Black Butterfly (9 page)

‘Oh, yes!’ she enthused, tossing back the coils of her silky brown hair. ‘Very well trained. And soon there’ll be a public demonstration of this. A very public demonstration.’

‘Capital! Well, good night, then. Thank you for all your help. I do hope—’

The words died on my lips. In the dim light from the desk lamp, I’d suddenly noticed something. Miss ffawthawte’s bosom was slightly more exposed than when I’d last seen her. Now I saw almost all of her tattoo, the merest hint of which had so thrilled me in the games room. It was a Black Butterfly.

Melissa ffawthawte narrowed her green eyes and glanced down at her breasts. ‘Dear me. How careless.’

In one smooth movement, she pulled a long-barrelled pistol from her jacket. There was a soft swishing sound, I felt a sharp pain in the neck and knew nothing more.

T
he globular light overhead was like an eyeball dangling from a nerve.

Heavy leather straps bound me to a table at the ankles, across the chest and over the neck. My hands were secured by tight leather cuffs. An insistent itch on my throat reminded where the tranquilliser dart had hit home.

The room around me, glass-walled, green-tinged at its bevelled edges, refused to stay still: juddering, shifting, like a ropey television picture. I winced at the intensity of the surgical lights, screwing shut my wrinkled old orbits. Then, after a few deep breaths, I tentatively looked again.

How long had I been there?

A metal door opened and soft footsteps padded close by. From my restricted vantage point, I could see only a whitish blob and then, suddenly, a face loomed startlingly over mine, the lower half concealed by a surgical mask, the hair tucked away inside a white cap. Green eyes blazed down.

‘Are you quite comfortable, Mr Box?’ asked Melissa ffawthawte.

‘Not at all.’

‘Glad to hear it. I must say, I’m impressed. You are a game old thing.’

I beamed. ‘You’re too kind.’

My exhausted mind was reeling from this new development. What the hell did Melissa ffawthawte have to do with the whole ‘Black Butterfly’ set-up?

All at once, she disappeared from sight. Unable to move, I thought at first she’d left the room but then, with a squeal of wheels, a stool was dragged over towards the table. She sat down and there was a soft sigh from the padded white seat.

‘Now then,’ she breathed. ‘It’s rather important that you tell me what you know–or think you know–about what we’re doing here.’

‘Is it now? How lovely.’

‘And we have ways and means of extracting such information.’

I strained at my bonds and the leather creaked. ‘Ah. I thought we might get around to that.’

‘So why don’t we save ourselves a lot of unpleasantness,’ mused the girl. ‘Just pucker up, Mr Box, and whisper some sweet nothings in my ear.’

‘That’s just what I will whisper.’

‘Hm?’

‘Nothing.’

She crossed her legs–rather sensational in white stockings–and gave a little snigger. ‘We’ll see.’

The wheels of the stool squealed again as she pulled herself closer to the table.

‘I’m a specialist,’ she said quietly into my ear. ‘As I’m sure you were–once.’

I sighed theatrically. ‘Now you’re just being impertinent. A specialist in what, exactly? Needles? Drills? Unnecessary dentalwork?’

‘Such things are for the mere amateur,’ she murmured.

I felt a sudden movement around my ankles. My shoes were unlaced and then, together with my socks, pulled off. Here it came. What the devil did she have planned for me? Bamboo rammed into the flesh under my toenails? The white-orange flame of a blow-torch?

There was a long, dreadful pause and I tensed myself for the inevitable agony.

Still nothing.

Then I twitched as I felt a sudden bizarre movement on my bare feet. It was a soft, swishing motion, back and forth over the arches and under the toes. It broke off as suddenly as it had started, and Melissa ffawthawte’s face appeared right next to mine. From the tiny wrinkling around her green eyes, I could see she was smiling.

In her hand she held something. It was white and, for a moment, my bleary eyes couldn’t take in its shape against the glass walls of the room.

A feather!

The silly bitch was tickling me.

‘Oh really,’ I chortled–and the leather straps groaned again. ‘You’re not serious?’

The girl sat back a little on the stool. ‘My travels have taken me to some interesting places, Mr Box. I long ago discovered
that pain and pleasure are but two sides of the same coin. You have no idea how much a man can give away when the core of his soul has been exposed.’

