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

Meanwhile
…

Mr Loveheart takes a stroll by the Thames

It is a day of custard! It wobbles!

Today I wear electrical blue (I sizzle!). My trademark hearts are splattered up the sides; they ooze into the fabric. I am also sporting a rather fetching set of thigh boots. I like to strut long the path, twiddle my ancestral sword and then LEAP! and hide behind a bush: JUMP! out on random strangers! HA HA! ha ha ha

It is so funny!

An old man screams! His eyes of jelly wibble and quiver.

I have come into London for a spot of cake. I was getting bored at home and I have no servants to talk to. I found one of them dead near the pond, half-eaten. I was quite unnerved and had a conversation with the remaining lower half of the corpse and, of course, apologised profusely for his being eaten and in my garden no less! And so, I am quite alone and I feel unable to employ the lower half of a torso as a butler, as it would perhaps not be altogether practical. He would have considerable problems boiling an egg and roasting a crumpet over the fire (being dead and having no arms
,
he having being consumed by something as yet unidentified).

The Thames is a fat ooze. Greenish slop waters, occasionally pulling with it dead bodies, purple with bloat. And eels! See them wriggle and flop; see them slither!

London, you are a City of the Dead. Creatures hop and scuttle; jump out their graves; dance over black waters.

If I dip my hands into the Thames, my skin would prickle under the slime water. It would shrivel; feel globular vegetation; growths of slithery lumps.

London, London
(and I twiddle my sword in a loop), London, London, London, You are an EATER of the dead. CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP. How unique you are; how horrible! how dazzling! Show me your teeth: expose your tongue to me. UNROLL YOURSELF.

I dance! I dance along the path. Do I hear music?

I strike a pose!
Spear a clergyman
’
s hat. Hold it aloft. He screams and crosses himself. Becomes hysterical. I enquire where I might find an excellent piece of cake and after he has recovered his senses (and his hat) he points me in another direction. MAKES ME TURN.

Oh, London, your foul underwater botanical gardens are charming.
Bruised purples, blubbery greens, violent turquoise, acidic yellow swirls. Vivid and slimy. Let me count the insects that hum over you. The low buzz of your tiny messengers; the shimmer of their wings.

ANGELS! THEY ARE YOUR ANGELS!

A pigeon lands on my head!

I strut along the path. Twirl. Shoot my pistol in the air. BANG!

The naughty pigeon flies off, craps on the clergyman.

I walk the path. B
ig Ben
strikes. Moves us forward. Time, time, time, you are malleable, misunderstood.

BANG! (I
shoot my pistol again.)

I see a fiddler ahead
,
bashing out a tune near a bench. He taps his spindly leg, plucks a string. It snaps! Thwacks him in the forehead. I hear his swear words on the air: “You f— b—!” he screams. Marvellous!

Heaps of plum coloured clouds swirl above me: marshmallow soft. Hot chocolate!
I hear the clanging of bells sound from the church. I raise my head, spy a raven
,
a gloomy thing glaring at me from a rooftop. Small plucky blue flow
ers sprout near my feet. Am I a
toadstool? A magic mushroom perhaps?

The air whiffs of bubbling jam. I am hungry. I can think of nothing but pudding! I think of custard, cream and the goo of melted chocolate. My mind wanders to jelly beans and strawberry tarts.
My stomach rumbles. I flash a smile at an old l
ady in a bonnet. I bow very low.
“
Madam, could you direct me to an interesting bit of sponge?
”

She bashes me over the head with her umbrella.

“
Thank you
,
my good woman!
”
I reply
. C
omposing myself and straightening my beautiful coat I head along the path towards the fiddler. I smell fish bones, sea snails, lobster pots, eel pie and mash. A spot of gravy! A splat of mushy peas.

I shout out to the Raven,
“
WHERE IS THE STRAWBERRY TART
,
YOU VILLAIN?!
”

He caws back at me rather sarcastically.

I spin my ancestral sword and approach the fiddler. He eyeballs me with
…
is that some sort of suspicion?

“
Good morning!
”
I say

“
Got a penny for me to pluck a tune, sir?
”
he replies grinning with his remaining teeth.

I fling him some paper money in his upside down battered top hat.

“
Blimey,
”
he says, staring inside the hat,

“
Do you know the tune
‘
Boil
H
im in the
P
ot
’
?
”
I ask.

“
N
o sir
, but for this amount of money I can make it up as I go along!
”
and he picks up his fiddle.

“
Wonderful,
”
I reply and lean on my sword, glance at the copious amount of weed life that blooms near the wall.

His fiddle creates music no sane mind could cope with. A screech and twang from the very depths of Hell.

I hum along, go mad with it. The fiddler clicks his tongue, screams out the tune. A brick soars through the air! Hits him between the eyes. GOOD GRIEF!
He falls backwards. Perhaps dead!

I spin! Look for the person responsible. Hear laughter. See a pair of eyes peer over the wall. A street urchin sticks out his tongue and runs off over a graveyard, leaps over the dead, out of this world.

I keep moving, wave goodbye to the river, to the ooze.
I pluck a windfall apple, squeeze it in the palm of my hand, as though a human sacrifice. I pick up the pace, move faster.

Oh day of custard. Take me to your tearooms. SHOW ME YOUR CAKE!

I am rather lonely. Yes, lonely.
LOn
Ely.
LoNelY
. Lo
ne
ly. L
o
nely. LONELY. Odd word
,
that.

I am lonely.

lonelylonelylonelylonelylonelylonelylonelylonelylonelylonelylonelylonely lonelylonelylonelylonelylonelylonelylonelylonelylonely

What does it mean to be this way?

