Beneath the Folds Read online

  "I'm glad you think I'm beautiful, Howard." she would say to me. "When I'm with you, I feel beautiful." In the evenings we'd often sit together talking about our day, the people we knew, life. Sometimes I would talk about Catherine, about her beauty and her importance to me. I recall how she would demur, sweeping long-lidded eyes to the floor as she listened, but later she would revel in my feelings for her. Sometimes we would make love to consummate our passions but mostly we would lie as one, talking, until we slept. In the morning I'd rise first and prepare myself for the day. If she awoke before I left the house, she would say 'Be careful out there Howard' and I would reply with a kiss to her forehead that said 'Sure, always. I'll be back.'

  But those were simpler times when the world belonged to us and beauty would last forever.

  ***

  I don't remember precisely when Catherine stopped leaving the house. Late '55 I guess. Agoraphobia. She had been ill, nothing too serious, but a shapeless malaise lay round her for weeks and she retreated to the sanctuary of her bed to ride it out. Under the authority of the sickness she spoke of her hidden fears. Her mind fixated on them as if they were tangible.

  "Sometimes, when I look to the future I fear losing you, Howard." She seldom spoke of feelings so I recall her words. "And if I lost you, I would lose myself. I would have nothing."

  "But why would you lose me, Catherine?"

  "Because I lose what you love."

  I held her close to me, as if that answered, as if an embrace would reassure her, drive away her fear. But of course it didn't. She had spoken the substance of something we both knew to be real and frightening. And I had no words for her. No affectations, no promises. Just my arms around her, holding on … as much for myself as for Catherine.

  A depression embedded itself into Catherine as she battled her irrational fears. She moped around the house carrying dark loads, her creativity drained. I confess my anxiety was muted by realization her illness presented an opportunity. For years I had talked to her about the ugliness clouding the outside world, about how Catherine's beauty like that of all others, would be eroded and eventually destroyed by the insidious effects of that world. Her self-imposed solitude would assure protection; without contact, no contamination. Beauty quarantined by seclusion.

  So you see, the isolation was her own. She wanted it that way. The bolt was only padding, a cushion to relieve her of the burden of her decision. The barrier was no longer her own mind, her own weakness. It became the door.

  "Please Howard, don't bolt the door," she said to me "I promise not leave the house."

  "It's not bolted."

  "Howard please, I hear it as you leave, the clang of the bolts. It is horrid."

  "You've tried the door haven't you?"

  "Tried it, yes, but not to leave…"

  "Then for what?"

  "I need to know, Howard…I'm not a prisoner."

  "Of course not Catherine, I love you. It's there for you, to protect you."

  She turned away from me. "I hate the sound of the bolt, it makes me feel helpless."

  ***

  The mirrors brought ugliness to Catherine in April '56. For sure, the faintest touch, but unambiguous and indelible. She hid her pain at this first tainting of her beauty; carried it off without comment, seemingly without distress. But I knew inside she now understood. Her beauty identified her. Without it she was no longer Catherine. Not to me.

  The last time we spoke she sat across from me the candles mid-table feeding a circle of light barely touching our faces. Catherine, my once beautiful wife, broke the silence.

  "You are looking at me strangely, Howard. Anything wrong?"

  I set my eyes on hers in an effort to hold her gaze, to deflect

  "In fact, you've been doing it a lot recently. What's wrong?"

  "Catherine…why do you ask these crazy things? Why should anything be wrong?

  "You used to tell me I was beautiful. You used to look at me with loving eyes, now…"

  "Now what?"

  "You stare at me. Inspecting me. Almost like you are looking at me for the first time." She lowered her head. I let the clock tick.

  "You've changed Catherine." She raised her head. "In your face."

  Her hand went to her cheek. "What do you mean changed? I'm still the same."

  "Does the mirror agree with you, Catherine?"

  "What? Yes, of course. Why, what do you see?"

  I waited a few seconds then told her. "A butterfly losing its colours."