‘Or his soles, I suppose,’ I chuckled. ‘Shame the Inquisition never thought of this lark. I’m sure it would’ve brightened up the old auto-da-fé no end.’

She shrugged and raised the feather once more.

A tantalising pause and then she resumed her work. I began to titter. Really, what a pleasant way to be tortured! Soon, I was laughing out loud, a delightful tingling running up and down my spine, turning into a warm, fuzzy sensation around the nape of my neck. And then behind my ears.

‘This reminds me,
haha
…’

Miss ffawthawte’s head cocked to one side.

‘Barber shops…oh,
hahaha
!’ I snorted. ‘Electrical clippers. Such a pleasant sensation, when the back of one’s neck is…
heehee
…buzzed over.’

Sweat was beading my face and dripping over my lips. I laughed convulsively, from deep inside my chest, and the aged muscles in my sides started to twinge.

And all at once, I realised that I really, really wanted the pleasant sensation to stop.

The tickling, however, continued unabated.

I giggled on, wheezing and coughing as tears sprang to my eyes and coursed over my face, mingling with the salty sweat and pooling in the hollow at the base of my throat.

My toes wriggled involuntarily as I tried desperately to get them away from the feather’s touch. I began to arch my back, shrinking from Miss ffawthawte’s tender ministrations, but
the straps held me tight and my whole body began to shudder.

Then I started screaming. It was too much. Too, too much. Too delightful. I screeched and howled and gasped and laughed and laughed until my lungs heaved. My toes cramped and my legs convulsed, the leather straps cutting horribly into the yielding pink flesh. The sensation had a sort of wonderful horror to it–as though ants were swarming over every inch of my skin, tiny feet caressing each hair. I strained desperately against the leather straps.

‘Stop!’ I croaked. ‘Please.
Please.
Stop!’

The tickling ceased abruptly. Relief washed over me and I took huge, deep breaths. I could hardly see for the tears.

Miss ffawthawte’s face appeared like a painted image of the sun. ‘Tell me, then. Quickly. Why are you here? What do you know?’

I swallowed, desperate for moisture, then smiled up at her. ‘What do I know? My dear lady, we could be here all night!’ I tried to clear my parched throat. ‘Sir Anthony van Dyck, 1599 to 1641, was court painter to King Charles the First. Born in Antwerp and apprenticed to Hendrick van Balen—’

The girl snarled and began clawing at my shirt. I felt startlingly cold as she ripped it off, exposing my whole naked torso. This time there was no pause and I shrieked as her nails began to scratch and tickle around my armpits. This was worse than the foot torture. Unbidden, memories of long-ago scraps with my brother flashed into my fevered mind. His knees pinning down my arms. The dreadful, unbearable horror of his quick hands tickling at my armpits as I writhed and howled for release.

‘Stop, stop,
stop
!’ I mewled.

I gasped and sank my teeth into my lip at the terrible loveliness of it all. Blood trickled over my chin but I was scarcely aware of its taste, as waves of ghastly pleasure slammed at my senses. It was unspeakable, sensational, sublime in its horror. I had to stop the tickling or I would go completely mad. Thrashing at my bonds, I yelled and cursed and called ffawthawte every name under the sun.

Now she too was laughing: a crazed, hysterical sound as her talons paddled remorselessly around my armpits. ‘Now you’ll pay for that little game we played, Mr Box. You’ll pay for the humiliation you inflicted on me! Are you dying comfortably?’ she shrieked.

Soon, I knew, I would have to tell her everything. That MI6 were on to her organisation. That, even now, a trap was being laid for her.

I howled.

My pulse throbbed in my temple. I could stand no more. My head felt as though it would burst.

Then, unexpectedly, the door shushed smoothly open. ‘Desist,’ said a quiet voice.

Reluctantly, Melissa ffawthawte sat back on her stool. The relief was glorious, incredible.

‘You won’t get anything out of Mr Box.’ The voice was cold and measured as droplets from an icicle. ‘He’s one of the old school.’

Stunned almost into unconsciousness, I tried to twist my head to see the newcomer but he remained frustratingly beyond my line of sight.

‘What, then?’ snapped ffawthawte. ‘Shall I shoot him?’

