TBK: The Butterfly Killer

by A. P. Butler

  ‘Death toll now forty-three.’

  With high pitched punch the screen of TV flashed into life, room service ordered, ablutions could wait, the TV presenter jumping from numerous reporters at various locations all across Paris. Impossible to override the smile on my face, I didn’t want to either, my only hope was they all suffered before dying. From the little information they offered between speculation and assumption in the news, it would appear they most definitely did suffer and greatly too. A welcome revelation that brought much joy to my heart, I bounded about like a Christmas morning child as the realisation that finally these beasts of nature were feeling the hand of wrath.

  Sprinting to the Louvre through the beautiful frost covered grass gardens of Tuileries, a lone voice reaching out to me as I ran, but too excited was I to stop and enquire. The low winters sun blinding me as I darted across the place de Carrousel, almost getting mown down by lone taxi in the process. The state of his cab should have for forewarned me of the man’s incompetence as a professional driver more at home in scrap yard than street. Ubel and I fired off a few expletives, followed by a double rendition of solitary fingers universal sign of contempt, before flying across the vast wet expansiveness of the three-sided courtyard which comprises the museum's entrance.

  The iconic glazed pyramid of the Louvre growing ever larger as I approached. Thousands of tourists all wandering around, photographing themselves with friends, as I flew past a barrage of cameras, photo-bombing all. In my excitement, and under Ubel’s suggestion, I tried to jump through one group photo, turning my head and grinning as I flew through the air, landing to a round of laughter and cheers. The closer I got the more my eyes flicked east to west attempting to find Charles, my gratitude towards his accomplishments ever growing. My sprint slowed to a canter, then out of breath jog, as my lack of fitness took me in her arms, squeezing the last breath out of my now burning lungs.

  Perched atop stones edge upon one of the triangular fountains which surround the pyramid, trying to catch my breath, I could see Charles strolling towards me, his face consumed with laughter. “Elizabeth, you raced past me half a kilometre ago, in the garden’s.” My childish embarrassment painting my face a feminine shade of intimate red as I realised how amateurish I must have looked. “Sorry Charles, I was just very impressed with your work, Thank you.” Trying not to speak without sounding too foolish, Ubel was just laughing, telling me I what a fucking spasmo I’d been.

  Charles sat down beside me, we both enjoyed the moment, the sun was shining, Paris herself seemed happy with recent events. “You have a powerful little empire, Monsieur Bonaparte.” My innocent quip, his reply serving as a stark reminder of my new allies true power.

  “Monsieur Bonaparte’s empire was only a tenth the size of mine Mademoiselle Norton, and not nearly as powerful.” His voice now warranting a more professional tone, and reply.

  “Monsieur Poussin I’m truly very grateful, I can guarantee you no trouble in the UK, but first I must finish my little project.”

  “Ahh yes, your vengeance of the faithful,” his voice suggesting he had more than just a passing interest in my retribution.

  “Yes, Charles, I need to remove him before anything else, you understand?”

  Turning slowly, but with great intent Charles looked at me, a big smile formed, riding high and wide as he leant forward to almost kissing distance. “Orphanage of the Virgin Mary, try not to kill too many Elizabeth,” was all he said, with that he stood, dusting away imaginary nothings, kissed the back of my hand and bid me a beautiful day. Five or six steps was all he took before turning back towards me.

  “By this evening your request will be complete Mademoiselle, Parisian children will be safe once again.”

  The Killing Fields of Courage

  My Parisian apartment now transformed into a fantastic contemporary apartment, any artisan or fashionista would be proud to dwell within. Select pieces of modern art adorn the crisp apple-white walls, the minimalistic kitchen a work of art more suited to a gallery than my humble abode. Monsieur Bouteillier stands next to me as I feast in wonderment at the amazing works his team has completed three days ahead of schedule. “Outstanding Monsieur Bouteillier! How much do I owe you?” My little trinity is stunned at what has been achieved, Lilly’s like cat with nip, Ubel more impressed with the oven large enough to “Roast an app-twat in,” as he put it. “Not one cent Mademoiselle Norton, our friend Monsieur Poussin paid in full yesterday; he offers his regards.”

