Death of a Butterfly

by Simon Brown

  Over breakfast, my aunt helped me think through practical steps. I found it hard to get used to her. Sometimes she would make remarks that impressed me. She seemed wise, clever and insightful. At other times she appeared forgetful, confused and unsure. Conversations would break down when she could not remember someone’s name. Sometimes she would seem to lose interest and drift off altogether.

  We decided that if I remained anonymous and continued my disguise, I would be safe from Edward and the person sending the threats. I would need a wig and new clothes. My aunt suggested I write to Pride explaining why I ran away. Dorothy offered to go out and get the wig first. She measured my skull.

  Dorothy returned later with a wig of long straight black hair. She bought matching dye for my eyebrows and dark purple lipstick. I could now go out and buy new clothes. Dorothy gave me two hundred and fifty pounds.

  I left the home mid-afternoon for central London. I felt safe walking under the heavy, dark clouds and light rain with an umbrella. My first stop was to get a new phone. I picked up a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile and twenty pounds credit, confident that my new phone would be untraceable.

  Walking along Oxford Street, I consciously played out new images for myself in my head. I settled on the opposite of my previous dress sense. I decided smart, neat, black, conservative. I was aware that I envisioned the look that would have most pleased Mathew. Wondering why I did not dress this way for him whilst he was alive, I entered a clothes shop.

  I felt weird standing in front of the mirror modelling my new outfit. With the wig and clothing I looked taller, more elegant and slightly mysterious. I felt different as though I had taken on aspects of the character of the woman I imagined would create such an image. I judged a woman dressed like this to be intelligent, uptight and fixated on looks. It was miles away from my earthy, art teacher robes.

  Something that had been playing on my mind was the inspector’s accusation that I might have created an enemy by taking Mathew from someone. She seemed so intense when questioning me.

  Whilst I was out I decided to call James. He had known Mathew longer than I had and I wanted to find out more about that last call Mathew made to him. I used a phone box. I did not want him to have my new mobile number. He was still at the shop.

  “Hello, James.”

  “Where the hell have you been? I’ve had the police round looking for you.”

  “I’ve been receiving threatening letters. Pride seemed to accuse me of bringing it on myself by taking Mathew away from someone. She took me in for questioning and I panicked and ran.”

  “Wow, good for you. Pride can be a bully.”

  “James, do you know who Mathew was in a relationship with before me?”

  “There was someone, but I never met her. Wait, I do remember Mathew saying she was a police constable. He claimed she could get me off a speeding ticket at the time, but she couldn’t.”

  “Could she have been Pride?”

  James laughed heartily.

  “I hardly think our Inspector would be Mathew’s type.”

  “Maybe six or seven years ago she was slimmer.”

  “So you think she was in love with Mathew, you stole him from her, and then she lost it emotionally, became a chocoholic, put on loads of weight, rose up to the rank of inspector, and all this time was plotting to kill Mathew and get her revenge on you?”

  “Well, no, not like that.”

  “I had a run in with Pride before and she was large then.”

  “What was that for?”

  “Oh, it’s not important. My girlfriend at the time accused me of attacking her, but it was all made up and didn’t come to anything. I didn’t form a favourable impression of Pride at the time. She crossed a few boundaries that my solicitor took up with her superior.”

  “That kind of backs up my experience.”

  “Where are you, Amanda? Do you need help?”

  “I’m in hiding. You know you were the last person Mathew spoke to on his phone.”

  “No, I had not considered that.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  There was a slight pause.

  “Oh, um, just shop talk.”

  I let it go for now.

  “James, do you know anyone in the North Herts police force?”

  “I know where you’re heading and I’ll make some enquiries. How do I get hold of you?”

  “I’ll call you. Bye.”

  Dorothy was impressed with my new look.

  “I am just about to take a short walk. Would you like to join me whilst you are all dressed up in your new disguise?”

  We strolled through residential streets to Hampstead Heath. Dorothy kept pointing out interesting architectural features on the houses. When we arrived at the heath she touched the branch of a tree and then held it between her hands as though she was warming it.

  “I do so love being in contact with nature,” she exclaimed.

  We walked along the path, past the ponds. The air was cold and the ground wet. Every now and then the sun shone through a gap in the clouds warming my back. We came to a wooded area and Dorothy knelt to push the soil down around what looked to be a very young tree. She put her hand into some nearby soil and a worm slithered across her fingers. She lifted her hand to the light and observed the worm crawling around her thumb before gently returning it to the earth.

  Dorothy looked up at the sky and then around her as if she had just been dropped there.

  “Goodness, we are here already. Well, I think I am ready for tea.”

  We took a new path to Hampstead and found a table in a café. I was aware that people treated me slightly differently in my new clothes. I watched as two men looked me up and down. I felt other women were more conscious of me.

  Over tea Dorothy asked me to describe everything I saw on the day I returned home and found Mathew laid out on our carpet. She was particularly interested in the photographs.

  “Would the album have been easy to find?”

  “I suppose so. It was in the living room on a shelf. It has a thick, blue cover with a spiral for the pages so I think anyone would recognise it as a photo album.”

  “Pictures, money and a watch.”

