The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2 (11 page)

Zedock has tea with Queen Victoria

I am escorted by a rather
frail
-
looking servant gripping a pink frilled parasol into the gardens of the Queen.
Her gardens are full of red roses. Fat heaps of fleshy petals. OPEN FOR ME. OPEN FOR ME. Show me your insides

She is surrounded by her roses. Red within red. You want to understand about power? You want to know what it is?
Look at her.

SHE IS

COLLOSAL

Red horns five foot high sprout from her head, curl into points. She wears a dress of dazzling red, and stares at me with the intensity of a flesh eating insect, while an Indian servant fans her with black ostrich feathers. A selection of strawberry tarts and a green pot of tea wait for me.

“
Ah, Zedock,
”
she smiles and curls a finger, drawing me closer. She is from Underneath. She is the very core of it. She is the only thing I have ever feared.

I take off my hat and seat myself next to the Queen of England,

The Queen of Hell

I kiss her hand. She pulls me close to her lips. The strength of her, the muscle nearly breaks my bones into dust.

“
I am your humble servant
,
Your Majesty
”

“
YES YOU ARE
,
my darling.
”

I can see inside her mouth. The rows and rows of teeth. How I worship her, how I love her. You are the Master of my heart. Magnificent, magnificent. EATER OF WORLDS.

SUPER CANNIBAL
SUPER CANNIBAL

All hail QUEEN VICTORIA!

She kisses my lips. I feel planets collide, explode into pieces. Lava hot. When she releases me, she knows all my secrets, she has tasted all my thoughts, my dreams, my wishes.

She pours the tea, and smiles. Oh thou wondrous crocodile! MAN EATER. Feel the chomp, the crunch of bones. Liquidize in her stomach: melt into her middle

“
You are the only woman I have any respect for,
”
I say dizzy from her kiss, and I sip my tea, which has a curious aftertaste of meteorite
.

“
All humans are sausages,
”
she sighs and glances furtively at the servant whose legs are trembling and plops a strawberry tart on a plate and passes it to me.

I thank her, bite into it. Slice it in half with teeth.

“
Why are you so worried about little Mr Loveheart
,
dearest? He
’
s a mad thing, no match for you, my darling
.
”

“
He IRKS me,
”
I reply

“
You are MY prime minister. You are my commander. You are my champion. FLATTEN HIM, EAT HIM UP,
”
and she stares into me, drags me under. Her red eyes are corridors into Hell: the carpets spongy with blood.

“
Of course,
m
y Queen
.
”

“
Good boy. Mr Loveheart is edible. What do mad things taste of I wonder? Perhaps he is sweet,
”
and she takes another tart and pops it between her teeth.
“
You
’
ve always been so competitive Zedock,
”
and I know, if she wished it, she could splat me like a bug
.

She continues,
“
But remember: I am the top of the food chain,
”
and she raises her finger to her servant,
“
Come to me.
”
Her voice is the darkest, most powerful hypnotism. I can feel the pressure; oh wondrous Queen. She is the horror fairytale. The garden shudders under her, ley lines form, fruit explodes in the trees.

The servant puts down the fan rather shakily and walks towards his Queen.

Hell is hungry.

Her gardens are full of red roses. Her gardens are full of blood. See them bloom, see them burst open ! Oooze. Seep their juices onto the lawn ;

drip

drip

drip.

Lick a petal and you will taste yourself
.

Part Two

Boo Boo Grows Up

Boo Boo and Mr Angelcakes

T
he first time he visited me I was six and it was my first night in Uncle Grubweed
’
s house. Pedrock had kissed me goodnight and I was alone. Alone in the sticky blackness, waggling my feet over the end of the bed, examining the space between my toes. I had always wanted red shoes. I remember Sister Harriet at the convent, who smelt of floor polish, told me that witches wear red shoes. I think Sister Harriet is probably dead now.

Mr Angelcakes was wearing another man
’
s skin when he appeared. I thought he was an angel, his eyes were so bright, like firecrackers.

I didn
’
t like the way he was looking at me.

He made bite marks on my arms, said I tasted like ice-cream.

“
Do angels eat ice-cream?
”
I said.

“
All
the ti
m
e,
”
he replied.
“
Now don
’
t be afraid, Boo Boo. My name is Mr Angelcakes and I am here to teach you.
”

“
Teach me what?
”

“
T
o
k
ill
.
”

I cuddled my frog puppet. I squeezed him close to my heart.

“
I am going to make you very strong,
Boo
Boo. I am
going to m
ake you into a weapon.
”

“
I don
’
t understand,
”
I whispered.

“
To
night
I am going
to tell
you a story,
”
and he touched my head with his finger, the skin loose and yellowish. I lay on the bed and closed my eyes and listened to the spider-words oozing from his mouth. Hairy, black little words. Tickling me with their fangs.

Once Upon a Time there was a young man called Mr Angelcakes and he had one thing he loved most in the world: his pet butterfly which was black and red.

But a very bad man called Hummingbird stole his butterfly and locked Mr Angelcakes in a tomb. Mr Angelcakes
starved to death
. And then something rather nasty took the
skin off
him and wore it. This nasty thing liked to eat human skins because they made him big and strong. The nasty thing liked the name Mr Angelcakes and decided to keep it.