  Eyes spark wide I stand there as he bids farewell turning to leave, the door gliding to a soft, quiet, reassuring click behind him. “Dancing with the fucking devil now Elsbeth dear.” Ubel may well be right, but what could I do, I’d already enjoyed the first dance when I’d asked for the redemption of the innocent, now I had to just accept it.

  “At least we have Cambodia to look forward to Elizabeth.”

  “Charles de Gaulle airport, terminal 2A, je vous remercie,” Monsieur Frédéric Rousseau said to the taxi driver in his soft, homely accent, as I climbed into the back seat of the near immaculate taxi cab. “Thank you Frédéric; you’ve become a true friend.” “Enjoy your travels, Mademoiselle, please let me know when you’re back in Paris.” Waving goodbye the taxi rolled off towards the airport, I’d hours before my flight, but I’d rather relax in Cathay Pacific’s first class lounge than linger in the loneliness of my hotel suite a moment longer.

  My flight was assured to be long and tiresome, Ubel and Lilly on a plane, confined for fifteen plus hours, Christ there wouldn’t be a soul not insulted by the time we landed. “We stop at Hong Kong Elizabeth, can we not try and leave the man-piglet there?” Lilly always made the same joke, every time we travelled, and every time little Ubel took the bait. “You should apologise to Elsbeth for not being still born Lilly.” The tone of my taxi ride now set, I closed my mind, just staring out the window as the rain came, sideways it ran upon the glass as the streets ran from us.

  “Is your family tree a circle Ubel?”

  “Do you even know who your father is Lilly, or did your mother have a lot of clients that week?”

  “At least I have a mother.”

  “Yes, but what species does she belong too?

  “Oh shut up you horrible little man-pig.”

  “Bet she’s got more diseases than a city hospital, biological warfare on legs!”

  Not a single foot had touched the plane, and I already wanted to take my life. Somehow I managed not to scream out in anger at the pair of them as I walked through check-in and onwards towards securities gate. Trying my hardest to not think of the airline's name as we entered the security area when it all went eerily quiet inside. My belongings all neatly placed inside a white plastic tray serenely rolling off towards the mouth of giant detection before me. Through the arch of metal inquisition I stepped, nothing came from inside; all was quiet. The first customs officer came and went, but still nothing from inside. My concerns were starting to grow, had Lilly and Ubel finally killed each other? Had I finally rid myself of their haunting malignancy? The answer came nanoseconds after that thought manifested itself in my mind. As I went to smile at the last officer he said it; I should have known the illegitimate little sod was up to something when he assassinated Lilly on-route.

  As I looked up at the officers thin gaunt face, a friendly smile started to form when the megalomaniac little man-pet in my mind jumped into the control seat and shouted out. “Intelligence is no more a friend of yours than beauty, you boney faced bitch!” Without the time or reflexes to stop him, the words flew from my mouth, I’d actually shouted an Ubellian comment at a painful thin female customs officer.

  Standing there motionless but for my eyes slowly closing as hand made its way to cover mouth. Lilly was far more prepared, kicking Ubel from the control seat she bleated out. “I’m so sorry; I have Tourettes, I didn’t mean it, I truly am very sorry.” The damage was done, the stone had been cast, Ubel just wet himself laughing at my embarrassment, my face brighter
than neon’s light. The officer put her arm out blocking my onward passage, smiling at her colleague, she then started to pat me down, my belongings dragged over and searched by hand.

  Not a single word did she utter as she ran her hands over me, I could feel her resentment in every touch of palm. The only thing I was trying to hide was my embarrassment, and the little head freak now rolling about in fits of laughter in my mind. And so it went on, every minute of every hour I was tormented by Ubel’s childishness, Lilly’s spite no more comforting than the news of a family death. No doubt Ubel was after something, but as yet he’d denied me the pleasure of knowing.

  “You said we’d never fly with these fuckers ever again Elsbeth.”

  “It was that of Malaysia Airlines Ubel!”