What flavour ice cream am I inside?

SCOOP ME OUT & FIND OUT

I prod my lacy cuffs. Wave at a ghoulish nanny with a squeaky pram. She shrieks, goes faster.
Does she hear music too? I wave goodbye to the nanny and the pram. Wave at the pig
eon. Wave at the gloomy raven.
I have no one to play with.

My only serv
ant is dead: half-
eaten, lying on my lawn. I must remind myself to get him buried, perhaps near the deformed cucumbers near the pond.

I peer across at the Houses of Parliament where my father gave speeches. Monocle wobble and click of silver cane.
Lord Loveheart.

DADDY DADDY DADDY
.

And now that is my name. I have taken letters, become meaning. Inherited words. Daddy.

I am the richest man in England. I am a Prince of the Underworld and yet, I am only a series of letters.

Rearrange me and make some other word.

Invisible music moves me forward
.

If you cut open my brain, what would you find I wonder?

Am I made of jelly?
CAN YOU MAKE ME WOBBLE?

I feel the underneath. I feel London
’
s layers. The hot, hot, hot. The sizzle red.
Underneath your footsteps are dinosaurs. Fossils of monsters; ribcages of man eaters.
Strange spiral shells, deformed looking rocks, horned pieces of another species. The imprint of monsters. MAN-EATER, MAN-EATER, MAN-EATER

I cut the air with my sword.

“
BEWARE what is underneath!
”
I shout to nothing and no one.

We are

sinking

below.

DARWINISM

Evo
luti
on
theory

COMPETE, SURVIVE AND REPRODUCE

Or,
beco
me f
inge
r f
oo
d

I walk the path; I walk the dark coils of London, her black ribbon entrails. I move into her stomach. It
’
s surprisingly warm here.

The tearooms appear! Manifest before me. A pot of tea and an enormous slab of chocolate cake will be mine, for I am a Prince of the Underworld
,
and I do love a moist piece of cake.

My loneliness, the empty space inside me needs something to fill it. Squeeze out the air. Overeat. Feed myself love. Replace kisses with sugar.

Mr Loveheart and Zedock Heap meet by strange coincidence
at the Stuffed Fig tearooms

The moon is a lollipop. I hold it on a stick.
Lickety split.
It tastes like pieces of me.

I am sitting by the window of the Stuffed Fig tearooms, an enchanting hovel near London Bridge. Low ceilings, unstable foundations, could quite possibly collapse at any moment. How exciting! I am informed it is also a magnet for poets and authors of the macabre, for the property is apparently haunted. Built on a plague pit. Isn
’
t that wonderful? So much character. Ghost hunters have been rumoured to frequent this establishment in search of evidence of life beyond death. My own suggestion, if you
’
re seeking such evidence, is that you need look no further than to sample the homemade cakes.

I prod my slice of chocolate fudge cake. I slam it against the wall. It makes a dent in the brickwork. This fudge cake is not of this world.

“
What black magic is this
?
”
I say with glee.

The patisserie chef, a meat-faced wall of muscle, emerges from the kitchen.
“
Is there a problem?
”

“
This cake is remarkable! It should be worshipped as an ancient god. It will not yield!
”
I slam it against the table and it bounces off, undamaged.

“
Are you taking the piss?
”
His heavyset lower jaw crunches into a line.

“
No. I am expressing delight. It
’
s not really a cake. It
’
s almost, dare I say, A BRICK! You could build a pagan temple with this and it would withstand the lightning strikes of the gods,
”
I cry aloud. The customers look a bit nervous. Why is that, I wonder?

“
I think he
’
s saying it
’
s a bit dry,
”
coughs a little bespectacled man in the corner.

The chef removes a cleaver from his apron.
“
Well, well. We
’
ve got a comedian.
”

“
Sir, may I enquire what a pastry chef is doing wielding a meat cleaver? Is this not a tearooms?
”
I ask
,
examining a sugar lump to see if it too holds occult powers.

Ting-a-ling!
The bell above the tearoom door rings and a tall gentleman in a very stylish top hat and long coat steps in.
MMMMmmmmmm
,
he looks like a demon to me.

The chef hides his meat cleaver, smiles politely at the gentleman and shouts,
“
Emma?
”

Emma appears, short, grinning, face like a happy dumpling.
“
Yes?
”

“
Take the prime minister
’
s order.
”

“
Oh, hello, Mr Heap,
”
she curtsies.

“
Coffee and a pot of cream,
”
he purrs.

“
Very good, sir,
”
and she hurries off.

I approach his table.
“
If I may warn you, sir, against sampling the chocolate slab.
”

Mr Heap raises his eyes.
“
And you are, sir?
”

“
Interested in what you are.
”

He smiles. I
’
ve seen that sort of smile before. It
’
s power. It
’
s ancient. It
’
s trouble. It
’
s something from underneath.

I tap my sword against the table leg.

“
Young man, don
’
t play games with me.
”
His voice suddenly changes tone, deadly serious.
“
B
ecause you will regret it
.
”
His eyes fizzle with tiny white explosions.

Oooh, he is a predator!

I twiddle my sword and bow.
“
My name is John Loveheart and I
’
m a prince of the Underworld. I also happen to know that this cake,
”
(my sword prods the chocolate slab),
“
is the most frightening thing I have ever happened across. It
’
s quite unsettled me.
”

Mr Heap stands up, the chair creaking, and stares into me. Oooooohhhh! The walls of the Stuffed Fig are closing in; he
’
s putting pressure on the structure. What sort of demon is he?

Two customers eating scones and jam in the corner suddenly explode over the walls.