TBK: The Butterfly Killer

by A. P. Butler

  “Goodbye my Rachael, please forgive me.”

  “Elspeth - Elspeth, quickly, we gotta get out!” Barks Ubel. He’s the only one who calls me Elsbeth, never have I known why he just does, Lilly always refers to me as Elizabeth, she’s too posh to shorten, too cold to show emotion.

  “Leave her alone Ubel; she needs time.”

  “Is your brain struggling to explain things to you again, Lilly?”

  “Shut up Ubel; it’s not our fault evolution has taken you backwards!”

  “If I ever took you backwards Lilly, I’d need a blindfold and a bucket.”

  Their voices return once more, their absence never long. Lost and alone I feel without them, but still I wish they would rid themselves sometimes. Grabbing towel from the old black backpack, I begin to cleanse myself of bile and blood. Not meticulously clean, just enough to evade suspicion upon my journey home. The tiny screen of audio mobility now my only connection to reality, its luminous face announcing three hours I’ve lost since Rachael took her last breath, now almost ten at night. Ubel’s right, I need to get out of here quickly, I can’t be around this part of town, not this late, not again. Grabbing my dark, skinny fit denim’s I dress, pulling, jumping and wriggling into them. Diving into the warmth of thick black knitted roll neck before slipping my icy feet into the welcoming, luxurious warmth offered by my black fur-lined Ugg boots.

  “Don’t forget the camera Elsbeth my button,” Ubel whispers alerting me of its presents. The digital accomplice I’d used to entice Rachael into my little ruse, I’d not stopped it when the fun turned from consensual pleasure to damning incrimination, but then again I never did. She begged me to film us; she wanted to enjoy our performance later, she loved watching us play. Spinning around as hyper-sensed panic grabs hold I look down to where I’d set it earlier. The violence of the act more aggressive than anticipated as cameras new home was a grubby little spot behind an old wooden chair. Hopefully, I’d not missed too much of the show.

  “We can enjoy her again tonight Elspeth, just you and I, Lilly can fuck off.”

  “Ubel, you need to work on your timings, Elizabeth’s in grief, her lover Rachael’s dead.”

  “Barking at your own echo Lilly.”

  “Don’t be so offensive you hateful little man-pig.”

  “Stupid old tart, you do realise I’m in Elsbeth’s head with you don’t you Lilly?”

  “Ubel I’m certainly no whore!”

  “Fuck off Lilly; you’ve had more punters than Venice.”

  Ubel’s latest Tourette-like outburst encourages a seed of hilarity to germinate within. Always insulting Lilly, calling her rude names, as she him. Sometimes he knows he’s an audio apparition, as is Lilly, yet other time’s acts as if he hasn’t realised. Lilly, Ubel and I are all one, a perfect trinity, insult one, insult all.

  Taking long winter’s coat from hook of door, I swing it over my shoulders, arms slipping effortlessly into its vast welcoming protection. Protection I now require from this icy world, as it ultimately conquers my grubby little empire. Ice crystals whisper their frosty way out in front of me, only now more intense as if the demons have finally arrived, surrounding us, waiting to devour their offering. Slowly I pull the large cavernous hood over my blood soaked hair, retreating into its dark fur-lined anonymous protection.

  Slipping arms through padded straps I pull the backpack on, plunging my now glacial blue hands deep into its gigantic warming pockets. Societies camouflage of respectability offers itself to me at the bottom of one. With a pop of top and half twist, I delicately dance its tip across my pouting lips, kissing myself to maximum effect. The pinkness of lip gloss hides my sins, painting a persona of normality back upon my face.

  “You look stunning Elizabeth, truly beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Lilly.”

  “Fucking Nora! You look amazing Elsbeth!”

  “Thank you, Ubel may have been more a compliment if you hadn’t sounded so surprised.”

  “Just saying I’d play with you on all fours.”

  “Thanks, Ubel, just a little crude and maybe a touch sexually harassing.”

  “It was a compliment, not sexual harassment. Anyway, it only seems to be harassment with you lot if you think the guy’s fuck ugly.”

  “What the hell does that mean Ubel?”

  “Well, if you fancy the fella it’s flirting, but if he’s got a face like an OAP’s bollocks its harassment, can’t bloody win with you lot.”