  “Rather take my chances.”

  “That’s it Ubel, as soon as we get home, I’m getting therapy to get rid of you.”

  The first class section at metallic bird’s bill was luxurious; the large white futuristic style seat pods were simply fantastic, the seat was like sitting in a favourite comfortable armchair, with the option of fully reclining should a snooze attack. The pod wrapped around me offering privacy, the screen in front displaying all the flight statistics along with a host of entertainment options. “What’s wrong with this Ubel?” But Ubel was too busy sulking and muttering to himself to answer.

  For the next few hours, Lilly and I enjoyed the finer side of air travel, it may well have been massively overpriced, but it was nice to not travel in cattle class with its gift of deep vein thrombosis. As soon as night-time enveloped us, it was dismissed just as quickly; we were flying into morning faster than night could take hold. Hong Kong came and went, in a daze of slumber we took off once again. By the time our last meal arrived, I could feel fatigue defeating consciousness once again. The obnoxious Tourette twins had been asleep for hours now, the peace was just too tempting to miss, but my lethargy too strong to resist. The flight stewardess eventually woke me asking I ready myself for landing. Unfortunately, she also woke Ubel, his immediate comment towards the stewardess was no more polite that to anyone else.

  “God she’s ugly enough to soften Riga Mortis in a corpse.”

  “Please Ubel, enough.”

  “Only if you let me take the lead when we entertain father fiddler?”

  “Is that what this is all about? You want to have fun with Cain?”

  “Yep, I never get any fun, and you wouldn’t let me hurt the little black girl either.”

  “OK, Ubel fine! God, I’m starting to feel jealous of all those who haven’t met you.” My reply as I succumb to his demands. As the plane came into land all I could think of as captain kangaroo bounced us down the runway was my retribution, the Tourette twins finally quiet at last.

  -1-

  Finally, it seems I’ve discovered an airport Ubel’s well behaved in. The terminal buildings huge, looking more like a shopping mall than a traditional international airport. Customs were all very polite and smiley, almost as if fearful anything other than a smile would result in a mass stampede to get back on the plane. Later I’d come to discover it was actually the size and sheer abundance of the arachnids that would have encouraged that response. The visa clerk was more interested in the conversation with his colleague than anyone trying to gain lawful entry into his country.

  Smashing down hard with the official red stamp, marrying visa to virgin page of northern angel, a road-kill like mark upon passport and page was all I required to walk free into the vastness of Cambodian beauty. It wasn’t until he nonchalantly tossed it back at me I realised it was one of the less professional replicas I’d acquired from Lance a year or so ago, I’d almost forgotten the back story to Emma Jacobson. An art acquired many a year ago now, that of international ghosting, leaving each country on a different passport makes electronic tracking almost impossible. On completion of any international project, a simple trip back to the free movement of the Eurozone ensures nobody can find me. Each passport and persona discarded by trip number three, then sold onto less enlightened commuters all trying to find a better life. Ubel was quiet throughout the whole customs and visa process, he’d made a few grumbles, but no actual words came out, which after Paris I was quite thankful for.

  The crystal clarity of sky above was the first wonder I discovered, not a single fluffy white elephant to spoil the cerulean blue sky, a pair of lone contrails painted a gargantuan crucifix high in the clear heavens above, omen like it announced my arrival, the commencement of my final odyssey. The temperature hit me like boxers gloved uppercut as I stepped outside the cool fresh protection of the air-conditioned terminal building. Thirty-two degrees and humid, but after the cold winds of Paris it was heavenly, although I knew I’d not feel like this for long. Bathing in the warmth of the intense sun a few moments before the bustle of the world around consumed me.

  Opposite the terminal's exit, I was presented with three options of transport, a small string of old dusty taxicab’s, some in much better condition than others. Or a choice of two variants of local tuk-tuk, some with a motorcycle, others with a bicycle, the drivers of the latter didn’t look much like Tour de France riders, inspiring little confidence, but judge a book by its cover not they say. All the tuk-tuk drivers just lazed about in the back of their tuk’s, shading themselves from the furious sun, dusty bare feet waving to all.

