The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2 (18 page)

The
House
o
f Zedock Heap

I
awake on an immense bloody-red velvet-cushioned bed. I YAWN!

The room smells of Turkish delight. I am a sugar cube!
I AM A SUGAR CUBE!

I wonder if I have I been drugged?

I was dreaming, I remember. I was dreaming I was a Lord of the Underworld. My name was written upside down on paper stars. Each one a part of me. Each one dangling on golden thread; wobbling in deep space.

Perhaps I have been dissected.
Oooops! I fall off the bed
.

My legs buckle under. Where is my sword?

I hold the bed post, prop myself up. My name is Heart.

My name is HEART
.
I have a cat. He is very fat. He is a fat cat. I love my fat cat.

I
’
m in a bedroom! So much red, it hurts my eyes. The walls are made up of roots which intertwine with one another and they are moving. The walls are alive! I touch them and they swell and then spiral in my hand. I examine the doorway
–
a red portal with a black wet hole for a lock.

This is a very odd place and my brain feels rather soft. Perhaps I should have a little sleep, dream of icing sugar, dream of spaces made of sugar.

A great watery mirror hangs on the wall above the bed and it shimmers. I can see sea-worms and small opaque starburst-fish swim within its depths. I stick my hand into the mirror and remove it, dripping and glistening. The looping roots begin to entwine around me and pull me across the floor to the vast bed which splits open like a flower. It has fangs!

On a small table by the bed sits a solitary book. I reach for it, my fingers fondling the cover which is made with human skin! How very curious! This book must belong to a mad man!

The Vinegar Doctor

There is no author
.
I open at a random page
:

“
It excites you, doesn
’
t it?
”

This is indeed a very ODD thing. What was the last thing I recall? Mmmmmm, I thin
k I was talking to a butterfly.
I was kissing a butterfly. I saw a shark, I saw a shark. I SAW A SHARK.

I pick another page
:

Black as boiling nightfall. Unripe fruits hung like poisonous gifts, lustrous greens, other-worldly blues, beetle blacks, devil reds, pomegranate.

Whose bedroom is this?
Some sort of demon I can only presume. My mind is a little muddled, a spoon in the jam.

b
loo
d-orange

b
loo
d-orange

b
loo
d-orange
b
loo
d-orange

b
loo
d-orange
b
loo
d-orange
b
loo
d-orange
b
loo
d-orange

Brain damage perhaps? Am I inside a fairytale? IF SO, who am I?
I am the black-eyed prince. I am the thing that kills the wicked magician. I AM THE LORD OF THE DEAD. I reanimate you!

Come here and give me a kiss
.

I recall I ate rice pudding with a splodge of marmalade for dinner.

Inside the forest there are dead shiny creatures.

I wonder if anyone will bring me supper for I am awfully hungry. Perhaps some toast? Thickly buttered.

I eat eerie bulging-eyed insects
.

Am
I
within a dream. Inside a space, a room, a brain?
T
iny flowers of starlight.
I REMEMBER! My name is JOHN and I like cake.

Don
’
t be alarmed. Everyone is made of marzipan
.

How curious. I pick another page

You will have to eat your way out
,
Mr Loveheart
.

Or c
ut his head off
.

Aha! A book that is helping me
. No
w
,
where is my sword?

You
’
re standing on it
.

Ah! Yes of course. Thank you.

You
’
re welcome
.

I shut the book. I think I am a PRINCE. I am a fairytale. I am a fairytale. I look in the mirror at my face. I have black eyes. That, perhaps, isn
’
t quite normal.

I move closer to the surface of ripple
, up
to the curious mirror. Am I a demon prince? I feel my heart beat. I feel the thud, the spongy
thud thud thud
. I remember now. Ah, I understand, I am a bit broken inside. THUD THUD THUD

I am quite mad.

THUD THUD THUD

I am not really human anymore. I want to step inside the mirror, wiggle my toes under the waters. BECOME LIQUID.

