by A. P. Butler
“Elizabeth, let’s wash away Rachael, then a long hot soak, relax for a while. We can figure out the letter tomorrow.”
“Okay, Lilly.”
-5-
Solitary security key glides into womb of lock; clockwise it turns unlocking the door to my sanctuary, safe at last from prying eyes. Four flights of stairs and my apartment welcomes me home with warmth and protection. Solitude at last, backpack dropping to floor, slipping free the confines of my huge damp coat, the last of my clothes removed as I head for the shower to cleanse myself of Rachael, ridding any lingering sense of guilt.
Hands star fishing against virgin white tiled wall from arms stretched out, my head down as the warming waters run around me, washing away my Rachael, my guilt. Retracing through the last few hours my emotions confused, I don’t know if I should be happy, as now I have my life back, or sad because I’ve just brutally executed the love of my life. Caught between these two emotions, I stand naked and alone until the waters run from dark, deep velvet red, slowly to the clear, untainted purity of warm crystal waters. Washing away my pain, my hate, my love, and my Rachael.
“Let’s watch it now Elspeth.”
“The man-pig’s right my Elizabeth, it would be good to see our Rachael one last time.”
Running both hands through shortness of hair, blowing relief through puffed cheeks, I grab the shower handle, twisting, killing the torrent of warm waters flowing over me. As wet foot searches blindly for towelled floor below, I rub my hair dry, out I step dropping the now wet towel, before wrapping my head in turban like security of another. My reflection in all its glory stares back at me in the full-length mirror of wall, stopping momentarily I admire my nakedness. A few cuts and bruises here and there, nothing that won’t heal in a few days, nothing that can’t be explained by a fall or a trip. Consuming myself in a soothing cloud of fresh baby powder, I turn my little bathroom into a snowy winter’s wonderland as I continue to dry myself, to pamper away the guilt.
Specks of blood sit upon camera and lens as I stroll into the kitchen to enlist the dampness of cloth and attempt its removal. Incrimination like this must be removed, a new camera now the only option. The living room’s warm and cosy, the fire I’d enjoyed earlier, now only just beginning to smoulder down. A few fresh timbers pop and hiss as they nestle down among the embers, slowly they grow licks of new flames, sacrificing one life to satisfy that of another. They banned open fires in Paris nearly ten years ago now, but nobody cares, that’s what I like about continental Europe, they don’t care too much for laws, Brussels offering more a set of guidelines than rules to most Parisians.
The middle-class TV here’s not as big as the council sized screen I’ve in London, Rachael had insisted on getting, forcing me to push the only armchair closer. The cables from camera to TV only just reaching, as I sit back, ready to relax, to enjoy. A few fuzzy lines flicker there way up the screen, accompanied by a chaotic series of sounds, then as if the clouds had parted allowing the sun to shine through, the picture clears itself. There in glorious high definition is my Rachael, laying upon her back in pure naked glory, eyes rolling, back arched as wave after wave of explosive pleasures course through her naked young body. The car battery pulsating through her, as I stand above with envious eye, demonic thoughts and furious finger.
“Let’s tame the shrew Elspeth, once more, for Rachael.”
“Ubel please I wish you wouldn’t disrespect the Bard so, but Elizabeth I must admit, I am feeling rather amorous.”
As I sit alone in the safety and darkness of my little Parisian apartment that’s exactly what I do, my leg’s fall open, straddling each arm of chair. Sometimes I find it impossible to resist if my internal apparitions mobilise their efforts against me, but this one was for Rachael. One final farewell, a seductive goodbye before I destroy all evidence of my Parisian pilgrimage, in the flickering jaws of my open fire.
Exodus of The Guilty
A most unwelcomely annoying sound unceremoniously wakes me from the solace of a profound and restful slumber. Clang and crash of plastic upon metal fill the air as rubbish bins are thrown by loud, rude Parisian rubbish collectors, accompanied by Jurassic roar from hydraulic jaws. Each crash engulfs every inch of this sparsely furnished echoing bedroom. As my senses start to process the information of yet another dull, wet Wednesday morning in Paris, I hear Ubel in all his feral graciousness.