  “We really should go Elizabeth, ignore the silly little pig-man.”

  “Just trying to explain the inequality of being a man in a woman’s head Elsbeth.”

  “A man-pig like you Ubel could never understand being a woman! You don’t have the intelligence!”

  “How could I, you girls don’t understand yourselves, what fucking chance have I got!”

  My final glance races around the room, across corpse and floor as I pull open the door, spinning the metal pipe out of the way. The door swings open effortlessly, hitting the bed, rebounding to a jittering halt. Out into the darkness, three steps I take before turning left to descend the dark, rickety old twisting timber staircase, with each step of foot a chorus of creaks fills the air. Flanked by damp, crumbling plaster walls, stopping momentarily at the point on which I’d earlier pleasured my Rachael. Enjoying the nostalgia of that lost moment one last time, before continuing down into the long narrow, unlit hallway leading to a tired, old timber door at the end.

  A door which clings to its historical narrative of more prosperous times, through multicoloured flakes of peeling paint and an old copper number eight, now reduced to bleaching the timbers beneath with its blue-green verdigris blood. Stepping out into a cold and wet sombre street, the chaotic gusts of natures might force me to snuggle down into my coat. A street like so many now which have become the forgotten dystopian face of the underprivileged in the north-eastern quarters of Paris. Forgotten homes belonging to forgotten people, a shameful indictment of how western life’s more a dream than reality to most. Reluctantly slow I embark on the loneliest journey of my existence, the passage back to a now desolate, solitary and empty Parisian apartment.

  “You know we’ll always be here with you don’t you Elizabeth.”

  “Ain’t going nowhere Elspeth girl!”

  “Thanks guys, I love you both too.”

  “How can you love Lilly Elsbeth, she leaves a snail trail the size of a ship's wake!”

  “Be quiet Ubel, for once just accept a compliment, just try to be a good boy you disgusting little man-pig.”

  “God, I wanna fist fuck your face, Lilly.”

  “You’re an obnoxious little man-pig Ubel.”

  “And your face induces erectile dysfunction Lilly.”

  “If you’re going to be two faced Ubel, please try and make one of them attractive.”

  “Lilly, Is that your mother’s bowl over there?”

  This my new reality, cold, wet, alone, miles from my apartment with a head full of apparitional argument. Somehow my little voices seem to offer a glimmer of companionship as I walk, muttering away to each like an old married couple who stopped loving each other decades ago. Lilly ever the protector, with her exact, logical reasoning, always looking out for me, she understands me. She keeps me safe, from the very beginning she’s been with me. And Ubel, my dirty little Ubel, even with his offensive outbursts and satanically violent encouragements, he does make me laugh more than he makes me cry.

  Exactly when Ubel joined Lilly and me, I can’t remember, but he’s become a trusted part of my dysfunctional personality. Comparable to an old uncle or grandparent who’s got no comprehension of political correctness, or like a growing number these days who have grown tired of being told what they can or can’t say. Sometimes I long to be rid of them both, but I also fear the loneliness of their absence. They’re my only real friends, the only ones I can trust, the only ones I can love. One thing I do know from tonight is I must find out who sent Rachael that letter exposing my s
ecret, my complicated, highly functioning sociopathic life.

  “It’s only early Elspeth, shall we get a fresh one?” Ubel casually asks as I walk towards the metro station, their quarrel suppressed for now. Ignoring his pleas, I let the thoughts of the last few days meander through my mind, trying to make sense of it all. To unmask the hidden puppeteer manipulating my life, my love.

  “Ubel, please be quiet, Elizabeth and I are trying to work out who sent the letter, remember?”

  “For fuck sake Lilly. Fine, let's deal with the irrelevant fucking letter!”

  “It’s imperative Ubel.”

  “Not now she’s fucking dead it isn’t.”

  “Changing the subject Elizabeth, but I wonder if she fixed the house before she left?”

  “Don’t know Lilly, and I don’t care.”