A CREAK!

The door opens and a
queer
-
looking butler, for he is wearing a pink turban and holding a blowpipe, enters.

“
Mr Loveheart, you are required for dinner,
”
and he shoots the pipe. A dart hits me in the thigh.

“
I feel rather ill-used!
”
I proclaim before it oozes into my bloodstream. Fizzing, wobbly jelly, wobbly jelly wobbly jelly.

I hear a screech, see him bring in an old iron wheelchair which he plops me into, squeaks me off down the corridor. Into a darkness that oozes. Rather splendid plum velvet walls dripping with splodges of vanilla scented wax. Lots of tapestries hanging a
bout the place, withery dithery
!

“
I don
’
t believe I have any tapestries at Loveheart Manor,
”
I say to the butler,
“
Or, come to think on it, there may be one of an infamous and weird-bearded ancestor in the basement.
”

The butler ignores me.

“
I am feeling rather wooooooooozy.
”

I see the pretty pictures; a knight is battling a great white coiled worm. Poppy red, bone white, sea serpent green, Aztec gold. They fizzle and dazzle my head. Eggy splat and green jelly flubber. Oohh another one. A mermaid the colour of seaweed splat and foam. She wriggles, she giggles, fish tail question mark.

I sink out of the chair, stare at the carpet,
“
IT IS BLUE!
”
I shriek.

Tapestry tapestry: black dragon, a maiden tied to a tree, waiting to be devoured.
She is smiling. How extraordinary!

Fairytale fairytale fai
rytale fairytale SPRUNG to life
! leap from the walls
!

I AM WITHIN A FAIRYTALE

The wheel chair squeaks
,
“
AND THE CARPET IS BLUE!
”

TAPEST
R
Y tapestry tapestry: this time a magician in a top hat speckled with stars, sawing in half a girl confined within a magic box.

“
MAGIC BOX!
”
I shout,
“
MAGIC BOX.
”
Above him hangs a moon, a wax egg.
“
I WOULD LIKE SOME CUSTARD.
”

The butler sighs wearily and opens a door into a dining room, a room with food on a big red dining room table. I see custard tarts! macaroons, butterfly cakes, sponge fingers, gingerbread. I want to gobble up the goodies, suck my fingers of sugar.

There is a man at the head of the table. A big man. I KNOW HIM! HE IS THE SHARK.

“
Hello, Mr Shark!
”
and I wave.

He looks happy and his words are all jelly squish and cherry flavoured.
I don
’
t understand, but I watch his lips move. Gums like a rubbery fish. He has got a big spoon in his hands.

I am wheeled to the table. In front of me is a big trifle dish.

The butler pours me wine
. H
e smells of peppermint and formaldehyde
–
corpse preservation stink.

“
Why is my head funny?
”
I say.

His lips move and his words move in a jumble.
“
Demonic paralysis. Feebles the brain, Mr Loveheart. It affects anything of our kind.
”

“
I have a feeble brain!
”
I announce, followed by,
“
May I have a bowl of trifle please?
”
I point to the wall behind him. I see a big butterfly in a frame. It is moving.
“
It is alive!
”
I shout.

“
Yes, of course,
”
he smiles
–
o
h so many teeth
–
and steps closer to me. He eliminates the space. I know what the butterfly is; it zaps into my brain.

“
BOO BOO,
”
I shout,
“
BOO BOO NEEDS THAT BUTTERFLY.
”

“
She
is a predator,
”
he speaks
.
“
Isn
’
t she beautiful?
”
He taps the glass.
“
She is the only one in the world. It
’
s funny how you don
’
t appreciate something until it is gone. Until it is no more. Will someone miss you, Mr Loveheart, when you are eaten?
”

“
I believe my cat would miss me.
”
My head rolls backwards. On the ceiling is deep space. I see planets dangle, a shooting star whizzzzes past. Comets collide. Black sparkle and a whiff of sulphur.

