I’d assumed everyone had the same ability until I got to secondary school and wrote about it in an English class. The teacher thought I was being really creative, but I was just describing what I saw. Ironically, he said I should try not to see things in such black and white terms.

“I don’t,” I protested, “I see the colours of the rainbow and shapes as well.” His was a wavy mauve, with white tips like the foam of a breaking wave.

He accused me of ‘trying to be funny’. I realize now that a) he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about and b) by ‘black and white’ he meant what the Rev called ‘absolutes’; all bad or all good.

It was true, that’s how I did see things, until I met Clarissa. She changed all that. She was the fifth on my list, and I suppose in fairness to the others I should tell something of their stories. Or perhaps I should just start from the very beginning, to make it all clear.

I’ve always tended to see things in absolutes; Mozart’s Requiem is wavy, colourful perfection, while Larry Underhill was dark, jagged evil; there is – was – no in-between. It wasn’t my fault that Underhill came round that Sunday evening with his serrated gloom and disturbed my enjoyment of the Lacrimosa – of all the movements to intrude upon! After all, I’d warned him I’d kill him if he did it again. That’s exactly what I did; he practically committed suicide.

The Court didn’t see it that way, of course. Oh, no! A clever prosecution lawyer, Barnes-Prosser, with thunderclouds hovering about his head and a superior smirk between leathery jowls, was such a smooth-talker he’d have persuaded the Jury that black was white – or that his own colours were magenta and primrose. The jury, too, had their clouds, though the forecast was gloomy with periods of drizzle rather than the full-on tempest of Barnes-Prosser. But he persuaded them to lock me away, as though I was your regular hard-nosed criminal. It was only fair he should be the first to die.

I came out again after eight years with a report which contained the word ‘exemplary’. I hadn’t heard it before, but it’s definitely my type of word, tending toward the infra-red end of the spectrum. Prison wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. They allowed me my music and I did lots of courses – self-improvement stuff which impressed the parole board. I even attended chapel, mainly because of the music, though the Rev thought I had religion and called me ‘brother.’ His colour was bright purple, with bizarre orange stripes, which don’t bode well if you have to spend loads of time with them, but I only had to put up with him on Sundays, and for the occasional cell visit. He wrote a positive report.

Yellows and golds were scarce – there was only young Kevin who came in for thieving. ‘Daddy’ Malone gave him a tough time, with his pervy ways. I don’t know what went on in his cell, but when Kevin came out, his perfect buttercup yellow was blemished with smudges of brownish-black, like an oil slick in liquid gold. No-one suspected me of poisoning Malone’s soup because of my ‘exemplary’ behaviour.

My IT skills were handy, though I concealed just how handy there were. I was awarded a commendation for ‘outstanding effort’ by a lovely mummy-type instructor who glowed a sort of red-ochre-cum-terra-cotta in wispy flares. I played a bumbling idiot determined to improve; I was so desperately behind with my word-processing portfolio that she managed to get me on the library computers during ‘Quiet Time’. Once I’d hacked into the Winchester Assizes mainframe, I found the names and addresses of the members of the Jury who’d sat in on my case, even how much blood money they’d claimed in expenses for the pleasure of sending me down. I saved it all on CD-ROM, returning to my portfolio just as my instructor came to see how I was doing.

“Oh, is that all you’ve managed,” she asked, then ruffled my hair (I ask you!) in case I took it badly. “Never mind, you’ll soon speed up.”

“I find the layout difficult, Miss,” (I always called her Miss, as if we were in school – I could see she liked it) “But I really enjoy it. Can I use Quiet Time again to catch up?”

I was allowed special access to the library computer after Sunday chapel, and disguised the illegal stuff by encrypting my user profile. I found out all about Barnes Thunderclouds Prosser, the prosecution lawyer; he led such a humdrum life that I enrolled him on a few salacious websites. I encountered a few problems with his debit card PIN, but managed to order him loads of paedophile porn, to be delivered to his home address. I’d love to have seen the colour of those thunderclouds when they arrived! It was tremendous fun, but I digress.

When, after eight years, the exemplary prisoner with outstanding progress was released, he checked into a hostel run by a charity for reformed criminals, secured a job in telesales and awaited Thunderclouds’ own release after a short stretch for an unhealthy interest in boy scouts.

