Nobody's Butterfly

by Claire Davis

  “Hear that?”

  Tweeting birds and zooming cars, and kids back in the park. A dog barking and the cock-a-doodle-doo of a cockerel.

  “That’s right. Now feel out with your mind and you’ll hear near sounds too—trees breathing and the wood moving.”

  Cracks of branches and falling leaves…squirrels running up and about, even a spider.

  Wow.

  “Exactly. There is nothing better, my good friend, than the wind and the trees and no-one to piss us off.” Finn held his face up. “I forgot how good it is—just the noises and everything. The world is a very busy place. That’s what I missed most. I’d sit there every day with the TV, but inside I was screaming for this. I didn’t want the big things—Eiffel Tower or the Grand Canyon—just the rain and snow.” He spread his arms out. “Life!”

  When? What do you mean? Johnny thought back through the information he knew about Finn, but there was nothing to suggest he’d been locked away.

  “Ah, nothing. Doesn’t matter. Forgive me, my seeker.”

  You don’t talk like other people. No-one talks like that.

  “Because I’m not other people, and neither are you. We are creatures of the earth, not born of flesh and bone.”

  I was. I’ve seen my baby pictures. Before the social workers lost the memory box.

  “We should collect some samples for later.” Finn began scratching at the tree branch. “This will be very strident for our spells.” He carefully placed the pieces into his school bag. “Now we need three twigs and a mint-eared clover.”

  Strident?

  “Indeed. Strong and magical.”

  Doesn’t mean that. Where’s the Snickers?

  Finn rummaged around in his pockets, making the branch sway. “Anna gave me ten pounds!” He handed over the half-mangled chocolate bar. “I’m going to spend it all on food for when it runs out. Then we’ll have something to keep us going.” His voice went high and breathy, like he was panicking.

  That’s pocket money. Every kid gets a tenner a week. Johnny bit the warm bar but couldn’t cope with Finn’s voracious eyes. Here, you have it back. I’m not really hungry. It’s spag bol tonight.

  “But ten whole pounds!” Finn pushed the bar into his mouth in one go and chewed quickly, as if scared Johnny might take it back. He hadn’t noticed before, but now he saw how thin Finn was, like the bones inside his body were breaking through the skin.

  What do you mean about the food running out? Have you looked in the cupboards? The kitchen was always chock-a-block, and while kids weren’t supposed to eat between meals, no-one actually cared if you did. It won’t run out for years and years, and anyway, there’s a delivery once a week. Finn began swinging his legs. Stop doing that!

  Suddenly, he grabbed the branch, fell backwards and stretched out upside down so only his knees were left locked onto the branch.

  Oh my god! Stop it!

  Finn’s shirt rode up to his shoulders, leaving his pale body gleaming against the browns and greens of the wood. Bones and muscles pushed against the skin, which looked oddly soft. Johnny looked at the enclave of Finn’s stomach and his belly button and nipples. He looked at the hair in his armpits and the shape of his chest. Finally, he looked away but later, he would think about it again.

  “Come on! It’s easy. Just fall back and then through your arms like this.” The bony knees and legs disappeared, and then Finn was laughing, landing on the ground in a flurry of crashes.

  I can’t, I’m scared. The air vanished. He clung to the branch and noticed how high up it was. A fall would certainly mean broken bones.

  “Aw, come on, it’s OK. Turn over onto your tummy and drop until only your hands hold on. You’ll be almost on the ground anyway.”

  Shaking, Johnny turned over slowly and did as Finn said.

  “That’s it! You’re nearly there now. Keep going.” The animated voice that went from high pitched to low every few seconds was all that prevented the tears from flooding free. “Now let go.”

  No.

  “Go on! I’m right underneath. I’ll stop your fall.” Hands grabbed Johnny’s legs and held on. “See how close the ground is? I’d never let you fall. Not ever.”

  As he let go, Johnny expected to feel agony, but almost at once his feet hit the ground. He staggered a little. “God! That’s the last time I do anything you tell me.” He grinned back at Finn, brave now.

  “Help me collect these specimens then we can do the spell tonight?”

