The Butterfly Tattoo

by Philip Pullman

  ‘And … well, he knew I’d organized it, the resistance. And I knew he’d be looking for revenge. I’d’ve stuck it out, faced him, but it was the thought – of Sue and Sean … The police said they couldn’t protect us. It’d mean twenty-four hours a day, and they just couldn’t spare the manpower. Anyway, he was too canny to make a direct threat.’

  The car came to a halt under the trees. There was a little clearing off to the right, where a number of huts stood, looking like an abandoned mining camp in the American backwoods.

  Barry opened the door and got out.

  ‘Come and have a look,’ he said. ‘Just over here.’

  She followed him through the green shady clearing, which was dappled with sunlight but cooler by far than the hot roads she’d been tramping all day. He stopped at the door of the most solid-looking hut and unlocked it, throwing it open with a flourish.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ he said. ‘Ice-cold Coke, how’s that?’

  It was a proper little house. She’d been expecting something rough and dirty, but the floor was covered in clean vinyl, the walls were plaster-boarded, and part of the space had been partitioned off as a kitchen, with a stainless steel sink, a microwave oven, and a fridge. The kitchen partition hadn’t yet been plasterboarded, and it stood like a naked grid of rough timber; otherwise the building work was complete. It was furnished, too: there was a bed with a mattress and duvet, a table and two chairs, a chest of drawers, a portable TV set on a low stand. Everything had a shiny, unused look. On the table lay a Swiss army knife and a set of plastic curtain rails still in their wrapper.

  ‘What’s it for?’ she said. ‘You going to live here?’

  He gave her a can of Coca-Cola frosted with chill.

  ‘Smart, eh? No, it’s not for living in. It’s for looking as if it’s lived in.’

  The look on his face as he lifted his drink to his lips was one of boyish pleasure in his own guile.

  ‘You’ll have to explain,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a trap, see? What I’m going to do, I’m going to lure Carson here, let him think I’m hiding here. Make it look lived in. So he comes here to look for me, only I’m not here. Right, he thinks. I’ll wait for him. I know the way his mind works, see. He’d love it. He’d love to sit here for hours just waiting in the dark, and then I’d come in and turn on the light and he’d say “Hello, Barry, you bastard”, and bam, bam, bam, put some bullets in me. He’d love it.

  ‘Only what’s really going to happen is the place is going to be surrounded by police, and they’ll catch him with his gun in his hand, and that’s his goose cooked. What d’you reckon? Is that smart, or what?’

  This plan, another impromptu fantasy, of course, and quite different from the one he’d told to Chris, sounded implausible to Jenny. The idea of dozens of policemen creeping through the bushes was enough to make her lips twitch, but she controlled the smile and sipped her Coke. However, there was clearly something behind it all; that phone call had been real, and so had the way he’d gone pale when she’d told him about it. You couldn’t fake things like that.

  ‘Well, yeah,’ she said, aware that he was waiting for a response. ‘When’s he going to turn up, d’you reckon?’

  ‘Not for a while yet. That phone call … did he say anything else?’

  ‘No. Just what I told you.’

  ‘Don’t matter. I know who it was. Well, Carson might find his way to the firm, but he won’t find his way here till I’m good and ready. Got to lay the trap properly … Here, did you say you were looking for a job?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Want to earn a few quid?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘How about finishing off this place? Not the plasterboard; I’ll see to that. But I got no time to paint it, put up curtains, that kind of thing. See, it needs curtain rails over the windows. Dead easy – screw ’em in, it’s all wood. And the plasterboard needs wallpapering. You ever put up wallpaper?’

  ‘No,’ she said, smiling at the idea. ‘I could probably paint it all right, though.’

  ‘Paint … yeah, why not. It’ll need a good few coats. White, I reckon. One of them soft whites, you know, with a bit of yellow or cream in it. Silk emulsion. Yeah, that’ll do. How d’you feel about tackling that?’

  ‘Yeah. Fine. I got nothing else to do.’