“
You have a very unusual ceiling!
”
I remark.

He put his hand on my shoulder
.
“
You and I can cannot coexist
,
Mr Loveheart. That is the way of things, the way of survival of the species. You are the competition and you concern me and yet, you are insane. Your brain is a cauliflower.
Why should you worry me? Mad little prince! Hell has dominion over this world. My
q
ueen
, the Queen of Hell, is conquering the planet, her
ar
mies
, her
n
avies
, claiming new territories. And she sits on the throne of England and rules already a quarter of the earth. We are eating you up little world. We are gobbling you up. Humans! You are a food source for us. That is all you are.
”

“
I have to stop you,
”
and my head is fizzzzzzing and I try to lift my sword but I can
’
t.

“
Stop me? You are a fool. Your head is full of sponge,
”
and he laughs, rich treacle laughter. It soaks into the wallpaper, slips over me. He puts his mouth close to my ear, whispers,
“
I have eaten stardust. It tastes like sugar.
”

We are inside a book of fairy tales and the pages are turning themselves. My head feels so heavy, my heart is the THUD THUD THUD
.

“
Red is the colour of my heart
”
I laugh
“
RED RED RED RED,
”
and my head sags and plops into the trifle dish.

Oh dear.

I am the melting blue of space. I AM AN ASTEROID.

CATCH ME!

Rufus Hazard
t
o
t
he
r
escue!

I have just left Miss Pussywillow
’
s
H
ouse
of Delight. What a splendid evening that was. I was whipped within an inch of my life by a spirited mistress of the cat o
’
nine tails called Big Gertrude. A most pleasant evening it was and an excellent roast peasant supper at my club beforehand with a marvellous plum pudding and custard. What more can a man ask for than a good flogging and a decent pudding
?

Well Buggeration! That odd fellow, Mr Death, has materialised in front of me.

“
Mr Hazard, I require your assistance. Mr Loveheart is in peril.
”

“
EGAD! PERIL IS MY MIDDLE NAME! What can I do to help the young whelp?
”

“
Really?
”

“
Of course, Rufus Peril Hazard at your service.
”

“
Do you have your machete with you?
”

I smile, show my teeth and whip my old trusty machete from its sheath on my back. It glimmers under moonlight.

TWING!

“
Excellent, the prime minister is about to eat him. Number 7, Flumpet Court. I need to find B
oo
Boo. Can you manage?
”

“
Flumpet Court, I know the place. Never fear, Mr Death, I
’
ll sort that cad Heap out and rescue Loveheart!
”

I arrive under a bold moon and knock briskly on the rather smart red door. A suspicious looking butler wearing a pink turban and holding a blow pipe opens the door
.

“
I am Rufus Hazard and I believe your employer has FOUL intentions towards a very dear friend of mine, a Mr Loveheart. I understand he is being held against his will and
…
WHAT THE
HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH A BLOW PIPE?
”

He shuts the door in my face. THE CAD!

I shout,
“
DOORS DO NOT STOP RUFUS HAZARD!
”
before I boot it with my foot. The door flies off its hinges and collapses. I step over the remains of door and glare at the whimpering butler who tries to blow pipe me! The dart hits the wall and I swipe my machete, slicing the legs off the snivelling coward. His torso glides past me, and out the door screaming.

“
THAT IS FOR TRYING TO BLOW PIPE ME
,
YOU IMPERTINENT SCOUNDREL!
”

I stor
m the corridor and boot in the
dining room door, appreciating the excellent tapestries and stuffed badger on the mantelpiece. It is difficult to acquire experts in taxidermy in London.

Mr Loveheart is lying face down, head in a trifle dish. The prime minister looms over him with a curious shaped spoon.

“
STEP AWAY FROM HIM OR YOU
’
LL FEEL MY BLADE, HEAP
!
”
and I stick my leg up on the chair and swipe the blade; it glints under candle light.

