Death of a Butterfly

by Simon Brown

  These beautiful memories led me to an emotional brink. I felt a great longing well up in my stomach and overflow into my heart. Tears flowed freely, running to the bridge of my nose before falling to the floor below. I felt steady, reassuring hands on my back, head, legs and feet. The touch was gentle and the hands remained still. Sometimes it almost felt as though the boundary between us had melted and their hands were inside me, gently massaging my inner organs.

  It intrigued me that all this had been done in silence. It felt that my four healers were somehow connected and harmoniously working with perfect, seamless synchronicity. I used their hands as a form of meditation by focussing on the feeling of each hand.

  When lying on my back I encountered an amazing free-falling sensation. I had an unusual dream where I learnt how to fly. I just needed to trust myself and I could launch myself forward and fly across the garden. My mother and father watched as I flew around a tree and back to the kitchen patio.

  When I woke my thoughts were unobtrusive, soft and calming. I still had memories of flying. I felt open, as though some kind of restraint had been released. My cheeks felt very hot.

  I slowly opened my eyes. The curtains were drawn leaving the room dusky. As my eyes slowly surveyed the room from my position on the massage couch, I saw long flickering candles. I smelt the essence of a burning incense stick. Then I turned my head and saw the four sitting on their chairs in meditation. I watched them for a while. There was incredible stillness in their faces.

  I lay for some time in a contented bliss. I didn’t want to move, I didn’t want to break the spell. Finally Dorothy came over slowly and placed her hand on my arm.

  “Just relax and I will help you up.”

  I was left curled up on the sofa whilst my friends went into the kitchen to prepare lunch.

  When their cooking was complete they carried in large dishes of vegetables, a salad and bean soup. The table was laid with an effortless grace. We ate a hot stir-fry, some roasted sweet potatoes and very crunchy steamed broccoli. I savoured each mouthful. Sandy caught my eye.

  “Can you feel love, Amanda?”

  “I do feel kind of loving inside.”

  “How would you describe it?”

  “It’s just a feeling.”

  After lunch and after the table had been cleared, Henrique moved to the sofa, lay back and appeared to fall asleep with his hands over his abdomen. Nirmal sat on the floor and made some very slow, long stretches. Sandy took out a leather bound notebook and began writing. Dorothy sat looking at me.

  “I am enjoying your transformation, Amanda. You are a caterpillar turning into a butterfly.”

  I smiled back. It was one of those easy smiles that spread across my face and would have been very hard to stop. I felt very young and strangely innocent. I think for the first time I appreciated the meaning of the word serene.

  After some time Sandy put her book away, Henrique opened his eyes and Nirmal returned to his chair. Henrique spoke softly.

  “I suppose we are engaged in ontology, the study of being. To use that well-worn cliché, we are students of life, but students who only want to explore, discover and question through our natural curiosity rather than answer, construct or conclude. If along the way we stumble upon our own insights or revelations, then that can be a beautiful experience.”

  After a silence Nirmal began to speak.

  “Questions guide our exploration and whilst we were born with so much curiosity, we often replace it with what we like to think of as knowledge. Memorising what passes as fact may be great exercise for our minds, but how does it develop us as a person? Does each assumed fact simply stop the process of exploration and lead us to live within a self that has been defined by our beliefs, rather than a self that has an unlimited capacity for further evolution. I hope I never, find myself, as we used to say. I want to enjoy the process of discovery for a lifetime.”

  I was intrigued by the way they communicated. Someone spoke and then it was almost as though they digested their words for a while before another person spoke. In all the time I had been with them, no one interrupted, spoke over another or dismissed another’s thought. I could not always tell if they were agreeing but they had a patient, calm, considerate way of interacting that felt that each was really able to express him or herself and be heard. This was very different to my conversations with my fellow teachers or with my friends. After a while Sandy took up the conversation.

  As they spoke I wondered how this group of people came together. What was my aunt’s role? She hosted the meetings. I noticed that my aunt did not say as much as the others. Sometimes she just seemed content to listen without contributing.

  “Do you mind if I ask a question?”

  All eyes turned to me.

  “How did you all meet? How did you find you had this common interest?”

  Sandy laughed.

  “You really don’t know?”

  I shook my head. Sandy looked over at Dorothy and smiled affectionately.

  “We were all introduced by your aunt. She brought us together and initiated these discussions. It was your aunt that helped us experience our different ways to encourage someone to heal. She spoke about love, divinity, our soul and launched us off on our own journeys of discovery.”

  Henrique nodded.

  “I was a banker, married, a father and product of my past, but now I am myself. I attribute the little stumble and helping hand that brought about such a metamorphosis to your aunt.”

  Then it was Nirmal’s turn.

  “I thought I had found enlightenment through my yoga and meditation rituals, but realised I was wearing the packaging of what I learnt enlightenment should be rather than what it was. It was your aunt who very gently helped release me from the web I was entangled in and set me free.”