  “The watch wasn’t really valuable.”

  “No, I would think it would be for sentimental value. Watches are given for retirement and inheritance. Photographs form a record of someone’s life. I wonder whether the attacker expected the pictures to all be of you and Mathew.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if I was in a friend’s house and took out a photograph album, I think I would expect lots of different family pictures. Children, grandchildren, parents, holidays. You know the sort of selection. Perhaps a set of images of just you and your husband were not appreciated.”

  I thought of Edward. Did he assume that my marriage was on the rocks and then steal an album that would have projected images of a couple very much in love?

  My aunt had arranged another of her meetings for the following evening; same people, same time, same procedure. Whilst Dorothy’s friends intrigued me, another part of me felt I had some unfinished business with Herr Huber. I also felt awkward about meeting them again after my outburst at the last meeting.

  “Oh goodness, Amanda, don’t be silly. No one will even think about that. They are far more interested in the present, dear.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Dorothy did not have broadband and I had not even touched my computer since arriving. I felt an urge to get my emails. I went out in disguise to a café in England’s Lane where there was a Wi-Fi connection. I found a seat at the far end of the restaurant and ordered. I read through my emails. A woman sat opposite me and ordered a triple espresso and a pastry. I moved my computer to make room when her order arrived. I noticed the woman impatiently pour sugar into her cup, gulp her coffee and bite into her pastry. She attacked her order with the hunger of an addict. Then she looked up and stared at me.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, it�
�s you, isn’t it?”

  I jumped slightly as the woman burst into life waving her arms. Her round red face beamed at me.

  “Amanda Birch. Anarchist Amanda.”

  I had not heard my art school nickname for over ten years. Then I recognised her. Ruby Ellis. Ruby brushed flakes of sticky pastry from around her mouth.

  “Ruby?”

  The woman started beating her chest. I shut my laptop.

  “Yes, it’s me, Ruby.”

  Ruby grabbed both my hands and squeezed them.

  “How amazing is this? Here we are sitting opposite each other. You’ve changed, Amanda. What have you done to your hair? Well I guess we all have developed.” Ruby ran her hands up and down her torso to emphasise the sparkly low cut top, tightly embracing her curvy body. “I still have so many great memories of those arty-farty days. So what are you up to, who are you with, where do you live, what do you do?”

  I remembered Ruby’s capacity for nonstop talking. Sitting opposite her, I felt she was going to take off. I imagined her floating up above the tables waving her legs and arms around, talking loudly, riding a wave of excitement and drama. I spoke flatly and quietly. I think I wanted to shock her into actually listening to me and show her how serious real life dramas can be.

  “A few weeks ago I came home from teaching art to thirty out-of-control fifteen year olds and found my husband murdered on the living room floor. I then received gruesome death threats and found that my husband had forged my signature to borrow against our home, leaving me homeless. Now I am on the run.”

  “You’re kidding!? No, you really are serious. You are, aren’t you? Oh my God, Amanda. Oh Amanda, murdered?”

  I instantly regretted my need to shock. Ruby became animated. Her voice rose, becoming piercing as she worked herself up into a frenzy. People were starting to look round. She knocked my empty coffee cup over with a frantic gesture.

  “You’re on the run! Someone’s trying to kill you! Why, Amanda, why? What are you going to—”

  Ruby seemed to be on the verge of becoming hysterical. My legs felt weak. I wanted to run out but I could not send the message to my legs. Ruby kept on, trumping one exclamation with another more sensational. I threw my glass of water into Ruby’s rosy face. Cold water cascaded down her cheeks, chin and neck, soaking her purple shimmering sweater. Ruby gasped as she took in a sharp intake of breath. I thought she was going to scream. In a panic I grabbed her arms and pulled her close to me. I started to talk slowly and quietly.

  “Listen, do you want to get us both killed? Why don’t you announce to the whole of London who I am and why I am on the run? Why do you think I am wearing this wig? Be quiet and calm yourself, quickly.”

  I held onto Ruby’s arms whilst she took deep breaths and counted to ten. I remembered this ritual from art school.

  After a minute she stretched out her fingers as a sign of regaining control. I let go of her arms. We both remained silent. Ruby picked up a napkin and dabbed her face. I did not know how to begin a conversation without risking another outburst.

  “Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about your life. Please keep yourself calm.”

  “Okay, I’m better now. It was just the shock of seeing you again after all these years and then finding that, you know. Um, well where to begin? I’m in a lousy marriage with a pig of a man, Bill, who is only interested in himself. I would like to say we’ve been to hell and back, but we are still there. I have two children, Robin and Sam. Both girls. We chose androgynous names, so their gender would not matter when they arrived, bless them. They are five and seven. My life is full of taking Sam to ballet classes, piano lessons, parties, art school, theatre club and school. We live round the corner. Bill works, I spend his money. Do you have children?”

  “No, Mathew never seemed ready.”

  Ruby lowered her voice.

  “Mathew is the one who was—”

  “Yes,” I answered cautiously.

  Ruby looked up at the clock.

  “I’m late. Give me your mobile number and I’ll call you.”