  ‘Start tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure. Any time.’

  ‘Right. Smashing. That’ll be brilliant. I’ll get a spare key for you, and I’ll fetch over the paint and brushes and stuff first thing tomorrow. Lovely job …’

  They agreed how long it was likely to take, and what he’d pay her, and then they finished their drinks and got ready to leave. It was a beautiful evening; the great heat of the day was beginning to recede, and the clearing outside the shed was dappled with rich greens and browns and golds as the sun slanted in through the younger trees by the canal. As the two of them left the shed and stood while Barry locked the door, Jenny felt a premonition of absurd happiness, as if she were seeing the end of a romantic comedy: she would be working in the shed, brush in hand, and by some extraordinary coincidence, some far-fetched twist of plot, the door would open and there would be Chris. And everything would end happily.

  Instead, something else happened. The Swiss army knife Jenny had seen on the table was Chris’s, and, having remembered that he’d left it in the shed, he was on his way to get it; and at the very moment when Jenny and Barry came out of the shed, Chris turned into the clearing and saw them. His mood was darker and more savage than ever before. He was ready to believe the worst of everyone and everything, and in that moment he thought he saw it: an older man, bathed in satisfaction, preening himself in the glow of sexual conquest. And Jenny … whether she looked like a victim or a willing partner he couldn’t tell, because his vision was suddenly splintered with childish tears.

  He turned away and left before they saw him.

  Part Three

  Chapter Twelve

  As he lay awake that night, Chris told himself over and over again that he shouldn’t have turned away – that it was cowardly; it was dishonest, he should have confronted them directly. It was bitter to feel that only a short time ago he’d have done it without hesitation, as he’d confronted Piers. But he’d been mistaken then, and bad luck made him wary.

  So his mind divided itself against him. He scorned himself and pitied himself, condemned himself and excused himself, and it was a wretched night. In the end he decided that since his instinct for direct, honest confrontation had unaccountably failed him, he would have to be direct and honest by force of will and confront Barry in the morning. As the sky lightened into grey around the curtains and the birds in the garden began their heartless chorus, Chris finally drifted into an exhausted sleep.

  Both his mother and Mike Fairfax noticed his appearance at breakfast, but neither of them dared to mention it till he’d left the house. Then she said to Mike that she thought her son looked as if he’d been sentenced to death.

  He laughed briefly and said, ‘That’s odd. I was thinking something similar, but not quite that. I thought he looked like an executioner’s apprentice on his first morning at work.’

  She made a face. ‘That’s a bit grim.’

  ‘What’s up with him? Do you know?’

  ‘He doesn’t say anything. Is that adolescence?’

  ‘Probably. Still, that’s not a fatal condition, as far as I know. Perhaps he’s in love.’

  Chris hadn’t worked out what he was going to say yet, but he didn’t want to wait, so instead of going to the warehouse, he called in first at the shop in the Cowley Road. But the van wasn’t there, and neither was Barry. Sandra, getting the shop ready, didn’t know where he was.

  ‘But he normally comes in today, doesn’t he?’ said Chris.

  ‘Oh, yeah. He normally gets in early, too, before me. In fact, he’s got to be in before half past nine because there’s a rep coming.’

  Sandra was a pleasant, plump woman in
her twenties, with ginger hair and freckles. Since hearing what Dave had said about her and Barry, Chris had looked at her with some curiosity, but without noticing anything between her and her boss other than the sort of friendly, energetic enthusiasm Barry inspired in many people.

  ‘So … he’s probably at the warehouse, then. OK. Listen, Sandra, have you ever seen a girl about with him, about my age, slim, short dark hair?’

  She shook her head. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A girl named Jenny. I met her at this party and then I lost touch with her, and I thought I saw her with him yesterday.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘I was going to … Well, I’ll probably see him later. Ta-ta.’

  ‘See you,’ she said, placidly filling the till.

