The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2
Page 16
“That’s the prime minister,” says Walnut, interrupting my thoughts. “And it looks like Detective Waxford is attempting to shoot him.”
Boo Boo is slicing her way through a mass of black hooded bodies. The floor is soaked with blood and body parts. It’s like watching a demented butterfly soar about.
“She’s very graceful,” says Walnut, as Boo Boo slices an acolyte in half. We both duck as the upper half of the body is thrown screaming towards us, hitting the wall with an undignified thud.
Detective Waxford and Boo Boo are now at the far end of the temple, either side of Zedock Heap. The remaining mass of crazed black hooded figures starts running towards Walnut and me.
I raise my pistol and aim.
Walnut takes out the pin, throws the hand grenade.
BOOM
Mr Loveheart versus Mr Angelcakes
Well it’s a lovely evening for hunting down Mr Angelcakes. Milk and butter stars, a cheesecake moon. And I’m dressed in a rather fetching shade of peach. I can smell Mr Angelcakes: black slime and glitter dust. The smell of a magic dead thing.
Follow the trail of eaten skins.
I seem to have ended up down a fish-stink alley round the back of a pub. A group of vegetable-faced men – flat caps and big pork hands – eyeballing me.
“Queer!” one of them shouts.
“Excuse me?” I reply.
“You heard me, you weirdo,” the thing with a potato head replies.
I walk up to them, a group of four huddled together, tobacco-brown teeth, yellow eyes, as many teeth as brain cells.
“Were you attempting to insult me?”
“Sling your hook or you’ll get a slap.”
I pull my silver pistol out and rest it on his forehead. “And you will feel your brain all over the wall.”
One of them picks up a rock and tries to sneak up behind me.
I leave them all dead in the alleyway.
Whoops.
Higgledy-piggledy, zig-zagging side alleys. I move towards the treacle ooze river and then I see him. He’s standing over the body of a man, devouring a skin. Blood splattered all down his lovely waistcoat.
“Hello, Mr Angelcakes.”
He looks at me rather strangely.
“Hello Mr Loveheart.”
“I see you are enjoying your time in London. The capital does have a lot to offer. Excellent theatre, fashion and sightseeing, and of course occasional cannibalism.”
“I like your skin.”
“I’m afraid I’m rather attached to it.”
“I like your skin,” and he steps closer to me
I have a little homemade bomb in my pocket. It has a red loveheart on it. A bomb of love.
I grab hold of him. Shove it into his mouth.
Tickety tock!
He explodes. All over me! Completely ruined my peach waistcoat. What a mess! I peel off a large piece of greenish skin which is lying over my face and plop it onto the floor. I make my way out of the little dark alley.
And then Death appears.
“Mr Loveheart. If you could just run a little errand for me?”
“Do I have time to change first? I need a little freshening up,” I say, brushing what appears to be an eyeball hanging from my sleeve.
“No.”
“Fine,” I say sulkily.
“Get to the House of Parliament. Zedock Heap’s running a cult.”
“Do you know how difficult it is to find a cab this time of night!”
A lightning bolt hits the street and puff! A magnificent white horse, as white as ice-cream dreams, suddenly appears next to Death.
“Get on the horse, Mr Loveheart. Be the hero.”
I pat the horse’s nose and he whinnies. “And how did you acquire this supernatural horse exactly?”
“I borrowed him,” sighs Death.
“From whom?”
“The old gods.”
“You mean you’ve stolen him.”
“Borrowed!” repeats Death, exasperated.
“Very well. I accept your proposal.”
“Get on the horse, Mr Loveheart.”
And so I do. “Do you want to come with me? Have some fun?”
“No. I am already stretching the rules for you, Loveheart. And, frankly, I’m knackered.”
Riding across London on a white horse. This horse is simply marvellous. I gallop into the night of London, down the streets. People stop and stare. Goggle with disbelief. I must fizzle like weird magic. I look like a prince galloping into the rat tail, ink splodge London, faster and faster. Eyes on stalks: they watch us whizz past.