  I looked over at Dorothy and noticed she had fallen asleep. Henrique put his finger to his lips and got up quietly. The others followed and silently made their way to the door. We hugged and kissed, and they prepared for the cold. I held the door open as they quietly descended the stairs and I gave one last wave as they turned the corner.

  My head was spinning with ideas of who my aunt was. In my mind she had been elevated from someone with lots of quirky, but sometimes quite profound, ideas to a kind of guru. It amused me that I had assumed that the others were leading my aunt and that she revelled in their wisdom. It never occurred to me that she was their teacher.

  CHAPTER 16

  On Christmas Eve, Sergeant Gough came round to update me on developments and finalise my statement. My aunt prepared a tea made from dried bay leaves and lemon rind. The taste was so engaging I could not concentrate on anything else for a moment.

  “Mr Edwards claims he got on a tube at Holland Park after a business meeting and missed his stop at Holborn. He says he woke up at Liverpool Street and got a tube back to Holborn and then changed to Piccadilly for Covent Garden.”

  “Did you check his Clam?”

  “Oyster, Aunty.”

  “Oh, how silly of me. Did I say Clam again? Now I have that word stuck in my mind.”

  “Yes, we did check his Oyster card and that part is correct. However, it would be possible for Mr Edwards to buy a one-day Travelcard at any newsagents and use that to exit at Covent Garden, and enter again before finally leaving again using his Oyster card.”

  “That would imply that he had planned it out. Bought the pass, stolen the coat, carried the hat and dark spectacles before finding Amanda. How do you feel, dear? From your description it seemed more opportunist. Was the alcohol for courage or is that his normal habit?” my aunt mused.

  I thought back. It happened very quickly. There was no way of knowing. Dorothy spoke again.

  “And why fire his gun? If he wanted to kill you, surely he could have done so. By firing the gun we now know that this man has the same gun that killed Mathew. To me that makes me doubt he was either Edward or James.”

  “Unless it was an accident. He was trying to g
rope me and just before the gun was fired he lifted my head and smashed it back onto the floor.”

  Gough wrote notes.

  “Have you interviewed Mr Harris?” Dorothy asked.

  “Yes, we have. He could not provide an alibi but we have not identified him on any CCTV footage from the area either. So he was either in his disguise or not there at all.”

  The policewoman then went through my statement again and when I was satisfied I signed it.

  Christmas Day arrived. There was still enough snow on the ground to make it a white Christmas. Dorothy and I exchanged greetings and sat down to breakfast.

  “I hope you do not mind, my dear, but I put together a little gift for you.”

  Dorothy left the room and returned with a green package. There was a card taped to the ribbon.

  To Amanda,

  I just want to express the joy and pleasure I have experienced with you being part of my life. Although the circumstances that brought us together may have been difficult for you I hope in later years you will look back on our time together affectionately.

  All my love,

  Dorothy

  I hugged and kissed my aunt.

  “I know something special is happening to me, although I cannot really describe what it is. I also know it is because of you that I feel these changes.”

  “Not me, Amanda. Only you can initiate and sustain the transformation that is happening. Please do not give any of your power to me. I have enough of my own.”

  I unwrapped the present and found several balls of wool, knitting needles and a pattern for a sweater. The colours were mauve, green, pink, purple and brown.

  “The colours reminded me of the hills to the south of Edinburgh. I hope you enjoy the process of knitting; feeling the wool, listening to the clicking of the needles and seeing the colours come together. If it is not for you, I will not be offended, as you must know by now.”

  “I tried to knit once as a child and I think it is time to have another go. Thank you so much. I feel embarrassed, with all that has happened I have not got you anything.”

  “Would ‘bought’ or ‘chosen’ be a little more descriptive? For me, you being here is more than enough.”

  We enjoyed a relaxing morning in which Dorothy guided me through the process of knitting. She somehow turned it into a Zen art where knitting became another means to meditate and stay connected to my senses.

  Later we took a taxi into the centre of London for our lunch. A grey car followed us. I presumed it was my police protection. Dorothy had booked us a table at a grand hotel and we sat down in an oak panelled lavish dining room. I slowly observed the chandelier, ornate furniture and glowing fireplace.

  Once we ordered, Dorothy wanted to know how I felt in this atmosphere. I felt excited, stimulated and alert but also slightly guarded. The formality of the place reminded me of my father and his anxiety over my manners in public. I looked at the array of silver cutlery and made a mental note to start from the outside. I asked Dorothy how she felt.

  “I feel my energy is a little faster, moving up and to the surface. Like you I notice my mind is stimulated. I feel engaged with my environment and enjoy looking at the different colours and textures. The open fire calls out for my attention and is warming.”

  “How did you get started with this way of life?”

  “It was 1961 when I turned twenty. I knew I wanted to be different. My first experience of an alternative world was yoga. In those days the church complained it was anti-Christian, my parents thought I would be brainwashed and for the angry Times reader it was the beginning of the end. I enjoyed sitting in the lotus position in public, affecting a dazed trance, just to annoy passers-by. For added effect I became vegetarian. That was the last straw for my parents. Probably hard to imagine in this age.”

