The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2 (17 page)

Loveheart and Boo Boo

I have taken Boo Boo home with me to my Palace of Hearts. My little insect queen.
All my hearts are yours.

She plays with the heads in my trees, those dangling trinkets. She licks the heart-shaped lollypops.

We drink hot chocolate, dance round my gardens. I chase her like a butterfly with a net. Jump through hoops for her. This is what love is: it makes all the clocks go backwards, brings the dead back to life. Grave-leaping. Time breaking.

The roses in my gardens are love bombs: they are exploding.

Waiting for Butterflies

I sleep in the big bed of hearts, beside Mr Loveheart. I dream of the Angel-Eater openin
g her wings like a prayer book.

WINGS ARE PAGES. PAGES ARE WINGS. READ ME.

WORSHIP ME

She speaks.
“
You will find me. You will find me behind glass.
”

I spread butterfly wings on my toast
.

Open a pot of marmalade
.

Talk to my knife
.

I w
onder whether I am made of question marks

?

??????????

?
?
?

Part Three

Houses of Parliament

Zedock Heap Eating a Battenberg

I
’
ve been thinking about that little prince, Mr Loveheart
,
all day; he keeps popping into my head for some unfathomable reason. Mmmmm. I take a piece of the Battenberg and crush it between my teeth. Succulent squeeze.

H
anging on my office wall, above my head is the Angel-Eater, a butterfly as black as a hole in space, as red as a heart. She
’
s beating her wings, trying to get out. Like my women in cages.
They refuse to accept their confinement; they refuse to accept they are my food.

YOU ARE A CAKE
,
MY DARLING. SHOW ME YOUR CREAM.

I like to construct boundaries; I like to form edges on spaces. KEEP YOU WITHIN THE LINES.

My mind is unsettled at the moment; I keep twiddling my thumbs.

A knock at the door.

“
Come in,
”
I say, yawning.

Mr Evening-Star enters, his voice a quiver,
“
Good afternoon, Prime Minister. I have come to inform you all the arrangements are ready for this evening.
”

“
Excellent,
”
I sigh.

“
I also have some rather bad news, I
’
m afraid. Ignatius and Gabriel Hummingbird are both dead.
”

“
Really?
”
Something interesting at last.

“
Yes, a most unfortunate occurrence. Slaughtered at a wedding.
”

“
And who killed them?
”
I lean forward and a suspicion creeps into my thoughts. A symbol, a heart on as string, floats in my head.

“
Well,
”
he replies nervously,
“
It appears Ignatius was shot in the head by a Detective Waxford of Scotland Yard for refusing to be arrested.
”

“
I like the sound of this plucky Detective Waxford.
”

“
And Gabriel was sliced in half by his sixteen year old bride-to-be. A girl named Boo Boo.
”

I glance up at the Angel-Eater
in the frame.
“
Ahhh, the little butterfly girl. I would like to meet her.
”

“
And another gentleman was also involved: a Mr Loveheart. Mr Cobweb informs me that this Mr Loveheart can bring the dead back to life with a kiss which is quite an unusual gift. Considering the astronomical murder statistics in London, power over death would be a formidable asset. Why only this morning I witnessed a man hit over the head with a privy door!
”

My heart stops.

“
WHAT
…
W
hat
did you say?
”
I gasp.

“
Privy door. Apparently, according to an infamous and deranged linguist, of
all
the phrases in the English language,
‘
Privy door
’
is the most beautiful
.
”

I held him up in the air by the throat.

“Ah
.
”
H
e squeezed the words out
.
“I see that’s not the information you required!”

“
I
’
m waiting
,
Mr Evening-Star!
”

“
Mr Loveheart can kiss the dead and bring them back to life.
”

I am shaking.
“
This is not possible,
”
and I drop him on the floor and grip the sides of the desk compressing it until it shatters.

“
Sir? Do you know him?
”

“
I have had the curious pleasure of meeting him,
”
I spit out the words of boiled rage.

“
Um, do you require anything from me, Prime Minister? A cup of tea or perhaps a nice, buttery egg?
”
He creeps towards the door.

“
GET OUT BEFORE I WHIP THE SKIN OFF YOU!
”

“
Of course, Prime Minister,
”
a glassy smile on his lips; he delicately shuts the door

slipping out of existence.

Th
e
Angel-Eater
is beat
ing its wings in the frame behind me, pin through its heart, trying to break free.

I crush the Battenberg under my fist. Pound it into the remains of the desk.

LOVEHEART

BASH!

LOVEHEART

BOOM!

LOVEHEART

SPLAT
!

Zedock visits the British Museum

After murdering the Battenberg I slip out into the streets of London; head towards the museum. I need a little fresh air; it will calm the bubbling under my skin, sooo
oo
the the pressure. I think about pulling Mr Loveheart
’
s head off and sucking on his spinal cord. Little prince, little prince, you DARE step into my fairy tale, you DARE try to rearrange my story. I am the OGRE. The MAN -EATER.