I am lost deep within the book of a fairytale.
Fizzy whizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Boo Boo slices and dices
Chop chop choppity chop chop
chop chop
chop chop
CHOP
CHOP
CHOP
CHOP
CHOP
CHOP
CHOP
CHOP
Zedock Heap and the butterfly
She really is impressive. Little killing machine. BUTTERFLY GIRL. She’s killed most of my followers, hacked them up neatly like chopping carrots. A pile of feet, arms and heads. She moves lightning fast, ZOOM CHOP CHOP as though suspended on a wire. I’ve never seen anything like her before. Maybe I should set her on fire. Or whip her up like egg whites. Make a meringue of her.
A bomb has just exploded, my remaining followers blown up, limbs scattered over the walls of my temple. Well, that’s a little embarrassing.
And here she comes, the little butterfly landing in front of me, and alongside her a rather manic looking Detective Waxford aiming a gun above my head. He shoots at the Angel-Eater; the glass shatters and it emerges. Liquorice wings soar across the ceiling and dive towards Boo Boo.
Zoom into her, like a ghost. They merge.
LIGHTNING BOLT
She’s hit.
She’s opening her blades to me. Offering me an ending.
“Now this really has been fun but the game is over,” I look down upon them both.
Detective Waxford moves closer to me. “Zedock Heap. I am arresting you for mass murder, cannibalism and for running an unlicensed cult.”
“You know, I’m very good friends with Queen Victoria.”
“That’s her problem,” and he aims the gun at my head.
“You’re all so entertaining.” And I lift Detective Waxford into the air and fling him across my temple.
“SHHHHHIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!”
He bounces against a pillar and slithers into a crumpled heap on the floor.
The butterfly girl runs her blade through me. It feels like a tiny spider kiss. I grab her by the hair and pull her to me. Pull the blade out. Hold it to her throat.
Detective Waxford, still alive, fires a bullet into my head.
I squeeze the walls of the temple. They’re closing in with my magic. The temple wobbling, the ceiling breaking apart. I fling the butterfly girl across the temple, SMASH HER INTO THE WALL.
And I am laughing. I AM LAUGHING amidst the mountain of body parts and corpses.
“I AM THE MASTER OF YOU ALL.”
A horse whinnies. In rides Mr Loveheart on a gigantic white stallion. Well, there’s an entrance! “COME TO ME, LITTLE PRINCE!”
Loveheart and Zedock
My horse has leapt into the temple. Marvellous entrance, I waggle my sword about. Ooooooh look at the heaps of dead bodies! LOOK AT THE MESS. MARVEL AT THE GOO!
I slice up and few more nutty acolytes. I ride past Detective White and Walnut who are hiding behind a pillar and they wave at me as I gallop past. A foot flies past my head!
TALLY-HO!
Boo Boo is picking herself up off the floor, Waxford lying on the ground surrounded and shooting every which way.
Zedock Heap is sitting upon his throne of skulls waiting for me. I ride up to his bloodied altar and point my sword at him.
My horse rears and whinnies appropriately. DAZZLE ZAP SEE THE SPARK!
I dismount. I flash a brilliant smile. “You’re about to retire, Zedock. Permanently,” I say, and I slice my sword through air, dismantle molecules.
“COME TO ME,” he grins. “I EAT LITTLE PRINCES.”
And then I see him for what he really is, I see what is underneath his skin. Under the bones of him. I’ve seen it so many times. In so many things. In a world gone quite mad.
And I tell him, “We are the same, Zedock. You and I. We are the underneath. We are the same.” And I am sad because I know I am mad and dangerous. I know how close to him I really am. What would it take to push me over the edge, into him, into his space?
“Come to me, little prince, let me feel your madness,” and he puts his hand over my head and I let him in, I let him understand me.
