The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2 (12 page)

Caught

Last night Detective White tried to rescue me. Maybe Detective White is a prince? He stuffed me through a window and told me to run. Mr Loveheart blew up part of the Professor
’
s house. Mr Angelcakes thought that was really funny. Mr Angelcakes says he really likes Mr Loveheart, he says he is a
Wild Card.
I ask what a
Wild Card
is and Mr Angelcakes says,
“
Unpre
dictable
, anything could
happen
.
”
Mr Loveheart has black eyes like an insect but he isn
’
t one.

He
’
s glittery, sparkling, candles on a birthday cake. He
’
s only for special occasions.

Detective White, Mr Loveheart and Constable Walnut have all disappeared. Mr Angelcakes says they are on the wall in a frame. They have become butterflies. I am sorry for it.

It is a week later and Mr Angelcakes has given me some chalk and tells me to draw butterflies in the courtyard, as many as possible because the Professor will like it very much. And so I do, I begin my wonky butterfly drawings, some with enormous leaf-like wings; some squint and limp looking; some soaring like dragons, heavy and hell-raisers. I hear a clippety-clop and a pony and trap arrive and out steps a man called Detective Waxford. He looks very angry and he shouts at the Professor and takes us both to London. I sit in his office and draw butterflies on his desk with the chalk. He asks me questions and I tell him what I know. He thinks I am mad.

The Professor
’
s lawyer, Mr Evening-Star, says that we are both free to go and that Detective Waxford has no evidence. Mr Evening-Star has a face like an eel: greyish skin stretched over his skull.

We return home and I am so tired I fell asleep on the train and the Professor has to carry me to bed.

For the next ten years I grow up in the home of the Professor, the moated castle in the forest. Am I in a fairytale? All the dresses I have are black. It is the only colour he wants me to wear and yet it is not a colour. I am not allowed to see anyone. I must remain in the castle but I am allowed to wander into the woods, as long as I don
’
t stray too far. Sometimes I think I can hear Guardian howling, but I know he is well loved and very well fed and so I am not sad. Pedrock will cuddle him all the time. I imagine I am a strange queen under a terrible curse. I imagine I am a butterfly trapped under glass. I imagine I am the Professor
’
s wife.

During the days I wander into the woods and play games in my head, pick flowers, chase ghosts and fight with a wooden sword the Professor gave me. I hack away at the trees. I cleave great chunks out of them. I am trying to disguise how strong I am becoming.

At night Mr Angelcakes blindfolds me. He says I must learn to be able to fight without seeing. I must pretend I am blind. I can
’
t do it at first. I stumble around, smack my head on the wall, stub my toe. And then he tells me to focus, to think about the Professor
’
s favourite butterfly. I see it inside my head, all the black and red, the huge wings and then the slow, slow beating of wings. I look into the eyes on the wings, they see all. Time is slowing down. I can see everything without opening my eyes.

Now I fight in the woods with my blindfold on. I CHOP CHOP CHOP
.

I CHOP CHOP CHOP the air
.

I think about the butterfly. It is swimming in my head. It is lighting fast. CHOP CHOP CHOP
.

I dismember space
.

I need something better to practice on.

I need a real weapon.

I have turned eight years old. The Professor gives me a present. It is a black heart pendant. He puts it on my neck. He says,
“
Never take it off Boo Boo,
”
and so I obey him. I wonder what colour my heart is?
I wonder if, it too is black. I touch the space in my chest and feel for a beat.

THUD THUD THUD

How fast does a butterfly heart beat ?

We are having a guest for dinner tonight. His name is Sebastian Crabmouth. He is a medical doctor and the Professor has known him for many years. Mr Angelcakes would like me to kill him over dinner. The three of us sit round the dinner table. Tonight we are eating roast duck with plums and buttered potatoes. For pudding there is a birthday cake the Professor bought in a London cake shop. It is red with vanilla sponge and a cream filling. Sebastian Crabmouth is a little man with dark hair and spectacles, and a round squashy face. I look at my knife and fork and I think about murder. I know Mr Angelcakes will want to be amused.

“
Happy
b
irthday
,
Boo Boo. The Professor tells me you are eight today,
”
says Mr Crabmouth.

“
Do you collect butterflies too?
”
I ask.

“
No, I am the Professor
’
s physician and I also run a practice in London.
”

How long, I wonder, do I have to wait before I can kill him?

The Professor turns to Mr Crabmouth.
“
Sebastian, I was thinking of inviting the explorer Oberon Lionheart over for dinner one evening. I hear he has some specimens of the emperor
moth and I would love to arrange an exhibition.
”

I throw my fork at Mr Crabmouth
’
s head. It sinks between his eyes, buried deep in his skull. He dies instantly.

The Professor stares at me with interest.
“
Boo Boo dear. That was a bad thing you just did.
”

“
But you won
’
t tell me off, will you, because you want to marry me?
”

The birthday cake tastes delicious.

Mr Angelcakes is very pleased with me. But I feel I need more practice. More human targets. But no one comes to visit and so I have no one I can kill.

