The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2 (14 page)

Village of Darkwound

Detective Waxford and Professor Hummingbird
’
s Wives

This bloody place never changes! Deranged woodlands, crawling with specimens of toadstools with fangs and potato-brained villagers.

I am outside the home of Professor Hummingbird. I know that he is away on business in London, seeing his brother Ignatius. I knock on the door. If no one replies I will break in.

A young woman in a black dress opens the door.

“
Ah, Miss
Boo Boo. Hello again. It has been many years since we last met.
”

“
I remember you,
”
she says.

“
I need to ask you once again, what happened to Detective White, Constable Walnut and Mr Loveheart?
”

“
Please, come in,
”
she says, and I follow her into the hall of red and she points to three butterflies on the wall: one brown, one white and one bright red.

“
It is as I told you before. The Professor turned them into butterflies.
”

“
You realise what you are telling me is madness.
”

She doesn
’
t respond. She is a very strange young woman, moving silently, as though she does not exist.

“
I need to know what happened to them. I have to know.
”

“
I have already told you.
”

“
ARE THEY ALIVE?
”
I shout, gripping her by the shoulders. She doesn
’
t flinch.

“
Yes, but they are trapped.
”

“
What must I do to free them?
”

“
Smash the glass,
”
she says so softly.

“
What?
”
I say, almost laughing.
“
You have gone mad!
”

“
Smash the glass,
”
she says again, willing me to do it.

“
LUNACY!
”
I shout.

“
Smash the glass,
”
she says again.

I pick up the butterflies and smash the frame against the wall. The glass smashes into pieces. I can hear lightning crack in the sky and a hand touches my shoulder. I turn round and Mr Loveheart is smiling at me.
“
Detective Waxford. I am making a confession in advance. I am going put the Professor
’
s head on a stick outside Scotland Yard and then blow his house up
…
again.
”

“
Loveheart?
”
I am confounded. Detective White and Constable Walnut are standing beside him.

“
You look older, Waxford,
”
Detective White says, rather wobbly on his feet.
“
It must be this case getting to you.
”

“
Thank
G
od, you
’
re alive.
”
I am nearly crying with disbelief.

I turn to the girl.
“
You could have freed them. Why didn
’
t you?
”

“
I can
’
t. I am a butterfly.
”
And she wanders off down the hallway.

“
Now, she
is
interesting,
”
remarks Loveheart.

“
We have to stop the wedding,
”
I blurt out.

“
What wedding?
”
says Detective White.

“
You
’
ve all been trapped for ten years. It
’
s 1899. That girl is Boo Boo, and the Professor is marrying her next Saturday.
”

“
My grandma is going to be rather worried,
”
say Constable Walnut.

“
I wouldn
’
t concern yourself, Walnut,
”
replies Loveheart.
“
She already thinks you
’
re dead.
”

“
What on earth do I tell her?
”

“
Say you were on a sabbatical.
”

“
For ten years?
”

“
Coma?
”

“
She
’
s not buying that. I need something more convincing.
”

“
Bullet in the brain
…
amnesia.
”

“
Shut up the pair of you,
”
says Detective White.
“
There is proof, Waxford, against Hummingbird.
”
And Detective White shows me the room where the photographs of his wives are hanging.

The glass cracks
.

BO
NG

BO
NG

BO
NG

BIG BEN
GOES BACKWARDS

10 YEARS fall off the clock

The Perils of Using Black Magic
!

The spell is broken

The glass is broken

TIME IS BROKEN

THE YEAR IS BACK TO 1889

And yet, we are still the same

Death wakes up from a snooze, checks his pocket watch and sighs
.

1889
, again!

Mr Loveheart and the wooing of Boo Boo

I
’
ve decided I shall marry her! She
’
s perfect for me. We go together like cheese and pickle (am I the pickle, perhaps?). Of course I shall have to murder her fianc
é
but I can
’
t suppose anyone will mind too much; he
’
s an insane insect collector. He
’
s only after your wings, Boo Boo!

Loveheart Manor has become rather overgrown after ten years. I have to hack my way through thorny shrubs and teethy rose bushes with my sword. Ouch! This reminds me of a fairytale. Now which one is it?

Hack, hack, hack

My gardens are wild. A fleshy patchwork quilt of fruit, weed and flowers. They burst at the touch; shape into hearts and break within my hands. My kingdom, my beautiful kingdom.

A big orange cat is sitting on my front steps; his bottom a splatty shape.
“
And I shall name you
‘
Pumpkin
’
,
”
I say,
“
because you resemble one.
”

The cat looks at me with disgust, his jade eyes narrowing, and then raises his tail and breaks wind.

“
That
’
s not very nice, is it, Pumpkin?
”
Naughty cat. And he won
’
t budge from my front step. He
’
s blocking the door with his huge shape. I wonder what he
’
s been eating? Possibly my neighbours.

I shall have to climb through a window.
“
Pumpkin, you must guard the entrance to my kingdom.
”

The cat yawns.

“
I am the Lord of the Underworld,
”
I explain.

He isn
’
t impressed. Well, that
’
s cats for you.

I leap through a downstairs window into my library. Bit dusty in here. Cough. Splutter. I am looking for some rose shears. I have decided to collect some flowers for Boo Boo. My insect queen. I sprint into the kitchens and Ah Yes! GARDENING shears, underneath the sink perhaps? No. Oh well, I shall use my sword instead.

