The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2 (3 page)

“
BACK OFF!
”
he says and holds me by the throat. My legs dangle in the air
.
He looks into me, deep underneath the layers of frill and growls,
“
You
’
re quite mad,
”
and he seems pleased.
The windows explode; the walls compress.
His eyes hold pieces of an exploding star.
And then he laughs,
“
Little mad prince, that is what you are. Hearts in your eyes. No match for me,
”
and flings me against the wall. I bounce off it and land gracefully on my feet, then unfortunately slip on a slice of lemon tart and slide along the floor into the cake stand.

“
That
’
s just bad manners,
”
the remaining survivor of the clientele in the corner says, a slice of fig tart in his hand
.
“
Flinging people against walls.
”

The demon clicks his fingers and the gentleman explodes.

The chef appears with the cleaver,
“
Is everything satisfactory?
”
followed by
“
Oh fucking hell
”
and disappears with the speed of a rat up a drainpipe.

I take out my pistol and shoot the demon in the backside. He is not impressed and grabs hold of me by my waistcoat and holds me up in the air and screams
,
“
I AM FROM THE BOWELS OF HELL
,
LITTLE PRINCE. I AM THE STUFF OF NIGHTMARES
.
”

The building starts to collapse and he folds his furry coat over me and we disappear as the ceiling falls.

FIZZ- BANG
WHOOOOOOOSH

We reappear inside a pagan temple of blood soaked walls. HOW THRILLING!

He
’
s sitting on a throne of skulls and I, I am rather unfortunately inside a cage that appears to be constructed of human bones with an intricate human-finger lock mechanism. I can smell fireworks and glitter and I can hear screaming and some sort of sinister gurgling. Perhaps the drains need unblocking?

“
This isn
’
t very sporting,
”
I cry, and I shoot the lock
. T
he bullet sadly bounces off and pings against the wall, followed by a series of pings as it ricochets in several directions and finally lodges itself in a pot plant.

“
You are an infuriation, Mr Loveheart,
”
he sighs, staring at me with laser intensity from his throne,
“
and I will teach you a lesson in manners.
”

“
How did you get voted in?
”
I twiddle my sword

“
I ATE the competition. Now you will learn humility and respect for your elders.
”

The world around me turns into space. Stars wink, crash and tumble. I am surrounded by indigo night space, and my father
’
s body floats past me. Dead thing in space amongst asteroids and pieces of fizz and spin.

Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. I reach out and try
to
touch him, but he drifts past me, moves on. It is just an illusion and yet my heart is breaking. Tears wet my face.

Stars fade, the curtain drops.

“
You
’
re all alone,
”
he says from his throne, his voice a hypnotism.
“
Everything you love is dead. It has disappeared. Turned into stardust. Little Prince, insignificant
…
insane,
”
and he chuckles.

Under the pain, under the breaking in me, there is something turning. Some change. A form of rage. It blooms gigantic petals, unfurls like a flower.

I stand up in the cage, grip my ancestral sword.
“
I am a prince of the Underworld and you will have to do better than that!
”

He leans forward on his throne of skulls,
“
If you cross my path again, interfere again, I will EAT you.
”

He clicks his fingers.

I am with the pigeon by the Thames. I am out of reach.

The next day

Kent, England, June 1889

Pedrock & Boo Boo on the train

I
t is four-thirty in the afternoon. A time for buttered teacakes with a splodge of jam.

My name is Pedrock Frogwish and I am ten years old. I am with my little sister Boo Boo
,
who is six
,
and we are sitting in a train carriage accompanied by the Reverend Plum, who sits by the window absorbed in a novel entitled
A Dangerous Romance on the Moors.
He licks his long agile fingers as he turns the pages; the wet sound has become increasingly annoying since we left King
’
s Cross Station. He is accompanying us to our Uncle
’
s house in the village of Darkw
ound, on the outskirts of London,
for Boo Boo and I are orphans. We are essentially unwanted. We have been staying for the last two years in the convent of Saint Thomas near Charing Cross, full of kind, well-meaning nuns. Reverend Plum has made it his mission to find our relatives who now, I suppose, have reluctantly agreed to house us.