HE HOLDS ME LIKE A DADDY.
He reads my thoughts, sees my dreams. Sees what I am made of. The underneath and
it is electricity. It makes him shudder, unexpected. It makes him quiver. ELECTRICAL VOLTAGE. He staggers a little under the blast of it, and stares at me dumfounded.
“Now you understand,” I say. I chop his head off. Watch it bounce down the steps. Boing! Bong! Splat!
I can feel history replay itself; clocks move backwards and then jolt forward. Timelines shifts. Butterflies break out of glass frames and whizz into space. The world liquidizes. Evaporates. Becomes air.
There is so much screaming. Blood and body parts. And yet I am elsewhere. I am far away. In the melt of space, on the edges of timelines waiting for the world to re-form, spin again and dissolve in a fraction of a second. Over and over. Round and round. There is no end.
I am the Lord of the Underworld and I will always be on the edge of the world. I will always be on the edges.
I peer through a telescope and laugh at the dead. I laugh because I see human souls; see them fly into space. See them burst. Turn into stars.
I lift beautiful Boo Boo onto my horse, kiss her. MAKE HER MINE.
I hold the head of Zedock Heap aloft.
Zedock Heap is a splatty mess. The temple is a heap of body parts.
Waxford is kicking the corpse.
“Detective Waxford. Are you alright?”
“I’m fucking marvellous,” and he kicks him again, staring mad-eyed down at the corpse, “Zedock Heap – I’m arresting you.”
Detective White thankfully intervenes and puts his arm round Waxford’s shoulder. “He’s dead, Waxford. It’s over.”
Oh dear, poor Waxford. I think he’s in shock.
I put my arms round Boo Boo. “My lady, I believe it’s time for us to ride off into the moonlight.”
“Have we got a happy ending, Mr Loveheart?” she says.
“Of course, I happen to be on very good terms with the authoress.”
August 1889
The Bag of Tripe Pub, Whitechapel
Detective White has organised a retirement party for Waxford. Isn’t that charming.
This pub is a curious hole. Smells of meat pie and something dead. A gloomy cavern of ragtag pickpockets, putrid corpse smugglers and Scotland Yard detectives.
I have, of course, got a card and a present for Waxford. I inspect my thoughtful, well-chosen card, which has an illustration of a decapitated head on a stick. Inside it reads in beautiful red ink:
Dear Waxford
Congratulations! You are not dead.
Love from ME & Boo Boo
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The present is a preserved stuffed foot I obtained from a student medical doctor. I’ve wrapped a pink ribbon round it with a heart-shaped gift tag. He will love it!
It’s 8pm when Boo Boo and I arrive in this quaint little part of Whitechapel. A corpse decomposes quietly in a back alley. The moon is a sky lantern; the stars a-fizzle.
A few turnip-faced locals lurk in the corners of this establishment. A bow-legged folk singer has been hired for the occasion, singing a song about fish and bearded men. He taps his spindly foot against the floor, beating out a rhythm. I throw a chair at him, knocking him out cold with a squeal.
Rufus Hazard, who’s leaning over the bar chatting up the barmaid, responds, rather inebriated: “Good shot, Loveheart! I was about to punch him in the face.”
“What do you think you’re playing at, Loveheart?” shouts White, who’s standing with Waxford and Walnut. Walnut’s holding a scotch egg the size of a head on a cocktail stick.
“What deviltry is that?” I point my sword at the scotch egg.
“Homemade,” smiles Walnut.
“By whom?”
Walnut points at the pub landlord who’s wiping a pint glass with a dirty rag. He smiles nervously at me. “Speciality of the pub. It’s perfectly normal, I swear!”
Boo Boo draws her blades.
Waxford shouts, happy on whisky, “You two stop mucking about. Come over here.”
A selection of finger foods lies across the bar. Is that another scotch egg I spy? Mmm, some curious potted-meat sandwiches and mini-quiches. I inspect them for bombs.