The prime minister looks genuinely surprised
.
“
Who the hell are you?
”

“
Rufus Hazard.
Earl of
D
erbyshire
, and
that
, I believe is a brain spoon
.
”
I point my weaponry at the accursed object.

He puts the spoon down on the table and sighs.
“
I am going to skin you alive and then suck your eyeballs out of your head.
”

“
TRY IT
,
SHIT-HEAP. I DARE YOU!
”
I scream.

The walls of the house squeeze, the ceiling wobbles.

A dart hits the prime minister in the forehead
.

Boo Boo is behind me.

“
BITCH!
”
he cries, and slumps to the ground.

Mr Loveheart stirs and lifts his head, which is covered in custard, and smiles at me.
“
Rufus!
Hello.
I think I am a pudding!
”

“
Dear old sock, take my arm,
”
and I help him up.

Boo Boo points at the framed picture of a giant butterfly on the wall,
“
Rufus
,
get it for me!
”

I step closer but the room is filling with blood. Knee high, I wade through towards the butterfly but there is too much blood and it is rising!

“
Boo Boo, we have to get out quickly.
”
Too late! We are washed away on a wave along the corridors, fast out the door into the street.

A voice, that villain Zedock
,
soars over the blood and he
’
s laughing.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

What black magic is this
?
And before I can step back inside to chop the villain
’
s head off the house vanishes in a tidal wave of blood. HITS US. SLAPS US ABOUT. Carries us down the streets of London. FASTER, FASTER, FASTER. I try to grab a lamp post and fail, scream and get dragged as fast as
a
bullet across London. Ooze and foul slop of red. It goes down my mouth, into my eyes and nose. I see Boo Boo whizzz past
–
and is that Loveheart floating in a star shape in the distance?

We are vomited out into Hyde Park in a violent explosion of red.

I awake face down, disorientated by a park bench. Boo Boo is shaking Mr Loveheart, who is still somewhat delirious and talking about jam.

I stand up and raise my machete.
“
This is not over,
Heap
.
”

Detective
W
hite and
C
onstable
W
alnut meet
M
r
P
oppy

W
alnut and I are in Spitalfields outside the Magic Emporium, and we
’
re wondering if Mr Ink-Squid may have some information on the butterfly symbol. Waxford thinks he might come in useful.

“
Did I ever tell you that my great grandfather was an amateur magician, sir?
”
says Walnut, scratching his chin.

“
I don
’
t believe so,
”
I sigh.

“
Well, he was. Pulled dead rabbits out of his hat. Tried to saw my grandmother in half. His career had an untimely ending when the stage collapsed at Brighton pier and he knocked himself unconscious. He never recovered. Couldn
’
t remember who he was.
”

“
There
’
s always a silver lining in every cloud of misfortune,
”
I reply, opening the door to the Magic Emporium. A large, black-bearded gentleman stands behind the counter.

“
Mr Otto Ink-Squid?
”

“
Yes,
”
he replies.

“
My name is Detective Sergeant White and this is Constable Walnut. I believe you have already spoken to Detective Waxford. We were hoping you might be able to help us with our investigation.
”

Mr Ink-Squid nods.
“
What do you need?
”

“
We are investigating the kidnapping of a young woman. She was transported to a gentlemen
’
s club by the river Thames and kept in a cage. The members of this club had a black butterfly symbol on their hands. We need to know what information you have on any unusual groups operating in the London area.
”

“
You mean cults? Do I know of any cults in London?
”

“
Yes, do you?
”

“
I have heard of this butterfly cult. But only heard rumours. They are one of the more extreme cults and extremely difficult to join. I know of a man who is involved with them on a lower level. He helps them with transportation.
”

“
You mean kidnapping?
”

“
Very likely. He
’
s an undertaker. His name is Mr Poppy. His establishment is round the corner; there
’
s usually a few coffins propped up against the shop wall.
”

“
Do you have any idea what this butterfly cult do with the women?
”

“
I really don
’
t know. I don
’
t like to think what these people get up to,
”
Ink-Squid says, sadly.