  They wandered back onto the path. Johnny looked back at the tree, sure something momentous had occurred. “What’s the spell for?”

  “All I know is—someone’s in trouble.”

  “Who? And how do you know that?” Johnny bent down with Finn and began picking at the leaves. Having something to do eased the anxiety a little that he might say something stupid, though he was pretty sure Finn hadn’t even registered the talking out loud. “I don’t know which ones we need.” Or that it was special.

  “Yeah, you do—you’ve just picked it. You don’t realise on a conscious level, but you, my friend, know everything. I heard your call for help.” Finn scratched at the hair block.

  “I never called anyone.”

  “Not out loud, no. I was fast asleep in bed, and then I got this dream about the seeker needing me. So I sang and sang, and after a long time, they broke the doors down and I came.” Finn took the leaves gently and placed them inside his maths book. “Now all we have to do is make a poultice and the needs shall be revealed.”

  “You came to Windybank because social services brought you.”

  Finn laughed, his whole body shaking like the trees around. “You’ll see. No event stands alone, my seeker.”

  Johnny’s list: Mum, Nan, photos of Nan, Nan’s crochet blanket.

  Shoulders up high, Johnny slid onto the one remaining chair without looking up. He always came into dinner last to avoid difficult decisions about where to sit without pissing anyone off. Some of the kids complained if he sat next to them, saying he put them off their food. It was a Windybank rule that all the pets had to eat together in some surreal semblance of a real family, rather than a load of kids no-one wanted.

  “Hey, Johnny.” A hand gripped his knee. “How you diddling?” Finn, obviously.

  Same as I was an hour ago.

  “Thanks for sitting next to me,” Finn went on, oblivious to the other kids, who had gone quiet. “I really enjoyed spending time with you earlier.”

  The hot shroud of shame that so often followed Johnny came down over his head.

  Shut up. Stop drawing attention.

  Finn looked around the table as if noticing the other kids for the first time. “Good evening,” he said formally. “Thank you for this delicious meal, Greg. Johnny and I were discussing it during our walk home.”

  Josh—an older boy—laughed outright. Johnny shrank further down the chair.

  Please stop.

  The trick cyclist said he had to take control. Realise when joking was joking and not all-out war—no need to take it all so seriously. A dark patch of mould in a corner of the ceiling began moving down in a feetwards direction where it would take hold and lead to depression. A foot curled around his own.

  “What lovely manners! Good evening to you, Finn. I’m very glad to see you here with us. How was school?” Greg asked. He began handing out plates of food. “Come and have a chat afterwards.”

  The dreaded word ‘chat’ made Johnny’s stomach hurt. He rubbed Finn’s foot back, and wondered at himself.

  The sounds of knives and forks scraping filled the unhappy silence, and thankfully, the attention shifted the focus elsewhere. Johnny feverishly hoped Finn left his name out of any further embarrassing statements.

  “Thanks to Johnny, it was great. He looked after me.” Finn rolled up his sleeves. “Told me all about the school and lessons.” The patch of mould got nearer and nearer, but Johnny knew it was about to get much worse. The other kids started with the nudging each other
, and soon it would be out and out attack. He considered making a run for it.

  “That’s good,” Greg said after a while. “Eat up, everyone. Stop gawking.”

  “But Johnny doesn’t talk,” the littlest kid said loudly. “How did he tell you about school? You’re telling lies. Johnny’s an idiot, and so are you.”

  The sound of chairs crashing to the floor and subsequent shouts made Johnny’s head ring, but still he sprinted to his room and banged the door shut. Fucking bastards. There was nothing left to lock the door—Anna had taken away the chair that could be used as a wedge, and the furniture was bolted to the floorboards. Instead, he flung himself down on the bed and hid his face—and shame—in the pillow. Of course they’d come up—Greg or Anna—and force him—force him—into sitting up—but nothing on this measly planet could make him talk to them—not now and not ever. I hate them, he screamed at the ghost. Finn had witnessed his meltdown, and that would be the end of that.

  “It’s OK,” the ghost said. “Doesn’t matter what they think, anyway.”