Boo Boo runs over to Pedrock and his fiancée, Miss Seashell, who have appeared. Gives her brother a big cuddle. He has a marvellous boat I hear, an insecty delight.
I sneak up on Waxford, who’s helping the concussed folk singer rise from the floor.
“Happy Retirement.” I hand him the gift.
He looks at it with suspicion. “Mm mm what is THIS I wonder?” and unwraps it. “A preserved foot! How considerate of you.”
Walnut peers over his shoulder. “Symbol of good luck, that is.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Waxford shouts.
“It’s well known,” Walnut continues with a remarkably serious expression, “that in some primitive cultures a foot would be hung outside the front door to encourage prosperity, a ripe old age and virility.”
Waxford slaps Walnut in the face. “STOP IT! I’m surrounded by insane people.”
“Come now, Waxford,” I smile my best smile, “You’ve had fun.”
Waxford puts the foot on the bar. The barman examines it with a concerned interested. “What are you bloody looking at?” he screams.
Detective White puts his arm on Waxford’s shoulder. “We shall miss you, Henry.”
The folk singer, whom I’ve kept my eye upon, has removed himself to the corner of the room and sheepishly sips his lime cordial. If he so much as hums, I will beat him to death with the giant scotch egg.
Rufus staggers over towards me and shouts “I’M WATCHING YOU!” to the folk singer, who squeaks in fear.
“You and I,” continues Rufus, pissed as a newt, “understand one another, dear boy. We both have a sensitive appreciation of the arts. I once saw a mime act in Paris. I strangled the fellow half to death with my bare hands. Slippery bugger got away through an invisible window, but he learnt a valuable lesson that day.”
“Which was?” Detective White interjects.
“Not to PRAT about on the streets in a leotard. As a proud Englishman, I won’t tolerate that nonsense. I should have taken my belt to his backside.”
Detective White coughs and raises his pint glass. “A TOAST. To HENRY WAXFORD, the finest man I have ever worked with. The bravest. Scotland Yard’s best and brightest. To Waxford!”
“WAXFORD,” we all say and sink back our drinks.
The folk singer opens his mouth.
“DON’T YOU DARE!” Rufus cries, and takes off his belt. His trousers fall down around his ankles.
And they all lived happily ever after…
Mrs Charm
I have just returned from a book signing in Edinburgh. Lovely people, wonderful shortbread. The Severed Leg, my most recent novel, has been a marvellous success. I have sent Mr Loveheart several signed copies of my books and he always sends me the most char
ming letters back.
My Dear Mrs Charm,
As always, you woo me with your wicked tales. ‘The Severed Leg’ is a particular favourite of mine. I was especially fond of the chapter with the jars of Saints’ toes in formaldehyde – what a beautiful touch!
Today I have decided to play a little prank on Detective Waxf♥rd. I am writing this letter whilst hiding in a bush outside his cottage. He’s retired, you know – recovering from a nervous breakdown in the sleepy village of Wugglethump, in Kent. He has a cat too, called Mr Lumpy – it is very fat and it is staring at me with its beady eyes!!!!
I miss Detective Waxford.
So I am going to throw a corpse through his window. I dug one up from the graveyard.
I will let you know how it goes!
Love, your dear friend,
Mr Loveheart ♥
Oh, isn’t he a sweetie? So thoughtful.
I’ve got a new batch of chutney on the stove: fig and cherry with a dash of sage. Excellent cure for flatulence. I do love it here in Tintagel and I have even acquired a handsome admirer, Mr Horace Sunbeam, a red-haired retired Professor of medieval literature. He is taking me out for tea and cake tomorrow. The Victoria sponge cake is very good at Mrs Gobble’s Tearooms. And he writes me the most beautiful poetry, wrapped up in bunches of forget-me-nots, and puts them outside my door.
I’m loved and I love, and that is all any one of us can hope for.