  As he cycled up the Cowley Road, Chris thought that if it was true that Sandra was having an affair with Barry, she would have seemed jealous when he’d told her about him and Jenny; but it hadn’t affected her at all. Perhaps she thought Jenny was too young to matter. Or perhaps there wasn’t anything between her and Barry. Or perhaps she was just naturally calm. Or perhaps she was seething with vengeful jealousy and happened to be good at concealing it. The trouble with the state of mind he’d got into was that it didn’t let him trust anything or anyone. Suspicion, mistrust, believing the worst of people … it was horrible.

  The warehouse was a building in a yard off a side street where a number of small businesses had established themselves; there was a central heating engineer, for example, and a furniture restorer, and a man who made radiators for vintage cars. Chris was familiar with the street by this time; he knew a number of the workers by sight and recognized the vehicles that were usually parked there.

  So the white Mercedes that was parked across the road from the entrance to Barry’s yard stood out as being unusual. There was someone in it, and as Chris slowed down to turn into the yard, the man called to him.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  Chris stopped, straddling the bike, and turned it around to pedal back to the car.

  ‘Yeah?’

  The man in the car seemed to be in his late thirties, about the same age as Barry. He was dressed in a dark business suit with a striped tie, and he wore glasses. ‘D’you know a man named Barry Miller?’ he said.

  ‘I work for him.’

  ‘Is he around, d’you know, by any chance?’

  ‘Well, he should be …’ Chris looked into the yard. The big van was there, and he saw Tony unlocking the warehouse door, but Barry’s smaller van was not in its usual place by the office window. ‘No, he doesn’t seem to be around this morning.’

  ‘There’s a shop somewhere, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yeah, down the Cowley Road. But he’s not there, either. I’ve just come from there.’

  The man looked like an insurance salesman, Chris thought, but then he wouldn’t have been driving a Mercedes; or a merchant banker, but then he wouldn’t be calling on Oxford Entertainment Systems. He had a mild, scholarly expression, so he might have been an academic or a lawyer, perhaps, except that his voice didn’t seem to fit that picture, being harsh and strongly London-accented. Chris couldn’t place him at all. Some sort of property developer who wanted to have a lavish party organized for his new country home? A businessman who wanted to buy Barry Miller out?

  ‘Hmm …’ The man tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Look, are you supposed to be at work? Have you got a minute or two for a chat?’

  ‘Well, yeah, I should be there now. Let me just go and tell them I’ve arrived, OK?’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’

  Chris put his bike in its usual place inside the warehouse and said hello to Tony.

  ‘You seen Barry this morning?’ said Tony.

  ‘No. There’s this bloke—’

  ‘What, in the Mercedes? He was here yesterday.’

  ‘He wants to see me for a minute.’

  ‘All right. No hurry. When you’ve finished, look, there’s these lanterns from the wedding disco; they’re all buggered. I dunno what they were doing – spraying champagne, I shouldn’t wonder. Can you wash ’em all and check the lamps? Make a note of any broken ones, and we’ll charge ’em.’

  It was a normal sort of job; Chris guessed it would take half an hour or so. He went out again to the white Mercedes. The driver beckoned him around to the passenger side and leaned across to open the door. Chris hesitated.

  ‘I’ve got a job to do,’ he said.

  ‘Won’t take long. But I don’t want to talk here. I’ll tell you the reason in a minute.’

  Chris got in, and the driver started the car and began to drive away. The engine was deathly quiet. The car was so well insulated that Chris felt entirely shut away from the rest of the world, so that they moved through the sunny streets in air-conditioned isolation.

  The man drove along the Cowley Road for a little way, turned into a side street, and parked outside a row of semi-detached houses.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ said Chris. ‘If you want Barry, he’s probably in the shop now. He’s got to be there at half past nine because there’s a rep going to call.’

  ‘I appreciate your taking time away from your work. You’re not going to lose by it, are you? They won’t deduct anything from your pay?’

  ‘No, it’s not that, but I mean there’s work to be done, you know?’