So, the new Mr Angelcakes, deciding he wanted the butterfly Hummingbird had stolen, followed him back to England and watched him. The butterfly was very special, it protected Hummingbird from any harm and Mr Angelcakes couldn
’
t get close enough to steal it. The butterfly was believed to be the soul of an Aztec warrior, the greatest warrior of the Empire. She had never been defeated in battle.
For all butterflies are warrior souls.

And so, Mr Angelcakes waited and watched Hummingbird for many years.
Hummingbird liked to collect butterflies and to increase his collection he married women to inherit their butterfly collections and then killed them or stuffed them in madhouses.

One day Mr Angelcakes found a little girl who could help him and her name was Boo Boo. He decided he would make her into a warrior. And when she was old enough she would steal the butterfly and kill Hummingbird

Suddenly Pedrock came into the room. Mr Angelcakes disappeared, popped like a balloon. A fizzle-whiff of ice-cream scent hung in the air. Sweet-stale.

I was so frightened I did not know what to say, so I said nothing. If an Angel had been speaking to me, he must have been telling me the truth, and so I shut my mouth.

Before I fell asleep I counted the wobbly stars in the sky. I counted them until my eyelids shut like a book.

And I dreamt of skin, rolls and rolls of weird fabric. And there were angels sewing human skin costumes. Black threads looped through silver-sharp needles. Soggy bits were discarded, slung aside. Scraps for the angel-dogs. They chattered amongst themselves and their language was strange: squawks and low murmurs. Squealing and tongue clicking. Is this what angels really sound like? A mishmash of other sounds. Stolen perhaps. Around my neck was a magnifying glass on a black chain. A necklace. I held it up to my eyes and peered through the peephole. I could see them for what they really were.

Rotting things, falling apart in time. Leathery bubbling skin, green popping eyeballs.

I put the magnifying glass down and hunched over and vomited by my feet.

The next evening Prunella kicked Guardian and I slammed her head into the trifle dish and found it surprisingly easy. I could have killed her.

Mr Angelcakes came again that very same night and he brought me an axe.

“
I want you to
chop
Mr Icarus Hookeye
’
s head off.
”

“
Why?
”

“
It is a test.
And if you refuse I will
skin your
brother.
”

I did what he said without question. I crept down into the kitchen. I could see Mr Hookeye looking out of the window. I jumped up onto the table and ran towards him, swinging the axe. He turned towards me, a look of surprise on his face, and I sliced his head off as easily as slicing a piece of cake. It bounced on the floor.

Mr Angelcakes was very happy with me. He licked my arm.

The remaining days at the Grubweed house passed like a daydream. I played in the garden with Guardian and picked blackberries and wild flowers in the woods. I imagined there were ghosts wandering about sulking, and I waved at them. Prodded them with sticks, chased them with butterfly nets.

Mr Angelcakes told me that Professor Hummingbird had killed my Uncle Grubweed, turned him into a butterfly and squashed him between his fingers. Mr Angelcakes could see things other people could not. He knew secret things.

The butterfly he carved into my back hurt, but he said the Professor would want me if he saw it. So I stopped complaining. I shut my stupid mouth.

I dreamt that I was a black butterfly. Monstrous. Landing on poppy heads, devouring their juices. I pulsated and swirl-danced like a little demon, red eyed and hungry. Stepping into space, I hovered over the strange little
e
arth
: my body a hot engine. A great emptiness expanded within me.

I am an imploding star.

I licked everything I touched. Wet kisses, my spit honeybee sweet. My lips razor sharp.

I dream that I am a black butterfly and my name has been erased
.

Mr Angelcakes
’
plan worked and the Professor wanted to adopt me. He took me to his castle in the woods to grow up. The forest is deep and full of giant toadstools and goblin laughter. Roots of the trees are like muscles, swelling and aching under the soil. Milk-white flowers and stingy nettles grow in handfuls round the paths. Dark, secret and happy moss spreads in moist places. If people get lost in these woods they turn into a plant. Flesh becomes vegetation.

That night I ate jam tarts for pudding with the Professor. I was his adopted daughter. I was his special girl. I knew I would miss Guardian, but Pedrock would look after him. My bedroom was bigger than my old one and I had a big red bed, a looking glass and a box full of toy knights on horses. My favourite was the black knight, who was the biggest. I liked the colour black because it is not a colour, it is like a hole in space. I made him kill all the other knights, hack them down. Mr Angelcakes played with me; he was very pleased with me.

The Professor took a photograph of me sitting on a chair. He told me to be very still, as though I was dead. He said I was unusual. He is an expert in unusual creatures.

A puff of smoke! And the photograph was done. I was caught like a fairy in a jam jar.

I explored my new home. Found all the magic rooms. I found the room with the photographs of his princesses. There are six and I am number seven. I looked at all their faces. Not one of them was pretty and yet in fairytales isn
’
t the princess supposed to be beautiful? Aren
’
t they supposed to be delicate, beautiful things? We are his butterfly girls. Seven of us stuck on the wall, trapped beneath glass.