  Johnny went inside and pushed the world so hard it revolved around the sun and then flew off into space. He pushed so hard and then he squeezed and kicked and shouted. Not enough because still there was a knock at the door and then it opened, and he had nothing whatsoever to stop it. The only thing left as defence was silence.

  Fuck off. I don’t want to talk, he shouted inside. NO.

  “Johnny? It’s only me.” Greg. The door closed and footsteps came nearer. “Hey, dude.” A hand patted his shoulder. “Just came to see if you’re OK.” He patted again even though the rule here was no touching, not without asking.

  Stop touching me. NO.

  More patting. “Remember what we talked about? Staying calm and taking a joke?” And on he went until Johnny exploded inside and made him leave, leave forever. “See—I think you are your own enemy. Do you see what I’m saying? If you’d try, Johnny. Nobody’s asking you to make speeches. Are they? No. A few words here and there is all it takes, and then I’m sure the words would be flowing and you might make some friends. Are we on the same page? We’ve all been very accommodating, but now it’s down to you. You need to grow up a bit.”

  “He’ll leave soon,” the ghost said, always on Johnny’s side. “He’s yawning. Have you noticed he looks like a llama?” Johnny ached to touch the window.

  “OK, dude? Do we have a deal? I hear you. I do! It’s not easy living here sometimes. But the other kids—they make an effort and that’s the difference. Do you think you could try a bit harder?” Greg asked.

  Johnny nodded into the pillow, anything to get rid of the annoying voice.

  “Glad we had this chat. I’ll come back in a bit.” Footsteps and the door.

  “Oh my god you just agreed to comb his nasal hairs with your toothbrush.” The ghost cackled.

  Johnny sat up with a face full of dried tears and snot. “Why can’t I stop?” he asked miserably. “I know they’re only joking ’cause I’m not stupid. Why? Why can’t I just laugh back? Why can’t I speak? Why am I such a fucking loser?” And that was the worst and most bitter part of the hating—not Greg and Anna, school, eight foster carers, psychiatrists, long-ago parents. Only stupid, ordinary Johnny Strong.

  “Well. The trick cyclist would say it’s because of your past and anxiety,” the ghost reasoned, “but we know it’s because you can’t. Not yet, anyway.” The ghost coughed. “Why is Finn throwing stones up at me?” The window glass began pinging. “Please tell him to stop because that boy has no aim and is as clumsy as a puppy. If he breaks the glass, you’ll get the blame.”

  Johnny rushed to look. Finn was down in the garden waving skinny arms and jumping up and down. Despite everything, Johnny smiled. “It’s his fault it all started. Do you think he’ll still like me?” There didn’t seem to be any anger left in his hollow shell of a body. He opened the window and leaned out, but Finn had gone. “Oh, well. One good thing to come out of this—I’ve unstuck the window. I can always jump out and kill myself next time.” He laughed. The ghost didn’t laugh back.

  Suddenly, the door burst open and Finn fell through, straight in and over to the bed. Johnny only had time to yelp because next thing he was enveloped by arms, legs, and a lot of mashed potato. “I’m here, now,” Finn kept saying. “I’ve come to protect you.”

  Get off me.

  It was years since he’d been hugged, and that was good, because it was horrible. His head was squashed against Finn’s chest, not hard enough to be scary. Instinctively, he wriggled free of stick-thin limbs trying to soothe, but then froze and let Finn stroke his hair and neck. Afterwards, he couldn’t say why, except the ardent clumsy attempts shocked the misery away for a while. After a few moments, the awkwardness faded and their bodies found a way of leaning together.

  “I’m sorry. It was all my fault! Sorry.”

  Johnny clutched him back suddenly. It’s OK.

  “I’ve brought you some tea up, though.” Finn pulled back and indicated his pocket. “Mashed potato and spaghetti.”

  “Hah-hah,” the ghost laughed.

  Johnny’s list: Mum, Nan, Granddad.

  “Oh, god. PE today.” Johnny dragged his hand up and down the window, making low groans. “I can’t stand it. Can’t. I’d rather go to war and march in the trenches or be fired up into space for research.” Shoving knuckles into the tender part of his stomach didn’t really help. “Greg says I have to.”

