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

by Ishbelle Bee

  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

  Evolution theory

  COMPETE, SURVIVE AND REPRODUCE

  Or, become finger food

  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. “Because 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.

  “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. The 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 Pr
ince, 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

  It 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 Darkwound, 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 around 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.

  We 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.”

  We 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 li
ke a good fairy, “don’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.