  -3-

  Two days ago Rachael and I had a fight which resulted in me losing my temper, smashing up my house back in London. It was Rachael’s screaming that first alerted me. My head being born from the clean freshness of thick winter’s jumper upon a cold, grey and damp Thursday morning was how it all started. Her screams were ringing out, fearing the worst I instinctively jumped to action. Flying down the stairs expecting to find an assassin or armed police thrusting their way into our home. But I just found Rachael sitting alone and still upon the soft brown leather of our sofa, transfixed by a letter held in trembling hand. “This was just delivered by courier. Please tell me it’s not right Elizabeth,” came her words through crying eyes and a broken voice. “Please tell me that’s not who you are.” Her only inquiry as she tossed crumpled letter upon the sofa beside her.

  She just sat there devastated, her head slumped into her hands, elbows resting on knee, staring at the oak boards beneath, simply waiting for me to respond. Picking letter from sofa’s grasp I let the words run freely, it exposed every sordid little detail of who, and what I am. Everything about my killings, how I was financing our life by selling body parts of those I’ve killed, Christ, it even mentioned the bloody dating apps. Nausea engulfed me; I didn’t know what to say or do. First I tried pleading with her saying it was all lies, but by then she’d pieced it all together, she knew it was true. My original sin was telling her when we’d first met I was independently wealthy after a substantial inheritance, not that I was a highly functioning sociopathic killer who harvests and sells body parts for a living. Not giving her time to tell me how she felt, I didn’t care at that point. Anger took control; I raged not with her, but with whoever had sent this taunting message.

  “Kill her now Elizabeth,” was all I can remember Lilly saying, as I launched into a deflectionary rage, smashing up the front room as panic and fear took over. Rachael tried to calm me, shouting something, but I couldn’t hear, I didn’t want to hear. Rage and anger had control; I couldn’t hear anything, I just had to get out. The feelings of suffocation and drowning surrounded me as my little empire began to crumble. I had to get away, that’s when I screamed at her to back the fuck off, to leave me alone. Grabbing just passport and purse I left, slamming the big thick blue front door behind me, like a petulant child I raged.

  She knew I’d come to Paris, to my apartment, I always come here when I need to get a bit of space, or just a little private me time. Before we’d got together, I’d get over here, taking advantage of the amorous Frenchmen, easy to trap a man with tears and tits they say, and easy it is. Should’ve known she’d follow me, but I was in no fit state to talk, I’d killed two prostitutes the very night I arrived in a vague attempt to quell the anger.

  As the sound of key copulating with barrel of lock whispered to me, I knew it was her, and I knew she’d eventually tell the authorities. Rachael may have been damaged and broken, but she wasn’t a criminal, God she’d once had a hissy fit after getting a parking ticket. Hours she’d spent online trying to discover if she was now the proud owner of a criminal record. More chance of religious tolerance than stopping her talking, the one thing she just couldn’t do was keep a secret, especially a secret of such profound ethical resonance.

  Lilly never really liked Rachael, she jumped at any chance to eliminate her, during our first romantic night together she whispered quiet encouragements to bite, to harm. The night Rachael arrived in Paris Lilly seized the opportunity, suggesting we take care of her, so we did. Lilly orchestrated the whole affair, Ubel utterly seduced by the allurement of another torturous murder.

  Luring her to that dirty little room on the pretence of passionate makeup sex was easy. Promising to tell all, insisting she didn’t mention a word about the letter. Dismissing her questions faster than the snap of finger or clap of hand, I just took control, but I always did, using my sexuality and her carnal desires to manipulate the situation. Rachael was always easy to manipulate, always too trusting, too naive for her own good, I could have told her anything, and she’d have believed me. Getting her to that dirty, derelict little room was simple, we’d played many a time there, it was our own private, dirty little secret life.

  As Rachael’s booted right foot touched virgin step of stair, she started to undress, the anticipation of sadomasochistic pleasure proving too much. She wouldn’t put up a fight I knew this much; she embraced the pain, the carnality of it all as quickly as I could administer it. Rachael never could resist my advances, no matter where, when, or in front of who, she’d succumb, and tonight was no exception.

  -4-

  “How many moons do you think Chunkosaurus Rex over there’s got?”

  “Ubel, that’s vulgar, the poor girl just struggles with her weight.”

  “Struggles with her walking to Lilly.”

  “Ubel you have no empathy.”

  “And she’s got no discipline around cake, bet she’s committed multiple crimes against confectionery.”