It was a broken man who opened the door of his mansion. I wasn’t planning to mess about; a quick in and out was all I’d intended. But I saw he didn’t recognise me and could hardly deprive myself of the pleasure of informing him who had engineered his ruin. I’ll spare you the gories – check the newspapers if you have to know – but let me record how edifying it was to hear the great barrister pleading for his life, blubbing like a school child and messing himself. No dignity at all!

With his Thundercloudship dispatched, I began on the Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury. Melanie Watkins had become a confused, dirty-orange kind of lady with great bags – nay, suitcases – beneath her eyes. Lord knows what atrocities life had served her since our first meeting; she was unkempt beyond belief, and stank to high heaven. Indeed, the entire flat reeked so badly that I abandoned my elaborate plan for her demise and simply grabbed her wrist and judo-threw her over the balcony of her sixth floor flat. On to my next victim.

David Charge had been promoted since I last accessed his credentials, and was proudly turquoise with brand new tufts of green for becoming the Managing Director of a Tesco superstore. His office provided an excellent venue for murder. The blurred closed-circuit footage shown on Crimewatch revealed a frail old woman entering his office and driving a stiletto blade through his neck. I have always been proud of my acting skills. On to number three. 

Amber Thornborough. Never did a person bear such an inappropriate name. Her colour was as far from amber as excrement from porcelain. It appeared to be a mildewed kind of seaweed green, equally odorous and palpably slimy. It was patently clear that she was sickening in some way only psychologists get to understand. Her death was a release for her, and a not inconsiderable service to humanity.  I shall not degrade myself be revealing the petty gratifications she offered in exchange for clemency. I began looking up my dossier on victim number four.

Nothing in my information suggested Jonah Butterfield’s athletic frame, or his knowledge of the martial arts. I was foolish enough to adhere to my original plan of garrotting him, and hesitated a second too long, after my introduction, waiting for the penny to drop. His gracile band of metallic silver should have alerted me. He was upon me in a second, his powerful hands around my throat after pouncing with the speed of a cougar. Fortunately, my cheesewire was ready for use and I was able to loop it around his wrist as he seized me. Desperation provided me with such force that his hand fell to the floor, leaving the stump to pump out his life force. His other hand relaxed its grip as he screamed. The struggle lasted perhaps thirty seconds, but seemed a lifetime. Fortunately, he carried sufficient funds to compensate the ruination of my suit, which I was obliged to incinerate.

The more attentive of my readers will now be anticipating some twist in the tale, or deus ex machina, for I have reached that part of my narrative where I meet the fifth of my victims. I had only a photograph and the most elementary of personal details to lead me to Clarissa Lodge. My memory of her at the trial was indistinct, and the overall impression was of a follower, someone willing to be swayed by the most persuasive argument. I had long concluded that the death penalty should apply uniformly to leaders and followers, reasoning that a refusal to oppose evil is as wicked as its active promotion. In short, I expected to meet something of a dull nonentity of a creature.

The house was empty, and I spent much of the day sitting in my car, listening to Classic FM. I was about to drive home when I saw the reflection of an approaching figure in the rear-view mirror. Her colours were truly spectacular; they blazed with the magnificence of a setting sun, enveloped by a diaphanous shroud of sliver lamé. Its filigree edging appeared perfectly to match the interwoven melodies of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto emanating from the speakers. I was physically stunned by their beauty. Only when I had seen the carrier of this magnificence enter the front door of Clarissa’s house did I realise that she and my erstwhile persecutor were one and the same.

It was a matter of minutes; I was still sitting, astonished, when the door opened again and the blazing sun walked out, its carrier dressed in a cream tracksuit and holding the lead of a young German Shepherd with an aura which, though less colourful, was almost equally resonant of complete joy. As woman and dog descended the stone steps to street level, I forced myself to confirm her identity against the photograph I had printed some six years earlier. There was no doubt it was her. I was transfixed by the spectacle of her retreat up the hill toward the cliffs; only the danger of losing her radiance prompted me to follow. From the rear, her aura was different, but equally sublime. I followed as she walked, occasionally throwing a gnarled stick for her dog, which bounded after it each time, returning at breakneck speed to drop it at its mistress’ feet. It was wondrous to watch the interplay between their two auras, intermingling as though feeding off each other’s happiness. Never had I seen such complete harmony between two beings. I slowed my pace as I drew level, anxious not to overtake. I glanced admiringly at Clarissa and was immediately greeted by a warm, open smile.

“What a wonderful dog!” I exclaimed, though ordinarily I hardly care for the brutes. “How old is he?” Dog owners, in common with parents, have a propensity to be so besotted with their darlings that they make ideal ice-breakers.