  Heavy seconds elapsed before she spoke again. "You're scaring me, Howard."

  She was searching my face as she spoke. The silence that stood between us served as her answer. I rose and left the table. Her voice reached out. "Howard…Howard, please." The words resounded hard against the closing door.

  ***

  To preserve an insect skilfully requires timing. Butterflies need to be captured, gassed and pinned at their peak. Only then will they show their wings in full glory beyond their designated life. The skill lies in the preserver, only he can act with the swiftness and objectivity required to capture the beauty before it dies.

  In my lab I had mastered the technique. The walls swelled with display boxes filled with the grotesque body casings of insects and arachnids. Ugliness, but ugliness frozen in a macabre portrait gallery. The butterflies in the collection offered rare specks of colour, their wings the respectable face of this repulsive world. Crucified bodies with their beauty captured before decay; a parallel to the power of art. Preserving the ugly was simple, but over the years I had learnt to capture beauty as well. And the most beautiful butterfly of all now flew around me.

  In the following days the air lay heavy, as if laden with lead. The daylight stayed muted, never reaching beyond grey before descending back again into night blackness. These were not to be Catherine's day, they felt odorous. Her day must be a celebration of her singular beauty. The butterfly flies on summer days with the sun on her wings. She flies when she can best be seen; when her colours are brightest. Catherine and I would wait for such a day.

  ***

  The detective who found her vomited. I still remember the putrid yellow bile spewing across the wooden-slatted floor in front of her display case. By then her beauty had died of course - weeks of decay and infestation had run their course.

  For human physiology I believe the secret of preservation lies in the dimming of life's light, slowing the body's forces to the edge of extinction and balancing them there - so the biological maintenance systems continue work but the ageing processes, driven by the gradual burn of our resources, cease. No activity, no consciousness, no wasting away. Life's spark serving the highest cause - the preservation of its own beauty.

  My process to induce this state in humans was experimental. Paralysis needed to be rapid, the body then held in a constant state by an amalgam of drugs whilst consciousness seeps away to the point where awareness dies and the brain enters a coma state. During the early phases of the process, Catherine's responses were not as I projected. Despite her successful paralysis, consciousness left her later than expected, making the slowing of her metabolism painful and causing biological defence mechanisms to trigger in her body. To recover the balance I pushed beyond the limits of my entomological trials and control experiments. Eventually her bodily responses returned to projected levels. When I pinned her in the display case, she was beautiful.

  On day four, she opened her eyes. When I entered my lab that evening, they were looking at me; pitiful eyes, impossibly open. But I could see the humanity behind them – a threat to her eternal beauty. She had somehow begun pulling away from extinction. All that evening, we stared at each other through the glass casing. I cried. This crucified body was no longer my Catherine. The light flowing through my laboratory window slowly faded from white to grey to black …and the humanity just as slowly left her eyes.

  The following day her beauty perished utterly, like a blown out flame.

  Howard Brown
stone

  -----------------------------------------------------

  Howard Brownstone, 49, originally of Hornchurch Essex, UK was hanged at Parkhurst Prison on 18th May 1958 for the murder of his wife, Catherine Brownstone, in May 1956.

  At the time of the murder Brownstone was a leading government scientist within the Ministry of Defence.

  At his trial, Brownstone refused to plead insanity.

  --------------------------------------------------------

  KILLING TIME

  The heavy, oak-stained door swung open and there he stood. Anthony Chatham, in the flesh. Stella had described him as handsome but she was, as usual, understating it. His face was that of Adonis. His almond-shaped eyes, moist and fresh from a night's sleep, were deep and dark, the kind of eyes a girl could fall into and drown. Fresh from his bed, his crumpled shirt lay open to his waist revealing just a slice of his muscular body. Enough to turn a lady into an explorer.

  "Can I help you?" His voice was coarsened by early morning grit.

  "Are you Anthony Chatham?" I asked, my eyes now returned to his face.

  "I am. Can I help you?"

  "Is your wife here?"

  "Oh. No. Out already. Always up early."