‘Oh, no, no, no. Nothing so vulgar. No. We shall be kind to Mr Lucifer Box,’ whispered the voice. ‘It is time for him to be embraced by the wings of the Black Butterfly…’

There was a faint tinkling sound from close by. Then ffawthawte was once more leaning over me. Savagely, she yanked open my mouth, dropped something inside and a bitter taste spread over my tongue.

Almost at once, my head began to swim. But, as I blacked out, one thought began to race around my exhausted brain.

I knew that voice. I knew that voice of old
.

It was
Dr Fetch
!

It was the voice of A.C.R.O.N.I.M.!

T
here’s a sound. Incessant. Pulsing. Like a drum-roll that doesn’t stop.

Eyes open…

A great panorama. A cinemascope of water. Mirror blue, then brown, navy and finally cornflower blue as it meets the sky.

Eyes close…

I’m numb. Novocaine numb. There’s a voice from somewhere. My voice.

Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

But it’s all I can do to lie there. The pulsing pounding beats on and on.

Then there’s another sound. Soothing. A crashing, rolling roar. And I can move my head a little. There’s sand in my mouth. Rough, salty sand. My eyelids are a closed canopy, pale green, then fiery orange. Sunlight washes over me and it’s wonderful. The hairs on my arms rise up.

Eyes open…

Firm, golden sand, wind-whipped into ridges. Right by my face, a black beetle is toiling. It looks like a coffee bean. I smile at it.

Blink. A curl of orange peel, speckled with quartzy sand. Matchsticks. A lone vodka bottle, glinting. Broken shells, white as china. A tiny crab gently excavating a hole. Grains of sand stick to its pincers and protuberant eyes. I watch it for some time in sleepy fascination, then roll onto my back.

The pulsing pounding hammers on.

A raw sun, dazzling as a torchbeam. Impossibly blue sky. I screw up my eyes and put out a hand to push myself up. Then the pulsing pounding slams inside my head like a clattering train and I gasp and fall back as though struck. I hit the hot, hard sand and there’s no breath in me. I look at my hand. At the hand I reached out with.
And it’s not my hand.

But now the numbness is passing and I sit up and I’m dizzy and the world seems too big and I clamp shut my eyes again until the pulsing and the pounding dies down a little. Just a little. And then I look at my hand again.

Both my hands. Hold them out in front of me. Flip them over and back a dozen times. They’re smooth. Pink. Unblemished. They
are
my hands. But yesterday’s hands.

Now I use them to slowly, carefully, unbutton my shirt. And they feel strange, as though they’re frost-nipped, like when I threw snowballs as a child. There’s a palm tree nearby and its shadows dapple me. Now my shirt is off and I’m looking down at my chest. It’s a fine chest. Well-muscled. There’s a line of black hair like a trail of iron filings leading over the flat stomach to my groin.

And now the pulsing pounding roars in my head and glee grips me and I tear off the rest of my clothes and I stand up. I run my hands over my naked body and face. Everywhere, my fingers meet firm lines, taut muscles. My cheekbones sharp as blades on ice. It’s impossible! It’s wonderful! And it can’t be true…

Mirror, mirror, mirror–I have to find a mirror!

I look straight ahead towards the sea. Static clouds echo the fluffy white of the breaking rollers. But there’s nothing on the broad beach except me, a few palms and that morning’s footprints, softened, rounded by the wind. I take a huge breath. My skin tingles.

Then I run, forgetting all thoughts of mirrors and reflections. Run towards the surf and hurl myself into it and the water is as warm as blood. As the blood that’s pulsing and pounding in my head. I roll and dive and wriggle like an otter through its soft embrace. Then I shoot to the surface and the spray bursts over me and I spit out great mouthfuls of salt water. I feel
alive.

I swim on for what seems like hours and then I’m suddenly exhausted and I slosh up the beach and back onto the sand. The hot, white sand under my high arches. My feet are dusted in fine black hair and they leave impressions in the wet sand that instantly vanish as seawater rises to claim them.

The sun dries me rapidly and then the pulsing pounding returns and I know I have to
get on, get on, get on
. I hurry back into my crumpled shirt and trousers. What the hell should I do next?

I stumble over the dunes, the breeze flapping at my open
shirt. Then I’m suddenly on a long ribbon of pot-holed road and the tarmac is bubbling in the heat. My legs feel strong and lean and long.