“Quick, Elspeth quick, I need a dump!”
“Ubel, you do realise you’re a figment of my imagination don’t you?”
“No, I’m not, you could have hijacked my body? Who’s to say I’m not the original owner in here, where’s your deed’s to ownership?”
“Okay, Ubel it’s too early, you win. Have you seen Rachael?”
“Not since you fucked her up on Saturday no, quick turtle’s having a peek.”
The enormity of her absence fails to compel my conscious to care, my apparent love no more than blinding lust it would appear. Her belongings along with all other evidence long since consumed by the flames of my fire, ashes ceremonially scattered in the River Seine. The most bizarre of events surrounded as I discarded the last of Rachael, locked in a loving embrace with an old emotional woman, she thought I was scattering the last remains of a beloved little pet dog. We stood together in the middle of the Notre-Dame Bridge, surrounded by hundreds of Parisians and tourists alike, her loving arms around me as I scattered the last remains of Rachael’s identity into the calm water’s below.
Discarding a body of evidence is quite easy, assuming one’s not ill educated enough to attempt burning the body whole. Not only does an uncut body take an age to roast but it has a very distinct aroma, which some from the older generations may still know. I’d only left Rachael for the authorities as I felt I owed her a respectful and dignified burial. Any other kill would have generated a substantial financial bounty; unfortunately, the condition of Rachael’s body was far beyond even the most perverted and deprived of Lance, my buyer’s clients.
Some of Lance’s clients don’t just buy vital organs; there’s a particularly good market for other, more specialised parts. From boys or girls, young or old, it’s all just a question of cost, as long as its fit for purpose, some depraved pervert or desperate corpse to be will pay handsomely. Adult parts are all I’ve concern myself with, never have I been able to liberate children’s parts no matter the cost or urgency.
Today’s different, I feel Paris, and I are no longer in love as if I must leave her for a while. She doesn’t embrace my presents anymore; there’s too much division among the people here now. If they only knew how difficult life would be if the more radical elements were elected or indeed allowed to use violence to rule, as so many here now desire. They have no comprehension of how infectious, sadistic and dangerous some ideologies are. All historical genocides would pale into insignificance compared to the extremes some organisations are prepared to go to. All to achieve their vision of utopia, all in the name of a god or political ideology. Chasing the illusion of democracy and freedom, yet just replacing it with dictatorships hiding behind the protection of false tolerance. So the time has come for me to head home, to my beloved London, Paris holds nothing for me anymore, although forever in my heart.
Lilly, Ubel and I sit at the kitchen table, enjoying our last Parisian breakfast. The aroma of freshly ground coffee fills the apartment with its seduction, avocado toast with warm honey mixing perfectly. Local newspapers littering the tabletop as we jump from assumption to fable to fiction. It would appear they’ve finally discovered my Rachael, to accompany the two ladies of pleasure. The press are whipping themselves into a frenzy, speculating about the nature and reasoning of this latest murderous crime spree to plague Parisian suburbia. The headline in my favourite adult comic of fictitious fact, Le Figaro, only reads.
‘French girl brutally murdered by immigrant.'
“There not all that far from the truth this time Elizabeth.”
“Except Rachael came from Uxbridge, and
we’re migrants, not immigrants Lilly.”
“Fucking immigrants!”
“Ubel, you do remember we did this don’t you.”
“Fucking immigrants can’t trust em, going round causing trouble all the time. Not wanted at home nor here!”
“Ubel we did this you stupid little man-pig!”
“Yes, Lilly I know, bloody immigrants.”
Ubel does make me giggle at times, always teasing Lilly about immigrants, every time she bites as he fishes for her predictable reaction. Taunting her with words about how immigrants don’t want to live by our rules, our customs, not polite enough to even bother learning the language, which is very true, Ubel himself has no ability to speak French. Ubel accusing anyone of being rude is contradictory enough to force a smile. However, his description also sounds like almost every ex-pat I’ve ever met.