I know Boo Boo will miss Sister Martha, who was her favourite nun. Sister Martha had a fascination with dinosaurs and would draw the beasts, scissor-toothed and fat-tailed on the blackboard, and the words EAT OR BE EATEN. Words which were scrubbed off by Sister Harriet, who said that there were no such things as dinosaurs and God certainly wouldn
’
t have created such monstrosities. I smile at
my sister,
who is squeezing her frog puppet toy lovingly
a
round the neck.

She shouts at me:
“
EAT OR BE EATEN! EAT OR BE EATEN! EAT OR BE EATEN!
”

The Reverend Plum looks up from his well-thumbed novel.
“
Boo Boo, please be quiet.
”

Boo Boo and the frog puppet stare defiantly back while the Reverend returns to
A Dangerous Romance on the Moors.

“
Is it an absorbing read?
”
I ask.

Reverend Plum, annoyed, glances up from his forbidden treat.
“
Yes, it
’
s an enjoyable distraction.
”

“
What
’
s the story about?
”

He looks uncomfortable.
“
Well. It
’
s a love story.
”

“
Between who?
”

“
Between a priest and a,
”
(he pauses)
“
farm girl. It
’
s actually more of a warm friendship.
”

“
Warm friendship?
”

Boo Boo interrupts his answer
“
I AM A DINOSAUR! I AM A DINOSAUR AND I AM GOING TO EAT YOU!
”

The agitated Reverend Plum, desperate to get back his book, raises his hands in the air.
“
Boo Boo, shut up! Pedrock, find something to occupy yourself with.
”
And he settles back into the pages of the lusty moors.

I ruffle my sister
’
s hair and the frog puppet stares back at me with an open mouth.

“
I love you,
”
I say to Boo Boo.

The frog puppet replies,
“
I love you, too,
”
and plants a kiss on my cheek.

The train chugs gently onwards through the countryside. It is a wonderful summer
’
s day. Peach coloured sky and soft ice-cream clouds
hang over wild flower meadows and forests full of fairy tales. I wonder what our new lives will be like. Will we be loved? Boo Boo doesn
’
t remember our parents, but I do. I remember their faces and the colour of their eyes, which were gingerbread brown. I remember that our Daddy had a little sailing boat, which he took me on once in a moat full of water flowers. The sail was goblin green. We pretended we were pirates. We pretended we were anybody but ourselves.

I hold Boo Boo
’
s hand. I tell her we shall be safe, we shall be loved. I tell her there are fairies in the woods; they live inside trees and eat flowers. They will protect her, draw magic circles around her; sprinkle her with stardust. Make her one of them.

“
What about Froggy
”
she says.
“
Will they make him a fairy?
”

“
No, they
’
ll make him a prince with his own kingdom.
”

This makes her happy. I wish I could give her something other than words.

W
e are pulling into the station
now, for Darkwound. The paint is flaking off the sign like skin. Reverend Plum gathers his bags together and takes Boo Boo
’
s hand.

“
Come along children.
”

W
e follow him out of the carriage and onto the platform. Somehow the earth beneath my feet doesn
’
t seem solid enough
,
as though it
’
s about to give way. I am sinking into an unknown space.

Meanwhile
…

Loveheart Manor, near the village of Darkwound,
England

Mr Loveheart’s Birthday

Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me! HAPPY BIRTHDAY MR LOVEHEART, Happy birthday to me!

I
’
m having a party today in the gardens of Loveheart Manor. I
’
m eighteen. Mr Fingers, the Lord of the Underworld, is inside a mirror in my hallway, looking rather annoyed. I did offer him a sausage roll from the buffet, but he oddly declined.

It
’
s a glorious hot day of jam. I have prepared everything myself and remembered to bury my
half
-
eaten butler.