Mr Fingers floats in the mirror in the hallway. A specimen in a jar. He doesn
’
t appear to be able to die. Dizzy in the eyes; full of stars. I tap on the glass. He stirs like a baby in a womb. Bares his teeth. Mad dog.

I should end this. This has gone on too long.

“
Goodbye, Mr Fingers,
”
I say.

I drive my sword through the mirror and it smashes. An explosion of glass, a scream. He disintegrates. The house shakes. My kingdom wakes. The Underworld is awake. Tentacles of black break through the earth in my kingdom and coil into my trees, they wind themselves about the flowers and into the architecture of my house.

I open the front door. Pumpkin the cat is unaffected by the huge disturbance of undergrowth. The landscape is shifting, distorted. My rose bushes are blooming; the roses so red they stab my eyes. Big bloody petals intoxicate and overpower all other flowers.

My crown sits on the hall table, glinting. I pop it on my head. Glitter magic thing. Dark star. Best keep it on from now.

A dark fairy zooms past in the hedgerow and Pumpkin the cat moves like an arrow after it, his enormous bottom wobbling off into the wilderness.

I step into my gardens with my sword and start collecting roses for my beloved Boo Boo. My queen of hearts.

The under-stink of this new world is a little like meat being left out too long. It merges within my kingdom of hearts, invents new plants, new life forms. I may have problems finding a gardener.

An armful of roses: they are big girls, heavy petals, red as meat; thorns like fairy blades. I shall gather her a mountain of them. A bloody wobbly tower of them with perhaps a little note attached.

Would you like to be my queen and live in my Palace of Hearts
?

A heart in every room, on everything (including the chamber pots), and all of them for you, my love. Every one for you.

I find magpie feathers on the path and a coil of snail shells. Wonderful things, little parts of my garden. The language of fairies: magic gobbled
y
gook floats in my kingdom. And now a staircase coiling to the underworlds has appeared. Coiling down into dark places; black feathers and toad croak. I leave the roses in a powerful heap by my door and go down the staircase to inspect my other kingdom. Pumpkin the cat watches me from a distance, licking his paws. What did the fairy taste like, I wonder?

A loopy amputation
–
that is what it feels like to walk down into the underworlds. You
’
ll feel disembowelled, stepping into deep magic. The Kingdom of the Underworld adjusts itself to its ruler. Before, under the rule of Mr Fingers, it was made of demented clockwork; the constant ticking of mechanical contraptions; the sounds of time. Regulated, obsessive tinkering.

I step into a world now of black hearts: jam flowers, fairies with tartan slippers, a river of red flower petals. Lush, nervous energy, bursting fairytales. The clocks have melted. Time has no meaning here anymore. My world is an upside down fairytale.
A heart lollipop on a stick. Go on,
give me a lick.
A little madness never hurt anyone.

I wander amongst my Palace of Hearts. I am alone here, despite the wildlife. I have no queen. No heirs. There is of course Pumpkin the cat, he would make a very fine ruler of the Underworlds.

Death appears.
“
Don
’
t you dare!
”

“
Dare what?
”
I turn around, surprised. He always pops up at the strangest moments.

“
Don
’
t bequeath your new kingdom to an overweight cat.
”
He examines the lollipops.
“
This is an improvement from last time, if a little peculiar.
”

“
I didn
’
t know you could read my thoughts.
”

“
Sometimes, and it
’
s quite unnerving. You will be wondering what your responsibilities are now, I suppose. Mr Fingers spent most of his time collecting assassin sons and clocks. You will serve a greater purpose, I hope,
”
and he eyes me rather sternly.

“
Shall we have some tea and cake?
”
I motion him towards a table under a black tree of raspberry jelly heads. Eyes made of marshmallows. On the table sits a pot of steaming tea and a plate of chocolate
é
clairs
. Death pours the tea and adds three lumps of sugar and a dash of milk.

“
You
’
re looking very well,
”
I say, for the sake of polite conversation.

His eyes turn from a deep shade of gold to black and fix upon me. His hand selects an
é
clair
.

“
Now then. I will be keeping an eye on you, Mr Loveheart. You can be rather naughty and unpredictable.
”

I take my pistol out and shoot something above his head, which screams and falls to the ground with a thud.

“
As I was saying,
”
continues Death, completely unfazed,
“
You can see this underworld is organic. It moulds itself to its king. Shapeshifts around you. You have made it bloom with life, Mr Loveheart, burst with it. It was a stagnant, dark place before. Now it is energy. It fizzes.
”

A fairy with indigo wings zooms round Death
’
s head. Sits on his shoulder. She
’
s after his
é
clair.

“
Another lump?
”
I pass him the sugar bowl.

“
No, thank you,
”
and he peers at the fairy, who refuses to move from his shoulder. She squeaks some instructions at him.

“
Your creatures are as impertinent as you are!
”
and he passes her an
é
clair. She picks it up, (it
’
s the same size as her) and carries it off.

“
I
’
m very fond of fairies. They bite, you know, if you don
’
t give them sugar.
”

Death eats his
é
clair.
“
This is very tasty. I see you
’
re thinking of wooing Miss Boo Boo.
”

“
Yes.
”

“
Professor Hummingbird is in the way of course. He will have to be removed,
”
says Death.

“
Why
do
you help me?
”

“
Because I like you, Mr Loveheart. And because, I too am lonely.
”

Pumpkin the cat mews from the top of the staircase at Loveheart Manor. He wants an
é
clair.