Clarissa beamed, and I thought I would faint for joy when her colours, warm and golden, reached out to me. I have never been able to see my own aura, not even in the mirror, but I imagined our colours intertwining as we exchanged canine pleasantries, hers waxing and waning in seamless fluidity, undulating its loving iridescence like a huge, multicoloured amoeba. I even dared hope our colours might be merging.

It was so easy to talk as we advanced along the cliff top. In no time at all we were laughing together at the antics of the German Shepherd and exchanging personal details bordering on the intimate.

“Do you have a dog yourself?” she asked.

“No,” I replied, with a suitably forlorn expression, “he died last year, and I haven’t had the heart to replace him yet.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, as her fantastic blaze retracted and assumed a tinge of bottle green, as though actually flinching with sadness.

It suddenly occurred to me as we walked how easy it would be to achieve my objective by pushing her over the cliff top. The very thought was offensive; to kill or even maim the carrier of such transcendent brilliance would be an unnatural transgression. Whatever conclusion I had reached about her guilt or otherwise, I was now certain that the carrier of such pure colours could never willingly harm another.

I did not abandon my goal entirely, however, for some strange impulse compelled me to share with her the common roots of our past. Naturally, this had to be done in such a manner as to suggest our meeting was coincidental.

“Excuse me for saying so,” I said, “but I can’t help feeling we’ve met before.”

Puzzlement furrowed her brow as I clicked my fingers.

“Weren’t you on jury service some eight years ago?” I asked, “A murder trial?”

“Yes! She replied, “were you on the same…” Recognition dawned, and the transformation was remarkable; a frill of ominous purple flared against a tinge of uncertain mauve.

“Please don’t be alarmed,” I begged, “I wasn’t guilty as it happens.” Her doubt was as clear to me as the purity of her soul.

“You pleaded guilty!” she reminded me.

“Only because to do otherwise wouldn’t have been wise. Believe me, I was innocent. That’s why I’m free now.” I could see the questions vying for supremacy in her mind.

“You mean we got it wrong? Sent you to prison for nothing?”

My smile came naturally enough, for I had discovered that my actions and words dramatically influenced her aura; each time I spoke, frowned, laughed or smiled, her colours expanded or contracted like living things. The colour changes were extraordinary.

“How on earth did you recognise me?” she asked.

I couldn’t help the answer I gave. “How could I forget?” I said, “When I first saw you, I felt such an attraction, I thought I’d fallen in love.” What I meant was ‘I think I’ve fallen in love.’

Her reaction was far from hostile. Her aura became a tame, curious animal, shy yet bursting with inquisitiveness. It retreated into itself, yet immediately ventured forth into cautious primrose and marigold.

“Please,” I asked, “will you let me buy you a coffee?”

We sat in a deserted tea shop and watched the waves pummel the rocks below. We told each other about ourselves; she was a librarian, a spinster – we laughed at the word, trying to find a modern alternative. She had a passion for archery and dogs. I censored and elaborated my past to ensure a positive appeal. When the café closed, we returned to her house. She was unsure about inviting me in, and I spared her the embarrassment by saying I had to go. She actually asked for my telephone number before I could offer it, and gave me hers in exchange. I drove home, oblivious to the traffic, certain that my colours exuded a happiness I had never known before. I spent the evening in a trance-like state of bliss, listening to the Requiem until the early hours.

The next days passed infuriatingly slowly. I decided to telephone Clarissa to see if we might meet at the weekend, and was about to dial when the doorbell rang. Standing there were two uniformed police officers and a man I assumed was a plain-clothes detective. This latter spoke.

“Mr Fortney?”

I nodded, then followed his gaze as he turned to a car in the street. In the rear, next to a uniformed policewoman, Clarissa looked directly at me and mouthed something. The policewoman nodded almost imperceptibly to the detective, and the two constables stepped forward to grasp my wrists.

“Rodney Fortney,” the detective began, “I am arresting you on suspicion of committing the murders of Henry Barnes-Prosser, Melanie Watkins, David Charge and Amber Thornborough. Also with conspiracy to murder Clarissa Lodge.”

“No!” I protested, “never!”

“You are not obliged to say anything, but…”

I took scant notice of the rights he recited, but watched in sadness the fading glow of Clarissa’s aura, stained now with streaks of mud brown and seaweed green as she hung her head and stared at her feet.