“
What have you heard about them?
”

“
I
’
ve heard Mr Poppy gets a lot of money for disposing of the corpses.
”

We leave the Magic Emporium and in a few hundred yards find Mr Poppy
’
s undertaking establishment. Mr Ink-Squid was right, half a dozen wooden coffins line the entrance, as though pillars into the underworld.

“
This is a bit creepy,
”
says Constable Walnut.

“
Death is always a bit creepy, Walnut.
”

We enter the gloomy premises, the black letters of
Mr Poppy
above our heads, malign, sinister marks. Inside, a very tall skeletal man, wearing a black undertaker
’
s coat and top hat with a purple feather, sits taking tea and crumpets. He looks over a hundred years old, face withered away, skin stretched over his skull like parchment. The remaining white wisps of his hair hang like loose threads from under his top hat. He looks at us suspiciously whilst devouring the remainder of his crumpet.

“
So, who has died?
”
he says chuckling.

“
Possibly your reputation,
”
I reply.

“
Who are you?
”
his smile removed, wiping butter from his lips.

“
Detective Sergeant White and Constable Walnut. We
’
d like to ask you some questions.
”

“
I
’
m rather busy, gentlemen. Come back tomorrow,
”
and he starts eating another crumpet.

“
Who is your employer, Mr Poppy?
”

“
I am the owner, but I suppose my employer in a broader sense would be Death,
”
and he looks very amused with himself.

“
Very funny. What can you tell me about the Butterfly Club?
”

Mr Poppy
’
s face stretches into ice.
“
Never heard of them.
”

“
Really? I was under the belief that you got rid of the dead bodies for them.
”

“
Rumours ain
’
t proof.
”
He sneer
s and throws a crumpet at Walnut
’
s head, which
boings
off and out the door.

“
That
’
s assaulting a police officer
,
”
says
Walnut, and whi
ps
out his handcuffs.

“
I THREW
A FUCKING CRUMPET AT YOU, THAT AIN
’
T
ASSAULT!
”

“
Assault with a deadly weapon,
”
replies
Walnut approaching him.

“
EXPLAIN TO ME HOW A CRUMPET IS DEADLY?
”
screams
Mr Poppy in exasperation.

Walnut pick
s
up the crumpet and punch
es
him in the face with it. Mr Poppy
falls
off his chair and
lies
on the floor unmoving.

I tur
n, quite astonished to Walnut.
“
Sometimes you really surprise me.
”

He
grins
.
“
Thank you, sir.
”

Mr Poppy after a while regains consciousness and stands up rather creakily and removes a pistol from his jacket. Points it at my head.

“
Boys!
”
he shouts. Two rather burly looking meat-heads appear.
“
Boys,
”
repeats Mr Poppy.

“
Yes, Dad?
”
one of them replies.

“
We have a little problem.
”

Walnut and I are escorted at gun point into the back room, where two large black coffins rest.

“
Get in,
”
Mr Poppy says, waggling the gun in my face.

“
Mr Poppy,
”
I say, trying to reason with him.

“
Get in!
”
he screeches.

The coffin lid shuts with a gentle click. Mr Poppy
’
s fingers tap the surface, humming to himself. I can see nothing. I am submerged in inky blackness.

I hear Mr Poppy
’
s toad-croaking voice above me,
“
Silly policemen. Really, what were you thinking?
”

A few hours pass and then I can feel the coffin being lifted and the lid tapped again.

“
Detective
…”
Mr Poppy is laughing.
“
You
’
re off to be buried. A lovely little spot in St Augustine
’
s churchyard. Ha ha ha ha.
”

I pound my fists against the lid.
“
Release me!
”