Oh Joy! We have party food and party guests. I have invited my neighbours, from the village of Darkwound, and they are a surprising bunch. Of course, they have to wear party hats and play games or I
’
ll throw jelly at them. Splatter them with love.

I have heart shaped balloons and decapitated heads hanging from my trees. All local villains of course: a wife beater, a nasty nanny and an author of badly written young adult romance novels. Dingle dangle in the breeze. I put party hats on them; even the dead need some fun.

I
’
ve been so lonely since my adventures with Detective White and Walnut. I sent them Christmas presents; some chocolates (laced with a heavy laxative) for Detective White, and a gift wrapped hand grenade for Walnut. I had such fun selecting that.

They sent me a thank you card
,
of course, which I keep
,
along
with all my correspondence
,
in the bird cage of the stuffed parrot in the study
:

Dear Mr Loveheart,

Words cannot really express my feelings towards your gifts. Thankfully (for me) Walnut ate my chocolates and spent the rest of the day in the Scotland Yard privy. He thanks you for the hand grenade which he keeps in the office, in the biscuit tin.

We hope you received our present, which was a bottle of wild fig brandy.

Kind Regards

Percival & Walnut

Now where did I put that figgy brandy? Oh, yes, it
’
s in the trifle, under the layer of custard. Soaking up sponge.

Ha ha. Now where was I? Oh yes, Christmas time was very interesting. I had a little adventure involving a zombie Christmas party in Highgate, which I will tell you about on another occasion.

But today is my birthday and I am one year older. One year madder.

The buffet is a dream boat, stuffed with goodies. Ahoy
,
Captain Sponge Cake! See jellies, green, red and yellow, wobble about merrily. A mountain of whipped cream. Finger food! Sausage rolls and love heart shaped fairy cakes. Heart-shaped balloons float in the air. A giant red heart cake sits in the middle with a devilish cream cheese topping. A splodge of love; dip your finger in and taste the love. Mmmmmm. Custard tarts and a humorous cheeseboard with some dates and a bunch of fat grapes.

Let me introduce my party guests. Poking the brie, we have the retired actress and very good friend of mine, Mrs Lavender Charm. She also writes medieval horrors and makes excellent chutney. Her apricot and walnut is my favourite. Her latest book,
Skulls of the Plague Lord
,
is marvellous fun. It has people screaming with black pustules, a lot of whipping and sinister limping monks. I
’
ve given her a pink party hat; it sits on her head like a fairy crown. Maybe she has a wand in her carpet bag? Make a wish, give her a kiss.

I am wearing, as it
’
s my birthday, my favourite red waistcoat and a red party hat.

“
Mr Loveheart,
”
Mrs Charm says, smiling like a good fairy,
“
d
on
’
t
you look handsome!
”
and she pinches my cheek.
“
You lovely naughty boy.
”

“
Sausage roll, my dear lady?
”
I offer her the plate.

“
I can never resist a sausage,
”
she replies, waggling it about.

“
Nor should you, Madam,
”
I concur.

The balloons float into the air; see the hearts, see the hearts in my kingdom take flight, float away. Maybe they will find the stars, reach into space. Drift into the cosmos. Become part of a starscape.

I can see you
,
balloons. I can see you. Off you float, become part of a star map.

Mr Loveheart and his kingdom of hearts.

Let me dazzle you. Fold you into my timelines. Unravel you. Let
’
s go mad together, my love. Juggle teacups. Bend reality like a headmaster
’
s cane. Thwack you on the bottom with it until you understand. I am the magic man and I want to dangle your head from my trees.

See the beautiful balloon go
pop
.

Oh, my mind is wandering again.

Out from the shrubbery steps Rufus Hazard, wearing a wonky orange party hat and smoking an enormous cigar. He
’
s brought his machete with him with which he trims the azaleas.

“
Wonderful piece of weaponry this; slices a head off as smooth as butter. I tell you, they just BOING off into the wilderness! Happy Birthday, you mad old fruit,
”
he grins, his red moustache quivering.