  My concentration dismembered by Lilly and Ubel starting yet another inappropriate conversation, their heated discussion signalling my arrival at the entrance of the metro. Through the swirling art deco arch I pass, descending wet stairs which slowly dry the deeper I dive into the protection and warmth of the ticket hall below. Now’s the time to be vigilant, an enigma I must become if I’m stopped here, any attempts to cover my crimes will not suffice.

  This time of night, on a Saturday the metro’s a sea of bodies, kissing, singing, pissing and dancing away their lives, hoping to find someone to love, pretending that fucking a stranger is love. Ghosting my way through the ticket barriers, down towards the Southbound platform, invisibly I float my way to the end, where the lovers go, as I wait for the train to roll in. Stepping aboard, hiding away in the corner, no one notices, all too busy at the hand of amour to care. If only they could see there lives as I do. Burrowing blindly through life, no comprehension of my existence, nobody in this carnal carriage comprehends their current proximity to a serial killer.

  Scampering to the top of one inconsequential achievement, only to find a bigger more repugnant pile of endless consumerism on the horizon, beckoning them into its endless insanity. All part of the perpetual absurdity that is debt and desire, the satanic obsessions of the developed world, a gift from the locus like baby boomer generation. The buy now never pay later generation, lapping up the constant propaganda of consumerism, a biblical plague without sentient thought. Not bound by such a weak and short-sighted disposition, I come and go as I please, picking them off like fat, juicy ripe grapes from a never-ending vine, in my own personal garden of Eden.

  “They look fit Elsbeth, ask em for a threesome.”

  “Do you think about anything other than sex and violence Ubel?”

  “What the fuck else is worth thinking about Lilly? Bet he’s like the fucking Elephant man down below too.”

  “Ubel, please stop looking, you’ll get Elizabeth into trouble.”

  “Holly scrotum of God, it’s the size of an artillery shell!”

  “Oh my, that’s a real forty-five-minute dossier, quick Elizabeth look.”

  Ubel’s comment married with Lilly’s insistence
forces a curious glance towards a young couple seated midway down the carriage. Tongues dancing like lusting eels, his hand milking breast, hers assessing the weaponology below. With dilated eye, I peer from hooded realm of deceit upon the ill-educated and naivety of Parisian youth. Men promising a loving relationship in exchange for sex, women offering sex in return for that loving relationship. The absurdity of it all makes me laugh out loud; I find the whole human condition which most accept blindly, much more offensive and barbaric than any crime I may have committed.

  “What’s funny Elspeth, you spot a growler?”

  “No little Ubel! I’m just laughing at the blind absurdity of life.”

  “The what?”

  “Don’t worry Ubel, we can use single syllables for you, and please stop referring to a ladies genitals as a growler.”

  “Fuck off Lilly, you spunk guzzling, growler muncher.”

  “What an imaginative way of saying bisexual Ubel, can you delight us with anymore urban, council vernacular?”

  “How many spikes does your mother’s collar have Lilly?”

  “Not as many as yours! And how is she coping with distemper?”

  “Ass-holes, tits, wank, fuck!” Blurts Ubel in frustration to Lilly successfully deflecting his insults with her own more powerful assassinations. Little Ubel then does what he always does on the rare occasions when a verbal battle eludes him; he has a tantrum! Accusations and insults now the order of his day. This latest man-rant fills me with uncontrollable hilarity. A hilarious image forms itself in my mind, that of grumpy little Ubel kicking furniture, hand raised to inanimate object. Stomping off into the distance as he vents his frustration and anger. Muttering authentic Ubellian gibberish, mixed with illegible obscenities, most of his own creation, but all directed at Lilly.

  Jumping quickly from train prior to doors swishing to an authoritative close, trying not to draw attention I lose my battle with hilarity, breaking into hysterical laughter as first foot touches platforms edge. Ubel’s rant merely the catalyst to this nervous guilt-ridden outbreak, buckling over stomach now aching, urine in full flow. My little Ubel’s very amusing at times, such a simple little thing, Lilly’s the only one of us who can quieten him. But thanks now to both, I’ve to spend the next ten minutes walking in a torrent of cold fat winter’s rain in piss soaked denim and a pain-laden stomach. My new soundtrack, that of Ubel muttering obscenities to himself somewhere off in the darkness of my mind. My hilarity subsiding no more than Ubel’s rage, giggling to myself as I walk.