a weird leftover from the punk era. Clumps and tufts of hair covered most of my skull but here and there I could see bare skin showing through. Perhaps kinder people would think I had alopecia or was undergoing chemotherapy and feel sorry for me. It kind of matched my emotions.

  Next I found my old sunglasses. I painted on the brightest lipstick, a glossy pink. I used my mascara to darken my eyelashes and then smudged some across my eyebrows. I took off my brown sweater and put it in my bag. I tied the pink scarf around my neck. It clashed with my red stretchy top, but added to the image of a slightly mad woman who was stuck in her wild days. Finally I rolled my jeans up three times so they ended half way down my calves, exposing my brown and mauve striped socks.

  I felt refreshed in my new identity. A new horizon opened up. I was not going back to my home. I could not face Pride after this. I wanted to run as far as I could from Edward. No more banks, building societies and bills I couldn’t pay.

  I needed somewhere to stay for a few days. I had some cash, plus my credit and bankcards. Local hotels would be risky and I assumed easy for the police to look for new guests. I needed to get some distance between myself, Edward and Pride. London was the obvious place. The only person I could think of was my mother’s sister-in-law, who had a flat in London. I vaguely remember visiting her about ten years ago, after my Uncle Roger died. My uncle was, I think, eight years older than my mother. His wife must be in her late sixties now. As I remember, we took the train to London and a tube to Belsize Park. My mother kept calling her Dotty. I think she found it funny, as the woman was quite eccentric. I could not remember their last name. With no better plan, I decided to aim for Belsize Park and retrace my steps from all those years ago. If that did not work out, I would have to stay in a cheap hotel for a few nights until I could come up with a better alternative.

  A hedge ran along the side of the lane and I walked close to the edge through the muddy field. Nobody would see me from the lane and if I crouched down, I would be hard to see from the main road. I kept a close eye looking for anything that could resemble a police car. When I got to the main road, I picked my way through the hedge. Now I was highly vulnerable.

  No taxis or busses were likely to pass so I had to wave someone down or hitch. I froze, wondering how I would know which vehicles would be safe. What if I jumped out straight into the path of Pride? The sound of dogs barking in the woods behind me gave me the extra incentive I needed. I walked along the road with my thumb out. Several cars passed without even slowing. I tried looking smiley but my appearance was probably putting people off. As I became more desperate, I became more assertive. I turned to look at the drivers and stood on the side of the road so they had to make a conscious effort to steer around me.

  A white van slowed and stopped further up the road. I ran up to the Transit and pulled on the door handle.

  “Hello, love. Where are you going?”

  He looked like a builder. I quickly decided to trust him and climbed into the passenger seat. He turned the music down.

  “I just need to get to London. Are you going anywhere near a train station?”

  “I can drop you off at Stevenage. You’re not this mad killer that everyone is looking for?”

  I swallowed and felt my stomach tighten.

  “No.”

  He laughed loudly. “Pretty Vacant” by The Sex Pistols radiated from the foot well speakers. The driver turned the volume up.

  “Is this your scene or are you more of a Goth?”

  “This is good.”

  So I looked more punk than chemotherapy patient. I tried to join in the small talk with a casual manner, but it was hard not to be consumed with thoughts about Pride. Had the police issued a warning?

  When we arrived at the station, I thanked him and hopped out. I climbed the stairs and slowed as I saw a policeman by the ticket counter. He was watching passengers passing through to the platform. I reminded myself that I looked different. They would be looking for a woman with long wavy, fair hair and a brown sweater. As I walked to the ticket machine, the policeman looked me up and down. I bought a single to King’s Cross. I had to pass close to the police constable to get through the barrier. I resisted my impulse to look away and pushed my hands into my pockets trying to behave as though I was a punk with attitude. I gave the constable my impression of a what are you looking at face and he lowered his eyes.

  The London train was due in sixteen minutes. I leant against the wall at the far end of the waiting room. It felt out of the way and secluded. Please give me strength, I am almost there, my mind cried out. I used the time to take the handkerchief off my hand. I could see a graze across the side of my hand and knuckles. The wound had dried. I finally saw the white lights of the oncoming train in the distance.

  Seated in the carriage, I tried to remember my aunt and uncle’s surname. It would have been the same as my mother’s maiden name. My thoughts raced on to what to do when I got to London. I had seen all the footage of the London bombers being traced through their journeys into London using CCTV. I assumed I had already been filmed at Stevenage station. If Pride worked out my disguise, it would be easy to follow me through the system to Belsize Park. I needed a change of clothes. Besides, I was starting to feel cold.

  The train slowed and pulled into King’s Cross, interrupting my thoughts. As I passed the ticket barrier the name Hope popped into my head. Yes, that was it. Dorothy Hope. I walked out of the station and asked where I could find a clothes shop. A short walk took me to an outdoor clothing shop. I found a mid-length black jacket with a large hood. I tried pulling the hood as far forward as it would go and was pleased it obscured my face. I found some brown leather hiking boots and a green and grey backpack. I paid cash. I put my brown sweater back on and packed my shoulder bag, muddy shoes and pink scarf into the backpack. I unrolled my trousers. Standing in front of the mirror I looked gratifyingly unrecognisable.

  By the time I arrived at Belsize Park tube station, it was getting dark. The air felt wintery. I looked around vaguely remembering the shops, cafes and cinema. I felt nervous using my mobile. Could they trace where my calls were made from and to whom? I found a public tele
phone box, phoned directory of enquiries and got the number for Dorothy Hope.

  “Hello my name is Amanda Blake. I am Mary Birch’s daughter. Mary was your sister-in-law.”

  There was a short pause.

  “Yes, of course, I remember you. You came to Roger’s funeral with your mother. How lovely to hear from you. I hope you are keeping well.”

  “Well, actually, I’m in some trouble. I am in the area. Could I come round?”

  I put another coin into the slot.

  “I have my little meeting this evening, but yes, please do. You might enjoy it.”

  I memorised the address and set off following Dorothy’s directions.

  CHAPTER 8

  The house was about a ten-minute walk from the phone box. It had a white façade, with a column on either side of the front door porch. It was four floors high. I pressed the buzzer feeling a flutter of anxiety. My aunt invited me in and I pushed hard against the door. My aunt’s flat was on the first floor.

  Dorothy was standing by her open door and held her hands out in a gesture of welcome.

  “Hello, dear, do come in.”

  Dorothy held my arms and looked in my eyes. She smiled warmly and gave me a hug. Then she turned and walked through the hall and into the living room. I followed.

  “You are in some trouble, you say. How exciting. Please, do sit down.”

  My aunt waved me to the sofa. She looked at me more closely. The hyacinths next to me threw off a sweet fragrance.

  “Has this trouble led you to take on some kind of disguise?”

  “Oh, is it that obvious?”

  My voice sounded a bit shaky. With my aunt’s encouragement, I told her about the murder, the photographs, Edward, the letters, the loans, the cash withdrawals, Pride and my escape. My hands trembled slightly as I told her about the imminent loss of my home.