“
It is marvellous to see you again.
”

“
I never miss a party
,
old boy. I
’
ve just got back from a little excursion in the Highlands. Nearly got sacrificed to a coven of witches. Had to shoot my way out!
”
He laughs and his moustache wobbles on his upper lip.

“
Witches are feisty,
”
I say, biting into a custard tart.

“
Indeed they are. One of them had hold of my leg, the saucy mare. I couldn
’
t shake her off. I had to boot her in the head, the minx! Now tell me, who are the other guests, Loveheart? Any beauties for me?
”

“
Mrs Charm. The retired actress.
”
I point over to the dear lady.

“
I saw her as Titania many moons ago. Superb legs.
”
He sucks on his cigar.

“
Lady Beetle and her young son, Horatio.
”
They are loitering by the champagne.

“
Fine looking woman. Is she attached?
”

“
Husband dead. Buried near the compost heap at the back of her estate, so I understand.
”

“
Egads! A
b
lack
w
idow
s
pider
,
eh?
”
and his eye glitters.

“
Mr Grubweed,
retired undertaker
.
”
He stands alone, spooning an enormous heap of green jelly into a bowl and splatting cream on top.

“
Odd
-
looking fellow. And how do you know these people exactly?
”

“
It
’
s the first time I
’
ve met them, excluding Mrs Charm. They
’
re my neighbours. Aren
’
t they funny.
”

“
Your neighbours? Do you not have any other friends, dear boy?
”

“
They
’
re all dead or unavailable,
”
I say.
“
Detective White and Constable Walnut are busy on a case involving a cursed stolen Indian sapphire.
”

“
Sounds familiar,
”
Rufus chortles.
“
What
’
s the curse?
”

“
If you touch the jewel you are immediately transported to Aberystwyth.
”

His cigar falls out of his lips and he shudders.
“
Jesus Christ!
”
and he whispers low in my ear.
“
I know a demonologist, a marvellous chap called Professor Toad, who claims that accursed shit hole is a portal to hell.
”

“
Custard tart?
”
I offer him the plate.

“
No, I
’
m saving my appetite for that vixen, Lady Beetle, and possibly a scotch egg. Now, who is that strange creature?
”
and he points a finger in the direction of a
spindly
-
looking priest wearing a green party hat and prodding one of the dangling severed heads.

Reverend Wormhole suddenly screams.
“
OH MY GOD. IT
’
S REAL. ITS EYEBALL JUST FELL OUT!
”

I speak over his screaming.
“
Reverend Wormhole; he
’
s really very funny. He believes some sort of dark cult is out to assassinate him.
”

“
Really? And why is that?
”

“
I sneak onto the parish roof at night dressed up in black robes and a pair of horns
,
and wave through his window.
”

“
Ha ha! You strange banana!
”
And Rufus slaps me on the back, so my plate of custard tarts wobbles.

Sadly, I am missing a guest. Professor Hummingbird, the eminent collector of butterflies, failed to RSVP. A sure sign that he
’
s suspicious! I will have to pay a little visit to him after the party. Sneak into his gardens. Pluck a daisy or two.

I hand the plate of custard delights to Horatio Beetle, the ghastly spoiled teenage brat.

“
I DON
’
T WANT ANY,
”
he wails.

“
Would you mind holding the plate, young man?
”
I ask.

“
NO, BUGGER OFF, YOU WEIRDO,
”
he replies.

“
Do you know what happens to boys with bad manners?
”

“
NOTHING BECAUSE I
’
M RICH.
”

“
They explode.
”

“
WHAT?
”

“
That
’
s right. Suddenly and without warning.
”

Horatio looks at me with a thick scowl and then takes the plate of tarts.

His mother, Lady Beetle saunters over,
“
Darling, you
’
re not a servant. Why are you holding that?
”

“
MR LOVEHEART SAID I WOULD EXPLODE IF I DIDN
’
T.
”

I wander back inside Lov
eheart Manor, take Mr Fingers
a piece of the birthday cake. Red and yellow sponge. Tastes like hearts.