Complaining how their home country’s being overrun by non-native speaking foreigners, who all gather together in little communities. Speaking only their home tongue, not integrating into the host's culture, rather carry their own in a suitcase. Maybe one day he’ll realise we’re all the same, all races and religions flock together like birds, flying towards what they know, what makes them feel safe, location irrelevant. It’s not disrespect, its comfort.
“Oh look, Elizabeth, they think a man’s responsible. See, I knew the lady parts would fool them.”
“Lilly, please stop reading ahead!”
How I hate it when Lilly reads ahead of me, knowing it annoys me she still does, she knows I like to take my time when reading the papers, but she is right, her idea of biting parts from Rachael’s vagina was a spark of genius. My appreciations are in order, but if I tell her, I’d just start another argument about favouritism. Not today, not this morning I just want a nice quiet breakfast before I head to the station, back to London. Lilly and I have always been amused at how the world’s so male orientated if it’s a violent crime it has to be a man committing it. The media, the police, even social consensuses love affair with inequality allows me to indulge my habit completely unimpeded. Disguising almost all of my crimes by painting a narrative of masculinity, all lapped up by a male world.
They say Rachael’s service will be tomorrow; I’m pleased she’ll be staying in Paris, she loved it here. Unfortunately, I’ll have to bid my farewell another time, no appearance at the service for me, only silly little boy’s do that. No need for me to re-live the excitement by injecting myself back into events, I don’t need to postulate my superior intellect. My memories are far more enjoyable, leaving no evidence, no body of proof to connect me.
Smiling silently at myself I wonder just how many Walter Mitty’s will unveil themselves at the service tomorrow, all attempting to steal the murderous glory. French police no doubt wanting to make a quick arrest, keep the civilians from storming the Bastille once again. All in a vain effort to convince the masses, flexing the metaphoric muscles of male dominance and competency as they attempt to show the world they’re still in control.
After breakfast, and another twenty-minute argument with Ubel about his use of the ‘C’ word I repeatedly ask him not to use I finish packing my small, but well travelled simple little black carry case. Shutting down the heating I take out the rubbish, before collecting my case and attempting to make my way to the Gare du Nord to catch the 9.13am Eurostar back to London, St Pancras.
“Are you sure everything is locked and turned off Elizabeth?”
“Yes, Lilly, for the tenth time, can we please go?”
“Can we leave Lilly here Elspeth? - Please.”
Ubel’s little quip stolen from Lilly draws a full and humour filled smile across my face as I descend the annoying stairs one last time. The door closes behind me as I’m washed away in a tide of bustling life. Paris truly is a beautiful city at times, especially District One where my apartment is. Typically full of beautiful people, unfortunately not today, my quick walk in the drizzle to Pyramides metro station is full of presumptuous French men. All married no doubt, but still, they try, offering ‘assistance’ in exchange for my sexual favour. Pyramides again is a hive of activity, as usual, the whole spectrum of Parisian life now rushing about me, all trying to get somewhere hastily. As soon as we enter I know Ubel’s going to hurl a torrent of obscenities as the people rush by, bracing myself, I try not to laugh too much.
“Fucking state of that!”
“Land Whale!”
“Oy….Anorexia super Nervosa.”
“Ubel, please some people have issues.”
“Lilly I’m an imaginary voice, in a fucking psycho’s head, I know about issues!”
“Oy! Ubel, I’m not a psychopath, I’m a highly functioning sociopath. And how come you know you’re an audio apparition when it suits you?”
“Barking is what you are Elspeth darling.”
“Christ, he nailed the fugly look this morning!”
“Quality designer marquee darling!”
“At least her dress is detachable Ubel, unlike your face!”
“Sod off Lilly you pig fucker.”
“Christ bet he’s got a nice personality! His face is a celebration of ugliness.”