  “Do you have any pictures from then?”

  “Yes, I still have a few. From yoga I became absorbed in Zen Macrobiotics, and after I consumed macrobiotics I became a Buddhist for a couple of years. When the seventies arrived, I studied philosophy, became a communist, joined CND and finally devoted myself to love. I met your uncle and we were like chalk and cheese. He was so straight and conventional. I introduced him to wild love making, free thinking, herb teas, lying in bed all day talking about the meaning of life and holidays in the south of France.”

  No wonder my mother was so critical of Dorothy.

  “What attracted you to him?”

  “He gave me my rhythm, routine, stability and consistency. If it were not for Roger, I would not have created the impulse to be of service to others. Roger was a man of great integrity, honesty and ethics. I learnt how to harness what I had, and began giving meditation classes. Once I started to connect to other people everything else evolved naturally. By the end of the seventies I had cleaned myself up and was starting to live out of my own intuition, insights and revelations. I became more myself. Then I learnt to trust myself, be loving and accept a divine connection.”

  “Do you talk to God?”

  “I allow impulses to come through me and act on them. God does not speak to me. He is not a language.”

  “And what did Roger think of it all? My parents seemed so straight. They were horrified at the things you did.”

  Dorothy laughed.

  “Yes, I think I was a little challenging for them. I think Roger generally liked it as long as I did not talk about my interests with his friends. He was quite self-conscious in public and I tried to be very understanding of that. In the end I think he really enjoyed my healing, natural foods and herb teas. He said it helped his arthritis and meant he could enjoy the last ten years of his life.”

  “How did he die?”

  “In his sleep. Peacefully. We knew the time had come. He was much older than me and quite weak. He caught a cold that developed into a chest infection and he passed on one night.”

  I remained silent for a while, as Dorothy seemed to be in a state of remembrance. I had spent so long eating Dorothy’s simple, clean-tasting foods; the rich hotel dishes quickly filled me up.

  “Seeing as it is Christmas, what do you know of Jesus, Amanda?”

  “I liked learning about him at school. The Old Testament seemed to me dark, fearful and threatening. When Jesus appeared, love, forgiveness and healing shone through. I liked the way he stuck up for the un-clean, the prostitutes and the lepers.”

  Dorothy nodded and gave my hand a squeeze. I looked up.

  “I would not have imagined you were religious.”

  “Oh no, darling, I am not particularly anything. I would rather give myself the freedom to be everything, as and when I feel like it. So I am very happy to be religious today. I sometimes wonder how we would be if we could try out all the religions, ideologies and practices. Would humans reach a greater understanding? Could we let go of some of our prejudices, righteousness and judgements?”

  “Oh, you mean be a Christian for a year, then study Judaism for a year, become a Muslim for a while, try being a Hindu, experience Buddhism and so on.”

  “Yes, something like that. It would be interesting to deconstruct all those barriers people have erected.”

  We finished with dessert and herbal teas.

  That night it took me a while to sleep and then I woke to wild colourful dreams.

  After Christmas I decided it was time to book myself a cheap flight to Venice. As I left home for the café, my laptop tucked under my arm, a man eased himself out of the car opposite.

  “Miss Blake?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Constable Pilkington. I’m part of your protection team.”

  He held up his identity card.

  “I’m just going to a café. Do you want to come?”

  We set off together, joining the families, lovers and friends, carefully stepping over the ice and snow.

  We chose a seat at the end of the café, where I could survey everything before me, including the entrance. I booked my flights and then we chatted. Ruby walked in w
earing a huge wide brimmed pink hat. When she saw me, she stormed over.

  “That pig of a husband ruined Christmas Day. He ate too much at lunch, drank until he could not get out his chair and fell asleep on the sofa. We had planned a lovely walk in the snow. The children were so looking forward to it.”

  I introduced her to the constable. Ruby suddenly switched from outrage to being slightly flirty. The constable offered to take his latte to another table so Ruby and I could talk. I thought she must have intimidated him with her dramatic personality.

  “He’s quite dishy. Does he stay with you?”

  I shook my head. The waitress saved me having to explain about the attack. Ruby ordered a feast of cream, sugar, flour and caffeine.

  “You were telling me about Christmas.”

  Ruby continued her rant. This time I remembered Dorothy’s suggestion to just ask questions, be interested and try to understand.

  “How did you feel?”

  Ruby flashed a suspicious look at me but answered.

  “I was devastated. It was all I could do to keep the tears back when I saw Sam and Robin all dressed up in their coats and wellingtons. All their father could do was to roll off the sofa and mutter something about his favourite Borolo.”

  “Did you go out anyway?”

  “Yes, of course. I wasn’t going let fat Bill ruin the day.”

  “Did you have a good time?”

  I kept just asking questions and trying to listen to each answer with my full attention. I bit my lower lips to stop myself offering my own opinions or making suggestions. I did notice being more open to Ruby and better able to understand her. It was interesting not needing to make her “wrong” and provide the “right” answer.