“
Hello, Mr Fingers, I brought you cake.
”

He stares at me
from his mirror
prison
like an octopus stuffed in a preservative jar. Eyes full of broken bits and pieces. Discarded. He says nothing, the pickled thing.

Death appears in a fizz-whiff of smoke, wearing a black party hat.

“
Happy
b
irthday, Mr Loveheart.
”

“
You certainly know how to make an entrance.
”

“
I brought you a present.
”
He tries to smile, it
’
s very unnerving. And he hands me a box with a big black bow on it.

“
I love surprises.
”

“
Well you
’
ll like this then.
”
His expression reveals nothing.

I unwrap it and open the lid. It
’
s a black jewelled crown.

Mr Fingers is screaming, pounding his fists against the mirror.

“
Put it on,
”
Death says.

I take off my red party hat. Put the spiked black crown on my head; it glitters of demon magic.

“
Your rightful inheritance. You are of age.
”
He nods his head.
“
Mr Loveheart, Lord of the Underworld.
”

“
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOOOOO!
”
Mr Fingers is trying to smash the mirror open.

The crown is very heavy: it feels like the weight of a black star pushing me into the earth.
“
What does this mean?
”

“
It means,
”
says Death, helping himself to the birthday cake,
“
that things are going to get very interesting. There is also an important matter which I need to discuss with you
,
concerning another gift.
”

“
More presents? How thrilling!
”

“
Your powers as Lord of the Underworld will now start to manifest and they could come in any form.
”

“
How will I know what they are?
”

“
I am not sure of the specifics, no one bothers to keep me up to date on these formalities, but it should happen soon.
”

“
That is very exciting news, I wonder what curious powers I will acquire?
”

“
If you recall, your predecessor, Mr Fingers, had a skill for self
-replication to produce heirs.
”

“
Oh yes, they were rather horrible as I recall.
”

“
Yes, well
,
let
’
s hope you acquire something more useful
.
”

“
I can
’
t recall Bad Daddy having any other special powers
.
”

“
Well, he had no sense of humour, which is more of a curse,
”
sighed Death wearily,
“
but he was proficient at manipulation; the gifts vary depending on the individual. And, you know, being Lord of the Underworld makes you exempt from being killed by standard methods.
”

“
Well, that is good news. You won
’
t be sneaking up behind me and hitting me over the head with a lampshade any time soon then? Ha ha.
”

Death peered over my shoulder,
“
I would like some more cake please
.
”

“
Of course, dear friend, let us go back to the party and cut a hefty slab for you. Oh, and I must tell you before I forget, I met someone rather nasty recently,
”
I say
,
touching the crown, feeling the zap and tingle.

“
Really?
”
he looks curious.

“
Yes, the prime minister.
”

“
VERY careful, Loveheart,
”
said Death,
“
He
’
s dangerous.
”

“
He rather upset me and I have a mind to have him stuffed and put in the hall.
”

“
Before you strategize your revenge why not enjoy your special day?
”
H
e patted me on the back and lead me gently outside the grounds of Loveheart Manor. The sun is sizzling, the fairies are sitting in the trees, laughing, drunk on the trifle. One falls off the branch head first into a rosebush. Splat!

All the roses in my kingdom are red. There
’
s no need for paint.

The crown on my head glints wicked
ly
. Its weight seems impossible. Death follows me out, under the shadows, and starts chatting to Mr Hazard.

“
Have we met?
”
says Rufus.

“
Not yet.
”
His smile is concealed.

I wander deeper into my gardens. These lands stretch on for miles, deep in woods and fields. Cherry and apple trees dangle with fruits. Squashy orbs. See them wibble-wobble and hit the earth. I touch the crown; it zaps my finger. I never saw Mr Fingers wear it. Perhaps he kept it for special occasions. Kept under the sink with the pots of chutney. Well today is special. It is my birthday and I am no longer a mad prince. I am a mad king. But I have no queen to share my kingdom with. No queen