A distant rumble but I can’t tell if it’s thunder or the pulse in my head that keeps urging me
on, on, on.
Then there’s a honking sound and I think,
It’s a car
, and I turn and a blue dot on the wobbling heat-haze of the horizon resolves itself into a rusty truck. I step out into the road and hold up my arms but the horn blares again and the truck trundles past so I walk on, the hot road scorching my bare soles. Then I turn as another vehicle appears.

It’s an open-topped tourer and the driver is an old lady. I smile. She looks like a pig in a wig, her cloud of white hair framed by a huge pink hat. She slows down as she approaches and the breeze flaps at my open shirt and trousers.

She pulls up just by me and drags her white oval sunglasses down the bridge of her snout. A smile tugs at her lips. Her cracked carmine lips.
Hi
, she says, and she drawls it like a record slowing down.

Hello
. The word sounds odd in my mouth. It’s yesterday’s voice. A young voice.
Heading for Kingston?

Where’d you pitch up from?

I rose from the waves, my love
, I hear myself saying.
Like Venus
.

Is that a fact?
she chuckles, her flabby neck wobbling. She pats the white seat next to her.
Well, hop in, honey. I could use the company.

So I get in and the car speeds away and I close my eyes and revel in the glorious feeling of the wind streaming through my
long, sleek, jet-black hair. No one has gazed on this particular face since King Bertie died–and now this kindly old dame has me all to herself.

You got business in Kingston?
she asks, shifting gear.

Pleasure
, I say.

On pleasure bent, huh?

All pleasure should be a little bent, don’t you think?

She throws back her head and laughs, then takes one hand off the wheel to stop her sun-hat from flying backwards and then reaches over and squeezes my thigh.

Eyes close…

Eyes open…

And suddenly we’re in the city. She slows down the car and I hop out and turn back to blow her a kiss. She looks awfully disappointed.

I Pause.

There’s a bad aching in my joints and muscles because they’re new again and need wearing in. The hotel’s façade has taken on a peachy glow in the dying sun. It’s beautiful. Everything is beautiful. I am beautiful.

The black concierge is still sweating in his too-large uniform, the epaulettes wilting like dead chrysanthemums on his shoulders.

Then the pulsing pounding comes again and it’s like an orgasm and I grin with the sheer thrill of it all–my every sense more alert, sharper, quicker.

Then there’s a number in my head. Two-oh-nine. Two-oh-nine.

I begin to climb the huge plane tree by the eastern wall of the hotel. The ache is there again but it’s lost in the throb of
the blood in my head and, with all my long-forgotten agility, I quickly scale the branches. Then I jump from the tree onto a striped awning and get a foothold on the first-floor balcony. From there I clamber up another floor and then another until I’m standing, panting but exhilarated, outside the half-open windows of Kingdom Kum’s room.

Muslin curtains flutter. The darkened interior is revealed, then hidden, then revealed. The boy lies dozing on the bed, one arm tucked under his head.

I draw aside the curtain and move towards him, my bare feet soundless on the thick carpet. Kingdom’s body is dark against the white counterpane. He’s wearing a pair of shorts. That’s all. I sit down next to him and gently begin to stroke my hand over his brown legs. He doesn’t stir, even as my fingers touch the white soles of his long, bony feet. The pulsing pounding begins to rise again and I feel my hair standing on end. Electricity floods through me. I glance down at him. The dead-straight fall of hair covers one side of his face. A tiny isthmus of spit connects the softness of his slightly parted lips. They’re pink as petals.

I move my hands to his waist. The brass button slips easily through the denim and the zip slides down a full inch in response. It’s easy work to pull the garment down his legs. He stirs and his lovely features crumple into a grumpy frown, like a child woken from a pleasant dream. But still he sleeps on.

I place my finger on the creamy curve of his backside and score my nail over his skin. He flinches ever so slightly. Then I run my tongue over his hipbone and across the flat washboard
of his belly and he makes a gentle little grunting noise, as one of his arms flops over the side of the bed.

His skin tastes warm and slightly salty. He’s been in the sea. My tongue trips over his hairless legs and the high arches of his feet. Then I take the little toe of his left foot into my mouth and gently suck it. A lazy half-smile springs to his lips.

Moving up the bed, I nuzzle the dark brown circles of his nipples. They harden and spring to life beneath my teeth. Then my clothes are on the floor and I slide my naked body against Kingdom’s.