  ‘Of course, yes, I understand. I won’t keep you long. Now, how well do you know Barry Miller?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been working for him for a few weeks.’

  ‘It’s not a permanent job, is it? I mean, you’re a student, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, Sixth Form, yeah. It’s a holiday job.’

  ‘Would you mind telling me your name?’

  Chris hesitated. This was all strange and disorienting. The man saw his doubt.

  ‘I’d better tell you my interest. I should have done that to start with, I’m sorry. My name’s Fletcher. I’m a police officer – detective inspector. And you’re …?’

  ‘Chris Marshall.’

  ‘Right. Chris. Now this is all very awkward. Your boss Barry Miller might, or might not, I don’t know, be able to help me in an inquiry I’m making about something slightly tricky. I’m wary of approaching him directly, because he’s likely to mistake the nature of the inquiry … You see what I mean?’

  ‘He’ll think you’re after him?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘Is it this Irish business?’

  ‘You got it. Look, you want to get back to work, and I don’t want to get you into trouble. I’ll drive you back there now, but could you give me half an hour or so at lunchtime? When d’you have your lunch?’

  ‘One o’clock, usually.’

  ‘What d’you do, packed lunch?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Would you mind if we had a chat?’

  ‘Well … as long as … yeah, well, all right.’

  ‘That’s great. Smashing. Now as far as I remember, there’s a parking lot off the next road, behind the supermarket. You bring your lunch along there, and I’ll see you, what, about five past one, ten past?’

  ‘OK. Look, I ought to be—’

  ‘Sure. I’ll run you back.’

  The quiet surge of power, the cool air, the silence of the streets outside: you were cut off from the world all right in a car like this, Chris thought. Not like a bike, where you were part of the street, at one with everyone else’s sound and movement. In the white Mercedes you were different.

  Barry didn’t appear in the warehouse all morning, but then they hadn’t expected him to. Tony didn’t seem at all interested in Mr Fletcher, and Chris didn’t volunteer anything. There was plenty to do; after he’d cleaned the lights from the wedding disco and replaced the broken bulbs, Chris stacked them neatly away and then checked the clip outside the office, where they hung up the order slips waiting to be filled. Sometimes the phone would ring. They had a democratic system: whoever was closest would answer it.
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  When it rang at eleven o’clock, that person was Chris. Dave and Tony had gone out with a delivery, so he was on his own anyway. He went into the hot little office and picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello, Oxford Entertainment Systems.’

  ‘Chris. Wotcher. Barry here. Listen, is Dave around?’

  ‘No, they’re both out at Marston – that pub job.’

  ‘Oh, right. Look, can you ask Dave when he gets back to pop around to Lasky’s and get a five-litre can of silk emulsion paint. I think there’s one called “buttercup white” or summing.’

  ‘Buttercups are yellow.’

  ‘Yeah, you know what I mean. White with a hint of yellow. And a couple of brushes. Got that?’

  ‘Five-litre can, two brushes—’

  ‘And bring ’em along to the shop. Tell him to sign for ’em.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Oh, and listen … Anyone there?’

  Chris caught the conspiratorial tone and found himself looking around, though he knew he was alone.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just me.’

  ‘Look, you know that business I told you about? The Irish business?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had a tip-off. It’s coming to a head. Carson’s found out I’m in Oxford, but he don’t know where just yet. Any time now I’m going to send Sue and Sean back to her mum’s and then I’ll go underground. I’m relying on you, Chris. There’s no one else knows about the chalet.’

  Not much, thought Chris bitterly.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll fix up some kind of system. Messages, you know. CB radio, maybe. Just till I sort Carson out. I had this beautiful idea … Look, I gotta go. Don’t forget that paint. And listen, Chris, when this is all over, I got brilliant plans. The way you done that joinery in the chalet, beautiful, smashing. It give me an idea, right, for scenery – look, I’ll tell you later. Watch out, OK? Keep your eyes peeled.’