  "Then you can help me, yes. My name is Lucy Truro. I'm a friend of Isabelle and she suggested I call." My eyes fixed on his. "Is that coffee I smell?"

  A smile disrupted his face, drawing his lips back to reveal flawless white teeth. "Sure. Want some?" His eyes devoured my body, moving up and down with an easy, practiced flow, then he stepped to one side.

  I swept into his lair, following him through a door that led off from the right of the hallway. It opened into a superbly furnished lounge. Curtains were still drawn. Light infiltrated the room through a door ajar on the left.

  "A friend of Izzie eh. Did you say Lucy?" He disappeared through the door, leaving me in the lounge.

  "That's right, Lucy. Izzie and I have been friends for years. She's been talking about you."

  "Good I hope." His raised voice penetrated from the other room.

  "Better." I moved across the room away from the light. "We share everything you know, even men. It's a tradition for us."

  Chatham spoke above the noise of pouring coffee. "That's very liberated. And do the men have any say in this?"

  "We've had no complaints so far."

  "There's always a first time." He appeared at the kitchen door, smiling, coffee cups in hand. As he crossed the room he saw it. He caught the glimmer of metal and his eyes fell to my waist.

  "What the hell…?"

  Not great last words.

  The first bullet entered his body just below his heart. It knocked him backwards as it blasted out of his back, ripping a hole the size of a saucer. His face contorted with shock, then pain and realisation of horror. A realisation that he had been shot, that he was going to die. In real time half a second, but the longest half-second of his life. The longest and the last.

  He was probably dead before he hit the floor. He certainly was when the second bullet penetrated his heart, tearing his chest open anew and scattering more bloodied flesh across the plush carpet on which he lay.

  Stepping forward, I stood over him. The tearing apart of his heart had decorated his crumpled shirt with puddles of dark red. He was already lying in his own blood. No sound from his mouth, no eye movement. A trickle of blood seeping from his distorted mouth. I was thankful. No need to put a third bullet through his forehead. I hate it when they lose their face.

  It was 7:32, three minutes ahead of schedule. Sliding the .38 back into my bag I looked around for danger signs. The open kitchen door now spewed light across the room, highlighting a strip of the deep red carpet as if a welcome had been laid out for a VIP. Some irony in that, but at least the pile was impressive. Expensive tastes our Mr and Mrs Chatham. Money to burn and a pyromaniac's hunger to see it in flames.

  Nothing stirred in the house. I had time. The maid would arrive around 8:45 and discover Anthony Chatham not looking his finest. She would be distraught. For so many reasons. Before 8:00 I would be out of here. By my estimate I would be in Hammersmith before she screamed.

  The body needed attention. The two cups he had been carrying…oh careless, careless Lucy….were lying beyond his body, their contents spilled and staining the luxurious pile. A small error, not fatal. I could visualise the detectives picking up the clue. Two cups. A seemingly friendly visitor? Yep, go for it boys. Nothing touched, nothing left. Tantalising I guess, like a flash of my shapely thighs. Or Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.

  He wasn't lying right. As he fell his right arm had twisted behind and caught underneath making him look lop-sided. Sliding my surgical gloves on my hands I pulled his arms out so they spread in the usual position. Like Jesus on the cross the Standard had described a previous body, but it wasn't. These guys got nowhere near a cross. They were meat on the slab.

  The kitchen was brilliant white. Standing at the door I breathed the enticing smell of coffee in the air. Nothing out of place, save a half-full milk bottle beside the kettle. Fresh from the fridge, moisture glistened from its glass. A clock hung on the wall above the sink…a novelty one in the shape of an orange. Cheap and cheerful, with black plastic hands and a third red hand that jerked clumsily as it marked off the seconds. Oddly out of place. And definitely not suitable.