Boo

Hoo

Dream of the Angel-Eater

It is the witching hour when the Angel-Eater comes to me. Floats above my bed. Speaks to me directly.

She is a great black star.

“
Our souls are under glass squashed together. You must get someone to break us out!
”
she says, hovering over me.

“
Where are you?
”
I stand on my bed.

“
On your wedding night he will reveal me. It is his pattern. You have to wait.
”

POP

She vanishes into the wallpaper.

I dream of edible clocks. Each one tastes like insect-meat.

London

The Butterfly Exhibition

I
am nine years old and I have had to wait a whole year but target practice has finally come. Tonight the Professor is taking me to an exhibition in London at the British Museum. The famous explorer, Oberon Lionheart, will be there with his moths. Mr Angelcakes has given me two butterfly blades made from silver. They slot neatly down my high leather-laced boots. The Professor looks at me quizzically.
“
Are you going to kill anyone tonight, dearest?
”

“
Very likely,
”
I say.

“
Can I ask you to refrain from murdering Mr Lionheart, at least until I get to quiz him on his emperors?
”

A huge banner hangs outside the steps to the British Museum with the emperor
moth, in all its dazzling blues and purples. It is very beautiful, but not as rare as the Professor
’
s. Mr Angelcakes tells me to kill as many people as possible. So I will try my best.

I am let loose to roam free in the exhibition, and I would say there
’
s about fifty people here and a large amount of champagne. I take a glass and try it, the bubbles fizz up my nose. There are also strawberries and cream, big bowls of them. I dip my fingers in the cream. It
’
s like a bowl full of angel tears, delicious.

I see a huge man with a mane of red gold hair and great bushy beard. He must be the famous explorer, Lionheart. I go up and say hello.

“
My name is Boo Boo. I am Professor Hummingbird
’
s adopted daughter.
”

“
Well, well,
”
he growls.
“
It
’
s an honour to meet you little miss,
”
and he shakes my hand with his great paw.
“
And what do you think of my emperors?
”
He points a finger behind him to where a row of them sit encased in a display cabinet, each one a deep midnight purple blue. Like the eyes of mermaids.

“
They are very beautiful, Mr Lionheart. Have you seen the Professor
’
s angel-eater?
”

Mr Lionheart is startled.
“
I had no idea he possessed one.
”

“
Oh yes, he hangs it usually in his bedroom, or the study, if guests are coming to visit. Maybe you will come and see us?
”

“
I would love to Miss Boo Boo,
”
and he smiles a great predatory smile. I like him very much. I have decided not to kill him.

I amble lazily up the stairs with a handful of strawberries which I am popping into my mouth, as if I was a god eating severed heads. I can see the Professor now talking with Mr Lionheart.

I wait.

I am approached by a gentleman with a fuzzy red moustache and a cigar in one hand.

“
Hello, my dear. My name is Rufus Hazard.
”

“
Hello,
”
I reply.
“
Are you a collector of butterflies?
”

“
Egad, no! I
’
m an adventurer, my little one. A thrill seeker, treasure hunter. Most recently I had my leg chewed by an amorous witch.
”

“
Why was she chewing your leg?
”

“
Animal magnetism. I
’
m a dangerous chap around the women.
”
His upper lip wobbled.

“
They can
’
t seem to control themselves around me. You
’
re too young to understand my dear. But let me tell you, I
’
m cursed with a terrible affliction.
”

“
Delusion?
”

“
No,
”
he continues unabashed.
“
Sexual magnetism.
”

I actually feel sorry for him so I fling him out of the window. He screams and lands safely in a dust cart ambling off into the shadows.

“
What the blazes?
”
he yells.

I remove the blades from my boots and extend them as if they were wings.

It is like a dance. I can feel the limbs fly off as I spin. I can hear the screaming and the running. I can smell them: it
’
s sweat, human shit and semen. Fear between their legs; in their throats vomit. Heads spin off my blades. It
’
s a beautiful dance. I can see the butterfly in my head, I can hear Mr Angelcakes laughing and clapping. Chop chop, spin spin.

Chop

chop

chop

Silence. I am standing in a heap of body parts. The Professor is watching me from the corner of the room, eyes like dark pools. He
’
s excited by me but he also fears me.

He takes the emperor
moths
and we get into the coach and drive back home. Into the darkness; into the deep, beautiful darkness.

Fourteen

T
hat is how old I am. I have an insatiable desire to kill. It
’
s like a fever running inside me. I lie on my bed and put my hands between my legs.

Mr Angelcakes says I have surpassed what he thought was possible. He runs his finger up and down my thigh. The skin suit he is wearing is beginning to rot. I have sucked so much power out of him. He is just a voice now and a sack of skin. But I follow his commands. I am stronger than Mr Angelcakes. I am stronger than the Professor. Why don
’
t I kill them both? Because then I will be alone.

Mr Angelcakes speaks to me, his rotting green tongue lolling inside his mouth.
“
My little
wea
pon
.
”
He strokes my face.

I am going mad
.

M
elting into the floorboards
.