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
,
MR LOV
E
HEART,
AND I AM THE BIGGEST

I think about my women in cages, screaming, begging for their lives. MEAT. MEAT MEAT. That is all you are in my world.
I think about the bottle of cherry wine I will sup tonight when I eat one of them. Savour the vintage; uncork and let it BREATHE
.

I AM YOUR PRIME MINISTER AND YOU NEED TO FEED ME ENGLAND.

My mood is black.

I change the colour of the Thames to mirror my thoughts. I can shift London into whatever shape I choose.
Ripple and sludge. Simmer and boil. I move across London, past the filth, past the flesh, past the stink of you all. My footsteps mark the city. I leave my imprint. Hell is, after all, only a few inches below. Can you feel the red? Can you feel the heat under your feet?

I walk into the bright box of space.
I change the colour of the sky; a flash of green lightning strikes St Paul
’
s. Unexpected ! I move onwards. My mood as black as dungeons. Loveheart on my mind. LOVEHEART ALWAYS ON MY MIND.

The creatures of London are wobbly lines, something drawn from a sketchbook with charcoal. They can be smudged out. Top-hated rich gentlemen are deformed bird-men on the paper. Bright-eyed, pretty ladies in their rainbow dresses become screaming tropical birds, fanning themselves and twittering nervously.
Black swirls of charcoal, nothing more.

And those lower, darker forms of London, the creatures of the underworld: the feeble, the half dead with their wretchedness, starvation and filth, the cheap scent of lavender on the gutter-piss girls, their black toothless mouths, the enormous emptiness.

A canvas. That is all you are London. A canvas for my artistry. HAND ME A PAINTBRUSH. Let me give you a lesson in creation.

You open your mouth like a money-box. You
’
ll swallow what I give you.

The whores round the horse trough, washing their thighs, tongue waggling lies.
Exhausted, worn down, swamped in sadness, they cluster together: a mass of bruised flesh, putrid insides, black lungs and rotting bones. The vast sky above them swirls and simmers, savage green
–
the soupy concoction of a sorcerer. I click my fingers. MAKE THEM MOVE.

Horse shit stuck between their swollen toes. They stick fingers in their mouths, count their remaining teeth.
A backside pinched by a grubby face drunk. They are the foul little specimens. I glide past. I AM THE SHARK.

I AM THE SHARK

I am being observed by a man with porridge stains on his waistcoat. I have seen him before. He comes out in the darkness. Yellow fingernails, leech fat fingers. Killer of women; girls go missing all the time; slip off the edges of the world. Fall into holes.

I stare into him, make him evaporate. MELT ON THE SPOT.

I leave him behind, move
past the butchers, where bloody sausages hang in sloppy ribbons
from
a hook in
the window. The butcher examines me as I pass:
one big hairy hand clutching a glittering wet intestinal loop.

Meandering through the maze of side alleys, I make my way towards the museum. The sludge-brown streets are bobbing with excrement, bubbling foul odours: the stench of tanneries
, pie shops
and soap-boilers.
I gaze into the cobwebbed window of a
Hocus-pocus
den: see a human skull painted blue, and tiny fairy-size candles sizzling in the darkness.
Inside, hovering over a dirty crystal ball, a decrepit looking gent peers goggle-eyed into the future. He wears a tattered robe of indigo with embroidered stars, now falling off. What future does he see?
What other-worlds can he glimpse?

I AM FROM THE OTHERWORLDS, FORTUNE TELLER.

I AM FROM THE UNDERNEATH.

ONLY AN INCH AWAY.

I move through the narrow streets, passing rows of shops: smell pickles, dead dog, green cheeses and hot cider. I could gobble up the lot.

I am blistering black, blacker than midnight, blacker than space.

I AM THE SHARK

The museum gates loom open, the jaws of a beast carved in marble. The sky is full of spirals of milky clouds, whipped up white. I turn them green. Sour the palette.

I am an executioner today, I
imagine
a thousand skulls lie under my feet.

POWER

Loops of energy spin round me, demonic atoms colliding and exploding.

Do you want to know what power is?

I pick out a small gentleman in the crowd carrying a heavy pile of books. He staggers under their weight, wobbles on his feet. I have chosen him.

He explodes; pieces of his body splatter a school party. A small child holds up a severed arm with delight. His teacher, drenched in intestinal juices, screams,
“
PUT THAT DOWN THIS INSTANT
,
PERCY!
”

Percy looks disappointed. That
’
s education for you.

I tip my hat at him.

Percy waves back and then turns his attention away, looking for the head.

I am in a world of skulls. The pieces of you.

I take off my coat. Reveal my waistcoat, which is quite extraordinary: embroidered with exquisite lizards and butterflies
in a dazzle of aqua and
cornflower blues
.
I am getting hot. I feel the boil in my blood.

Young women drift past: they smell of buttercups, bluebells and raspberry jelly. Not really my thing at all. I like my women to taste like fireworks. Melt in my hands. Under my weight.