  I hesitated. So far only Dorothy had my number. Ruby was not a threat, but unless she had changed, she was a liability. Ruby must have sensed my caution.

  “Look, here’s my number and email. Call me and we’ll do caffeine soon.”

  She wrote on a napkin with a gushing, flamboyant flourish and surged through the crowd of people waiting for a table. I had forgotten how tiring she could be. For a while after I felt distracted and disorientated.

  Late afternoon Dorothy and I repeated the same procedure of setting out the room. It was as though last time never happened. Although Dorothy put the candles in more or less the same places, it was as if it had just occurred to her.

  “I like to live out of my beginner’s mind, when I can, my dear.”

  This time Henrique Huber arrived first. It must have been raining. His black umbrella was dripping, forming a pool on the mat. I took it into the bathroom. Dorothy took Henrique’s heavy wool coat and hung it up in the hall. Dorothy and I took our assigned seats. Again I noticed Henrique pinch the creases of his pressed trousers and lift them a little before sitting. This small action was his signature, his icon in my head. I saw him relax, look up at me, tilt his head slightly and smile.

  “Well now, Mrs Blake, how are you today?”

  “Much better than the last time we met, thank you.”

  The doorbell rang and I jumped up to let Sandy Vox in.

  “My goodness, what weather. Quite invigorating.”

  Sandy handed me a wide brimmed, green, waxed cotton hat and slipped out of a long brown cape. Sandy curled up on the sofa next to Henrique. They made quite a contrast. Henrique upright, straight lines and composed. Sandy was all curves and flowing folds as she stretched out.

  Nirmal Rajan arrived wearing the same outfit as to the previous meeting. He had protected himself from the rain by wearing a mackintosh and a small folding umbrella. As soon as Nirmal was seated, Sandy spoke.

  “I would like to explore love if that is acceptable to everyone.”

  No one objected.

  “I am seeking to live out of a feeling of love,” Sandy said, looking at me.

  “How do you do that?” I asked cautiously.

  “You simply unwrap your soul.”

  This was the first time I had heard Nirmal speak in one of the meetings. Having looked into my eyes to say five words he smiled. His eyes twinkled and then he went back to looking into the far distance. Herr Huber raised his hand.

  “When I was young I found it fascinating that we could describe our universe through observation, analysis and formulae. Then I went through my philosophical phase, as my mother described it. Following in the steps of Descartes, I began to wonder what is real. I realised that my reality is my experience of life, lived through my senses.”

  Herr Huber turned up the palms of his hands in a gesture of openness. He continued.

  “Later, I realised that we all think differently. So a theory takes on as many forms as the number of minds it is thought through.”

  I thought about the children at school and how frustrated I got when they heard what I said differently. Henrique continued.

  “I realised science was humans’ clumsy attempts to explain our universe. Later I found that philosophy was tying my mind up in knots and I was spending too much time thinking about life rather than living it. It was then that I moved into my deconstructionist period. I examined every belief residing in my head and realised they were not real but what I had chosen to think was real. Most of them were just a distraction cluttering up my head. Something very surprising and wonderful happened. I unwrapped my soul of some of those layers I built up over my lifetime. The image I so carefully constructed to help me impress my friends collapsed. The successful strategies, coping mechanisms, learnt behaviour, dissolved, letting my soul shine through.”

  I nodded and smiled. I had the feeling that they felt I needed to be helped or even converted.<
br />
  My aunt cleared her throat and then paused. For a terrible moment I thought she had forgotten what it was she wanted to say. Then she began again.

  “Do you remember when you were a child how you loved to play games?”

  I nodded.

  “The big question is, do we ever stop? Do the games just change? Does hide and seek or chase me change to winning friends and passing exams? Do boyfriends, art school, teaching, marriage and socialising become other games?”

  I felt myself react.

  “No, not at all.”

  “What do you need for a game? Rules and regulations, competition and some way of knowing whether you are winning or losing. Isn’t that what happens with money, status, prestige, husbands, children, looks?”

  I remember feeling incredibly proud of Mathew and wanting to introduce him to as many friends as possible. I liked the way Mathew played up to them and turned on the charm. I did feel like I had won something. Not having children felt like losing. Little comments from my friends would hurt and leave me feeling sad and upset. Herr Huber interrupted my thoughts.

  “Is it possible that even now we are all playing a game? Could it in any way be that going on the run is part of another game you are engaged in?”

  Now I could feel my anger rise. I felt my face redden and I started to protest. As I struggled to find the words, Sandy spoke quietly and slowly.

  “Amanda, we are not here to judge you. It really makes no difference whether you have unwrapped your soul or not, whether you feel love or whether you are immersed in a game that has taken hold of you.”

  Nirmal started to speak softly.

  “We can only engage in the process of transformation when we are ready. Perhaps this moment is not your time. Sometimes we protect ourselves from pain, hurt and fear so deeply that we are afraid to let go. If you feel a resistance, don’t force it. There will be other times and it may be that at each of our meetings you will feel a little closer. One day you will want to take off the bandages to see what is underneath. I like to think of it as learning to swim. It takes a while to get used to the water and after some time of watching other people swimming, one day the trust and self-belief reach a point where it feels time to launch off and swim on our own.”