S H O RT S TO R I E S F R O M T H E G LO B A L C LA S S R O O M |
2014
The Detective calls me the Painted Lady, an anonymous pair of bloody heel prints in a bloody room, killing her way
through Edinburgh. I like the moniker, and its allusion that my creations compare to the bright red beauty of the
butterfly. It brings me a satisfaction after every killing, watching all those people pour their lives into the search for
mine.
I feel a touch of regret that I have to end it like this. It’s a shame, that it had to be him. But there is a certain singular
beauty in it, is there not? Something poetic? In having the end take us all the way back to the beginning, in finishing
this together?
When I am finished, I lift my brush and my oil lamp, and sweep the room with my gaze. It’s exquisite. Smiling, I turn
on my heels and head back up the maid’s rickety staircase towards the old oak door, behind which lies the dawn.
I stop halfway up. I hesitate for a moment, then pinch the oil lamp into blackness and drop it on the floor with the
paintbrush.
Then, just before I am enveloped by the shadows’ dark curtains, I turn one last time and kiss goodbye to Detective
Inspector Jesper Sanderson.
‘ T H E PA I N T E D L A DY ’
“As well as believable plot and characters, I believe that
the best stories have an experiential aspect: that is, the
reader experiences a reaction when reading. For me, an
illustration is a wonderful medium to evoke a reaction
in the reader – they enhance the message of any story.”
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