The warmth of him is like a balm.

His almond-shaped eyes flick open and then they’re wide with surprise.

His mouth opens. To cry out? To protest? To welcome?

Then the pulsing and the pounding is like a tidal wave in my head and Miss Beveridge can go hang and I’m Lucifer Box and I’m alive again and I fall upon him like a starving man upon a banquet.

His soft nose bends against my face as my kisses crush him, my cheek is hot against his neck and the delicate curves of his cupped ears. Then I force his arms down onto the counterpane and lick and bite at the dark, hairless pits below. Kingdom writhes, his pretty head twisting back and forth, hair plastered to his forehead. His long, lean legs curl around my hips and he looks up and grins at me; dark lashes beating softly.

Above us, the ceiling fan judders through the sticky air. I’m only distantly aware of the honking of the sluggish traffic in the crowded streets below, and then there’s nothing but sweat
and spit and my eyes pressed to his and then we’re dozing on the destroyed sheets.

Eyes close…

At last, the boy opens one lazy eye and tickles his long fingers over my chest.

You’re full of surprises, baby
, I hear him say, though his voice sounds funny, like a bad connection on the telephone.
What happened to you?

I got lucky
, I say.
You like?

I like. Good thing I love older men, huh?

I laugh. What is there between us now? Five years? Six? I sit up. Stretch. I feel rested. But not sated. Impossible to be sated now.
I must go on, on, on!

What now?
I say.
What shall we do now?

Well, in case you’ve forgotten, lover, I have some bad men to track down.

I wave that away and jump off the bed, throwing open the shutters and letting the orange blaze of the sunset wash over my flesh.
No, no.
We
have to track them down! You and me. Must get on! Run. Swim. No! I did that. Maybe we could go for a drive? Would you like that, Kingdom? Drive down to a casino and lose a pot of money–hm? No, we have to get after Black Butterfly, don’t we? Oh! I know something you don’t know!

Kingdom flicks his hair from his burning black eyes and laughs.
Slow down, honey.

But I don’t like the sound of that. I won’t hear of that.
Slow
down? Why? Why should I? Don’t you see what a gift I’ve been given?

The boy’s face creases in a frown and that’s a shame. It’s a lovely face. And now I want to kiss it again so I do. Again and again and again and he has to stop me so he can say:
Gift?

Yes! Come on. Get dressed. We’re going for a ride.

Thought we just did.

I slap at his rump and he swears and giggles and then, leaping out of bed, throws his arms around me.
Seriously, baby. You got to go easy
…

He looks deep into my eyes and then his face creases again and he says,
Oh God. Not you, too.

But I’m not listening because, visible through the parted shutters, is a beautiful blue Chevrolet Corvette convertible. It glitters in the light from the ocean. Among the cheap heaps that surround it, it’s like a jungle beast. Now there’s a new sound joining the pulsing and the pounding–and it’s my heart thudding in my ribs. I want it so badly. I must have the car. I wanted the boy and I got him. Now I must have the car.

And then I’m throwing on my shirt and trousers and I tear the room upside down in search of shoes, stupid shoes and at last I come upon a pair of rope sandals and pull them on and I’m at the door.
Come on!

Kingdom slips back into his tiny denim shorts and rushes after me:
Wait! Wait!

My sandals make a clapping sound on the marble floors that I find hilarious. The stairs go by, two at a time, and I’m giggling like a child at the wonder of it all. Then I’m through the
lobby and the concierge is reading the
Daily Gleaner
and its pages are sun-bleached and he’s a stupid idiot to be wasting his life reading about things instead of doing things–like me!

The night. It’s warm and beautiful and alive with the chant of insects.

Then Kingdom’s hands are on me–but they are no longer a lover’s hands. Now they try to pull me back, to constrain me.
Take these! You must take these, baby!
but I push him away. He comes back so I punch him and he goes down.

Then I’m inside the car and trying to start it. The fat concierge is at the window and he says,
What the hell are you doing?
I laugh and laugh and he opens the passenger door and jumps in. Then there’s a cloud of dust and scorched rubber and we’re thundering onto the main road.
Where? Where? Where?
I shout, and I glance quickly at the man next to me.

The concierge’s eyes flicker back and forth. He’s nervous. Why? I’m a good driver. A great driver. The best driver. Best in the world, I shouldn’t wonder.