And here comes the spindly curator Uriah Cushing, hunched very low, his words a muttering wetness.
“
Prime Minister, it is an honour to see you again.
”

I nod, acknowledge his feeble existence.

“
And may I say,
”
he blithers on,
“
y
our
last donation to the museum was considerable.
”

He
’
s a nervous little creature, hook nosed, fearful of predators. Smells of something
cabbagy
.
Everything has to be labelled and positioned carefully within white spaces in his world. The wondrous and magical are stuffed into glass jars and corked, sealed within a vacuum. Never to be released.

I follow him up the great stone steps into the mouth of the museum: my eyes wandering to the heights of the vast ceiling where, hanging from wires within the gloomy depths, the complete skeleton of a great dinosaur is ominously suspended above us.
I listen for the creak of chains. I listen for the breaking.

We move into dark indigo space.

“
I have an interest in viewing the bottled mermaids,
”
I say to Uriah, who leads me up the flight of steps to the upper level of the museum.

Within a glass cabinet sits a monstrous
stuffed frog, observing quietly
.

Within the velvety black shadows of a corner of the exhibition, a pickled giant octopus floats in a jar of formaldehyde, a weird creature of surveillance.

I imagine the curator stuffed and preserved within a cabinet. The thought amuses me.

Uriah points to the cabinet,
“
Here are the beauties
.
”

BEAUTY
BEAUTY

I HAVE SEEN SUPERNOVAS

YOUR BEAUTY IS A PIECE OF SHRIVELLED SKIN IN A JAR.

I peer at the bottled mermaids. There are a dozen of them, misshapen and pickled. Soft green and purple-veined. They have eyes like huge white spaces, as though buried under deep snow. I want to pluck out their eyeballs. Taste them.

In my mind I move charcoal over the paper, catch them, the little fish women. Catch them on powdery sheets, fingers black with dust.

Now I want to look at the dinosaur. I like its bones. All crack and splinter. I want to feel its great teeth. I look over the balcony. I see two little girls. Sweet as a custard tart. I want to eat them up. They are part of a guided tour squeezing down the narrow corridors, wafting a stench of mutton fat and tobacco. I can see the mummified Pygmy midgets, with scissor-smiles. Snap Snap Snap. Teeth biting bone. Teeth biting bone.

And then I smell him.

LOVEHEART

I peer over the balcony; he
’
s within the guided tour. He
’
s wearing green with red hearts exploding all over his coat. And he
’
s with the butterfly girl.
She
’
s like a bottled mermaid; she
’
s been pickled in a weird formula. I want to stick my fingers in her jar. She
’
s carrying weaponry! Unbelievable! You
’
d think there would be some sort of security.

The tour guide, who is a hunched dwarf, screams,
“
And so he died from a festering wound!
”
and then
“
If we can hurry along, there are some fascinating examples of cannibalism in the next room.
”

Loveheart looks up and I speak over the tour guide
.
“
And if our paths cross ever again, Mr Loveheart, AND IF OUR PATHS EVER CROSS AGAIN,
”
and I begin to descend th
e great stair
case. The bottled mermaids explode in their jars.

The butterfly girl throws a blade at me.
It zizzes
…
impales my top hat to the wall. I am impressed! I am laughing.

Loveheart,
B
oo
B
oo and bottled mermaids

“
What a coincidence!
”
I shout out,
“
We JUST keep running into one another,
”
and I draw my sword.

“
YOU ARE A PIECE OF SHIT ON MY BOOT THAT NEEDS REMOVING,
”
he bellows.

Boo Boo launches herself up the stairs and leaps into the air, blade aimed at his head.

He grabs her by the throat and pulls her to the ground.

As quick as a wink she spins her blade and sinks it into his heart.

He staggers backwards. Pulls the blade out,
“
You have completely ruined my waistcoat !
”
and holds her by the hair mid-air.

“
LET HER GO!
”
I demand.

“
Or what!
”
he laughs.

He clicks his fingers. She disappears. Reappears behind him inside a glass cabinet of the mermaids. Suspended in water. Bashing her fists against magic glass

“
BOO BOO,
”
I shout and leap up the stairs. Hack into him.

The curator appears,
“
Gentleman! Could I ask you to desist?
”

The demon pulls the curator
’
s head off with his hands; it rolls down the steps, tomato-red splattering the glass coffin, within which a stuffed crocodile smirks.

The guided tour screams and segments. The tour guide glances at his clipboard in bewilderment, the head bounces playfully down the steps and rolls by his feet.

I smash the glass, the water falls out and Boo Boo tumbles into my arms. She coughs water, grits her teeth.

I AM LORD OF THE UNDERWORLD.

Energies loop and sizzle.

I AM OUTSIDE YOUR RULES

I stab my sword into the demon
’
s gut. He grabs me, pulls me closer to his face.
“
I am having you for dinner.
”

We disappear in an explosion of sparks.