From entrance to exit, the whole journey seems like a time-lapse video, where I the only one moving at the correct speed. Finding a slightly less overcrowded carriage, I plunge myself into its repulsive mass of squirming bodies, typical for a Wednesday morning Parisian rush hour. A mixture of overpowering perfumes, aftershaves and nonsensical chatter welcomes me aboard. The carriage awash with colours, cultures and attitudes, fingers swishing left and right upon tiny electronic screens. Discontented human robots, all frantically trying to absorb or discover another perceived gem of gossip and propaganda from the world of shallow. Within seconds the doors close behind me as we quickly disappear into the darkness of the Parisian metro system.
“For the love of god, how can a person be so ugly?”
“Ubel, have you looked in the mirror recently?”
“But look at it Lilly, I’m not sure what species it is.”
“Maybe Ubel you obnoxious little man-pig, the gentleman suffers from body dysmorphia, perhaps he feels that surgery was the only way to reveal his true inner beauty.”
“Christ you mean that face is an improvement? How fucking ugly was he before?”
“Ubel, please don’t.”
“You’d have thought he’d at least try to find a surgeon with good eyesight!”
“Imagine, billions of cells in his face all getting it so wrong, and all at the same time.”
Public transport no longer enjoyable, I hate the train, in fact, I hate all forms of public transport now I’ve Ubel and Lilly. Being forced to stand or sit in such proximity to so many soulless sublave’s, as my two spectres infect me with malevolent intolerance. Sublave’s a product of Lilly’s fertile imagination, simply meaning subservient slave, an extremely accurate description for westernised living. One sublave grasps my attention as I’m forced into his armpit for what seems an eternity, aftershave and armpit odour assaulting my senses.
His scent my catalyst, my epiphany, as I comprehend the contradiction of my disgust, without these sublave’s my existence would be empty, without meaning or excitement. Myself I like to see as an island of perfect composure when in reality I need these creatures, yearning for their interactions, but only when I’m in control. As narcissistic as they, the only difference my strength of conviction, to take the step through the door of enlightenment, to stare into my abyss.
Eventually escaping decay’s clenched fist, freeing myself from armpit to enjoy the vista before me. Immediately my eye catches a most beautiful young Indian woman, only the most incredible big brown topaz eyes floating upon a pond of caramel perfection visible. Her attraction contained within eyes alone; I need not observe her entirety to know of her celestial divinity. Further along, the visual refinement of a tall, black-skinned man greets me as he reads intently upon phone. His appearance more formal than others, carrying himself w
ith great pride and dignity as the carriage sways in copulating regularity.
Beyond the mesmerising Lapis Lazuli blue eyes of an older gentlewoman shine out like lighthouses in a sea of drab. Wearing her mask of troubled fragility, her eyes more beautiful than youth itself. My migration continues, station after station the sublave’s come and go as I’m swallowed deeper within the carriage, within the sea of culture as the journey grows. The only time multiculturalism works are when we all have a destination, a common goal, today it’s simply travel, maybe one day it will be more.
The metro train glides to a smooth yet authoritative halt at the Gare du Nord, at which point the doors open and I’m enveloped by a mass swarm of bodies, as they exit in unison. Swept along with the deluge of souls I’m carried as they scurry, through gates, up escalators, out into the enormity of the station hall above. Taking but a second to thank a deity that no longer exists, as a mass of souls forming unordered queues paints its disorganised narrative before me. Nowadays I book my tickets online before any travel, just so I don’t have to become part of the frustrating, angry growing queues. Travelling with Ubel can be unpleasant, but queueing with Ubel would test the patience of the Dalai Lama, forcing him to fantasise of spontaneous combustion.
Tutored by experience my actions now controlled. Years prior I’d forgotten to pre-book, resulting in psychiatric assessment at her majesties pleasure for some thirty-six hours. Ubel’s abuse so prolific that day, so outrageous, he reduced me to screaming obscenities with clenched fist, atop stamping foot. From my perspective just another argument between Ubel and I. But the outside world witnessed a different narrative, nothing but a 5 foot and 7 inch, slim, blond-haired, blue-eyed woman screaming obscenities to herself, standing alone in the ticket hall of Clapham Junction railway station. After that, I made sure I pre-booked my tickets.