  At the end of the hallway I found what I was looking for. The grandfather clock was magnificent. The old pendulum swung with precision undaunted by the years, soundless other than the friendly tick and the oak-solid tock at the ends of its arc. A clock that has marked off the minutes for more than a century. Every dawn, every sunset. The front of the clock casing had a door which creaked reassuringly as a opened it, put my hand inside and gently stopped the pendulum. The silence that fell was profound. When such a clock stops it is as if time itself has died and the world now lives in one prolonged moment. The hands of the clock felt heavy, resisting the pressure of my finger as I reset them to 11:25. Killing time.

  Time to leave. The house remained still as I unlatched the front door and stepped out onto the morning air. It was lighter now and a breeze slipped up the gravel drive, stirring the leaves of the rhododendrons lining its edges.

  My car was parked tight against the wall that bordered the estate. A gravel path ran off to the left of the drive alongside this wall, snaking towards an old wooden outbuilding. It was broad enough for a car and provided cover from prying eyes from the road. The silence was welcoming as I approached the car, unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat.

  "All done. And see, I wasn't gone long." The person on the back seat hardly stirred. I looked at her closely in the rear-view mirror. She was sleeping as peacefully as when I left, her head turned sideways in the baby seat, the left side of her bonnet askew where it had brushed against the back. "Let's go home".

  I was on Hammersmith Flyover before I heard anything from her. Perhaps it was the maid's scream that woke her.

  ***

  Gregorios in Chelsea is an old fashioned Italian restaurant with a stone floor, red check tablecloths and exclusive clientele. It's hidden away in the back streets of Fulham Road and attracts no passing trade. Seven tables occupied for lunch by regulars, all of whom share a craving for privacy and discretion. Seven tables and an eighth in a private room at the back. It is in this room that Stella Maccarone and I meet for lunch three days after each kill.

  I enter the room at noon. Stella is already sitting at the table, but stands to greet me with a smile as easy as Sunday. The scent of Chanel lingers around her and after we kiss it seems to carry on me as I shed my coat, place my handbag under the table and sit across from her.

  "No one new out there?" she asks.

  "There never is," I reply flatly, "poor old Gregorio. He can't do much business."

  "Believe me, there is nothing poor about Gregorio. Flat in Kensington and a mistress in Belgravia. He's doing ok. I've ordered by the way. Our usual."


  "That's great. I presume you have read the Standard, Stella?"

  "I have. You seem to be attracting more attention, Lucy. That's not good." She was leaning across the table, pouring me Chianti from a slender red bottle.

  "They don't seem any further forward. Newspaper talk that's all. Daft names. You know how things work."

  She lifted her head to look at me directly. "Yes I do. And I also know I don't like attention. Better to avoid it."

  God, her eyes. Liquid brown.

  "If people die, it grabs attention. If we are killing them, the attention is on us." I hoped my voice didn't portray my distraction. "Besides they don't seem to know why they die. They think it's some nutter."

  "Are you still resetting the clocks?"

  It was an accusation rather than a question. It hurt me. I sipped my wine whilst her eyes dissected me.

  "Oh god you are, aren't you. Why take these risks?"

  "Look Stella, what is this? Everything went fine with Chatham. Very smooth. No problems at all. Unless you know differently, we are still ok."

  A knock at the door heralded the waiter with antipasti. Whilst he busied himself I studied Stella. There was something new about her today. She was as beautiful as ever with her satin black hair, sensuous mouth and those wonderful eyes. Yet today, there was something else in her face. I wasn't sure what it was, but it was not something I liked. When the door closed behind the waiter, an awkward silence fell across the table. Her gaze was on me again.

  "Why do you kill them?" It was a question that momentarily stunned me.

  "We kill them Stella. We kill them. Not I."

  "Yes, but I do it because they are bad. They should die. It makes the world better. You …you I am not sure about, Lucy. I used to be, but I no longer am."

  "I do it to escape, Stella. You find them, bait them. I execute them. Five bad men die. It's as simple as that."

  "And are you sure you don't enjoy it? Sure you don't get a thrill from it?"

  "And are you sure you don't? Luring them, sleeping with them. Knowing they will die. What is all that about, Stella, if not pleasure?"