  “Rugby again?”

  “Yeah. It’s torture, pure and simple. They shouldn’t be allowed to make us. Not if we don’t want to.” The fluttering started at the back of his throat; not in one place for long, it would spread like blood from a wound, down his neck, up his face and fill every corner of the damn world until he was plunged back into hopelessness. The glass squeezed him back sympathetically.

  “Aw. Was it last week they shouted at you?”

  “Yeah.” Johnny’s voice started trembling. “Idiots. It’s not my fault I can’t play.” He couldn’t play anything. Football was terrible—running risible—table tennis butchery. “I can’t help it. Greg says I don’t make any effort, but that’s not true.”

  “Of course you can’t!”

  “And they go on and on, don’t they? They can’t just shout and then accept I’m shit. No. They have to whine and moan—pretend I’ve lost the bloody Battle of Britain. Who cares if they lose a game? What’s it matter?” The trembling took hold of his arms too. “There are people starving out there. That’s what matters. What should matter. Not who can punch me hardest. It’s obscene they don’t care about that—no—only if I stop balls and—” He froze. Images of the last time threatened his feeble-at-best composure. “I can’t,” he whispered. “Please don’t make me.” Tears ran down his face. “Do you think if I jumped out the window and broke my arm, they’d let me off?” He grappled with the window bolt.

  “What about Finn? Is he in your class?”

  The soothing voice of the ghost went into Johnny’s muscles. He gripped the ghost, wondering for the billionth time if he could somehow take him to school without anyone noticing.

  “See my web today? Notice the rain?”

  After a bit, Johnny was able to breathe again. The fine thread of the web shone with tiny droplets of rain. “Are you cold out there?”

  “No. Do you see the rain? Notice how much there is?” The ghost persisted, and then Johnny looked beyond the web out into the garden and the woods beyond. The tapering layers of trees went up and up, right back to the tree he’d climbed with Finn. Suddenly he did see.

  “The rain! It’s raining!” Johnny’s shoulders sagged with relief.

  “No rugby in the rain. They don’t want to ruin the field.” The ghost laughed. “Thank god for rain.” His warm grip on Johnny’s arm tightened. “Expect it will be the climbing wall instead. You enjoy that.”

  “Did you do that? Bring on the rain?” Sometimes, when things went beyond bearable, the ghost intervened. Last summer holidays, th
e pet shop owners had threatened a compulsory weeklong drama class. In the days leading up, Johnny endured gloating looks and mocking about how he’d have to speak, and sing, and act—have to, because the lady that ran the class was tough and strong and not even Johnny could stand up to her. He endured it by not sleeping or eating, maintaining a wooden face that belied volcanoes exploding inside. He was wound up so tightly he couldn’t get out of bed at all. Then Greg had announced he didn’t have to go after all because of a fever, but Johnny knew it was the ghost.

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “Thank you. Thank, thank, thank you. You’re the only friend I’ve got.”

  “Not true. What about Finn?”

  “I don’t know.” Johnny really didn’t. “He’s chaos. Smelly and wild feral cat. You know he steals food from the kitchen and hoards it under his bed? Tins and biscuits and instant mashed potato. If Greg finds out, he’s going to be in a lot of trouble.” Thinking about the other night was still confusing. On one hand, Finn was rather disgusting and embarrassing, but on the other, just for a while as Johnny had hugged back, something wobbly happened to his brain. Also other parts of the body. Even after nights replaying and obsessing, still he wasn’t sure about it and didn’t intend sharing it with the ghost, who was a nosy bugger anyway. “I don’t know,” seemed the best he could say.

  “You’re smiling, though,” the ghost pointed out. “Not often that happens, is it?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “And—do I detect something else?” The ghost’s voice went singsong. “Teenage kicks?”

  “Yeah. Irritation. And he can’t sing but still makes me go the shed with him when he practises incantations. I just go along with it to get out the house.”

  Truth was, Finn wouldn’t leave him alone. Before school, during lessons, walking home and at night, he bombarded Johnny with bonkers schemes and ideas. Such persistence made Johnny tingle all over with confusion, just sheer befuddlement.