  Western taxi’s by far the newer compared to these dusty old boxes, but they seemed to fit the place like they’d become part of its charm. Well, at least the rest did, as long as I wasn’t at the head of the queue I'd be fine, the first cab offered, appeared to have been Frankensteined from the carcases of many others, all of which should have been recycled decades ago. Strolling slower than a sloth, hoping some poor fool would dive into the first beaten up monstrosity, my fears finally alleviated by a rude young man barging past, eager to jump into his fate. Its engine coughed into life, regurgitating a large black-grey cloud of smoke as it wheezed its way into the distance, only for its younger replacement to then roll into position. Never had I realise Mercedes offered their cars in the dusty red mud colour now before me, it would seem they also offer oversized, strap-on drab grey leatherette as an upholstery option, accompanied by stifling heat and the exotic smell of incense.

  Life is the greatest university, so they say, a woman wise will learn something new each day, today’s lesson was driving in Cambodia is as much a game of chicken as it is a form of transportation. Lilly and I spent most of the journey with white knuckles, sitting in the middle as cars, trucks and everything with wheels flew passed both sides regardless of the direction of travel. Ubel enjoyed every second of it, shouting a torrent of encouragements and obscenities towards the driver, Lilly, and I metaphorically hugged while praying to an unknown deity for protection or a quick, painless death.

  Eventually, we pull up outside the Inter Continental hotel, after barging through a sea of tuk-tuk’s and motorcycles, the driving here seems to be more a lucky dip than a structured system. My suite as luxurious as I could expect, well kept, clean and spacious. The view from the two arched windows told of a different narrative, a sea of old dilapidated buildings, beseeched by numerous contemporary concrete Sequoias germinating through the debris of poorer times. Phnom Penh was giving birth to a new age and a new city still very much in its infancy, a world of possibilities, including the crime that accompanies. As I stood there, Ubel spoke of the disturbing reality now before us, before Lilly saw fit to commence a new argument.

  “Pedo’s paradise out there Elsbeth girl.”

  “Not for long my little Ubel dear.”

  “Maybe so Elsbeth dear, but I bet the place is still full of religious rapists and murderers.”

  “Not all religious followers are bad Ubel, you silly man-pig.”

  “Well, Lilly I’d vote for Cardiomyopathy for Christians, help save the species.”

  “And maybe you’d like to invent Myxomatosis for Muslims whilst you’re at it Ubel?”

  “Fant
astic idea Lilly! I like it.”

  “For god’s sake Ubel, Grow Up!”

  “For who’s sake Lilly?”

  “Shut up the pair of you!”

  “Just be quiet little Adolf will you.”

  “After meeting you Lilly I can understand why he wrote my struggle.”

  “Oh shut up Ubel you annoying little prat!”

  “Not a single word from either of you. Enough!”

  The noonday sun climbed high in the sky as I quenched the destructive duo’s little spat while finishing the last of my unpacking. Sun haze growing ever stronger, becoming more evident, more powerful as the child of morning pupated to the teen of afternoon years. The streets were alive with people, scooters, tuk’s and rubbish. The sky between building, I now realised was a spaghetti of power cables and telephone wires, crisscrossing above, creating a safety net should gravity fail not allowing anyone to escape this dusty concrete jungle. Standing there absorbing the vista before me whilst being serenaded by the relentless soundtrack of the city, a back-beat of single cylinder motorcycle engines consumed my senses. There were pavements, but by now they’d been invaded by the local shops, selling everything you could imagine, except anything wanted.

  The most prominent aspect wasn’t the noise, dirt or constant slurry of people, but the smell, a mixture of food being cooked, engine fumes, rubbish, dust and people, not the worst smell, but one to get used too. Primary objective upon my ever-growing list of tasks was to find the Orphanage of the Virgin Mary, second to confirm the existence and location of Father Arthur Cain, and finally, I’d need to go shopping. The files I’d liberated only contained a few grainy photo’s, all from many a years ago now so the father may well look different, but I’m sure any length of time here would change anyone.