The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2 (20 page)

Detective Waxford and Boo Boo investigate the Dancing Imp Theatre

I
t
’
s nearly midnight. Boo Boo and I are hiding behind the stage curtain of the Dancing Imp Theatre
.
I
’
ve got my gun and the little lady has her blades. The theatre is a ruin, the walls half collapsed. A tatty poster of
A Midsummer
’
s Night Dream,
starring Lavender Charm as Titania, hangs off the wall.

I
’
m sure Detective White and Constable Walnut
’
s investigations in the Romney Marsh have been uneventful. Nothing there but a load of sheep.

Suddenly there
’
s a noise from the side of the theatre: the sound of a carriage. And in step two men carrying a body, and behind them the eye-patched Mr Cobweb ordering them about. The men dump the body on the stage and then go off to retrieve another.

The body is of a young woman. Her chest has been cut open. An empty red space where her heart should be.

I signal to Boo Boo and we step out onto the stage. I aim my gun at Mr Cobweb
’
s head. Boo Boo launches her blades, one each landing in the forehead off the hired thugs. They fall to the ground rather neatly. She steps lightly over to them and pulls the blades out, pressing her foot against their skulls as leverage; slightly disturbing considering she
’
s only sixteen.

“
Mr Cobweb,
”
I say.
“
Nice to see you again. Fan of the theatre, are you?
”

Mr Cobweb, a little surprised,
says,
“
Shit.
”

“
Would you care to explain to me the corpse on the stage?
”

“
Not especially.
”

I shoot him in the knee and he screams.

“
Let
’
s try that again, shall we?
”
Boo Boo stands next to him, her blade gently tapping his shoulder.

“
Boo Boo and I would very much like to visit the Butterfly Club and I believe you will be taking us there. Or she
’
ll chop your arms off.
”

“
This is really a pointless exercise, Detective Waxford. You have no idea what you
’
re getting yourself into. Torture me all you wish
…”

Boo Boo slices his arm off. It
plumps
to the floor.

“
There was really no need for that!
”
he
says through gritted teeth
.

“
Where is the Butterfly Club?
”
I ask again.

“
This is ridiculous.
”

“
It
’
s not my arm lying on the floor.
”

Boo Boo places her blade on his other arm.

“
Stop that!
”
’
he cries.

“
I am losing my patience. You know what I want, Mr Cobweb? I want to retire to a nice little cottage in the countryside. Relax. Write my memoirs. Maybe get a cat. Before I can do that, Mr Cobweb, I have to provide justice to this poor woman,
”
(and I look towards the stage)
“
and the countless other women being kidnapped and murdered by your associates. If it takes cutting off every single part of your anatomy to retrieve the information I require then I will do it.
”

Boo Boo raises her blade.

“
Houses of Parliament,
”
he says softly.

“
What?
”

“
The Butterfly Club is underneath the Houses of Parliament.
”

Part Four

The Butterfly Club

Houses of Parliament, 1889

I
t
’
s a full moon tonight. Why am I not surprised? Lightning cracks across the sky, exploding and sizzling a church rooftop. The London nightscape boils above our heads.

Mr Cobweb, Boo Boo and I are dressed in black hooded robes and we are outside the entrance to the Butterfly Club, situated underneath the Houses of Parliament. I have my gun against Mr Cobweb
’
s back in case he tries any funny business. I never thought I would see the day when I would be dressed up looking like this. It
’
s frankly bloody embarrassing. Infiltrating a cult!

An enormous
bare
-
chested man guards the entrance. He must be the size of a tree.

“
Good
e
vening
, Mr Cobweb,
”
he says, tipping his hat.

Mr Cobweb nods.
“
I have some guests with me this evening.
”

“
Very good, sir,
”
and he lets us through. I am hoping no one notices Mr Cobweb has only one arm. We left it in the Dancing Imp
Theatre, lying on the floor.

We enter a long candlelit corridor and begin to descend a series of winding stairs which spirals far into the earth, under the Thames. On the walls, a series of tiny blue butterflies dance and shimmer in spirals. I can hear faint music and chanting deep beneath us.

“
You do understand,
”
says Mr Cobweb,
“
w
hen they realise who you both are, they
’
ll probably eat you alive.
”

I slap him ro
und the back of his hooded head.
“
No one
’
s eating me tonight. Especially while I
’
m wearing this stupid robe.
”

“
I think you look rather fetching, Detective Waxford,
”
says Boo Boo.

“
I can
’
t take myself seriously wearing this.
”

“
If you want to blend in, you
’
ll have to chant,
”
Mr Cobweb interjects.

I slap him round the back of the head again.

“
Suit yourself.
”

Further and further down we go. The walls are cold stone, the butterflies are intermingled with bloody hand prints. The chanting becomes louder, the music some sort of hypnotic repetition. And finally we emerge into what I can only describe as an enormous Aztec temple, the size of St Paul
’
s Cathedral. There must be five hundred hooded robed figures swaying and chanting; a sea of black. At the far end of this bizarre temple, a huge stone altar soaked in blood. And sitting behind, on a throne of human skulls, sits the prime minister, Zedock Heap. Above his head the Angel-Eater,
with a
pin through its heart. Its wings beat frantically.

“
Well
b
ugger
m
e!
”
I say
.
“
T
he leader of this demented cult is the
prime minister
.
”

“
I thought you would have guessed by now,
”
says Mr Cobweb, adjusting his hood.

“
I have to arrest the British prime minister for running a death cult. I
’
m never going to get my pension.
”

“
Probably not.
”

“
Why the hell is he even involved?
”

“
He
’
s a very powerful demon. He eats human hearts; they increase his power.
”

“
Didn
’
t Loveheart tell you?
”
says Boo Boo.

“
NO
,
HE DID NOT TELL ME THE PRIME MINISTER WAS A DEMON. I bloody voted for him!
”

“
We all did.
”

“
Why are all these people even here?
”

“
It
’
s a bit like the Masons, really,
”
Mr Cobweb continues
happily.

I slap him round the back of the head again.
“
It
’
s nothing like the fucking Masons. They don
’
t kill people and eat body parts!
”

“
Detective Waxford,
”
says Boo Boo
.
“
Please can you free the butterfly for me?
”
and she points to the Angel-Eater.

“
I
’
ll try, sweetheart. I
’
m in shock at the moment.
”

We move to the very back of the temple, near an enormous pillar. Round the walls are huge, weird paintings of the Angel-Eater
butterfly, liquorice black-winged, soaring over the ceiling.

And then we hear a scream and a young woman is dragged from the back of the temple and pulled onto the altar and tied down. Zedock Heap rises from his throne, moving towards her, a black dagger in his hands.

There is no time left.

I shoot my pistol at the ceiling. All five hundred hooded figures turn, gazing at me. Zedock Heap raises his head, curious.

“
I am Detective Waxford of Scotland Yard and you
’
re all nicked!
”

Boo Boo uncovers her blades and positions herself in front of me. Mr Cobweb creeps aside. And then Zedock Heap, smiling to himself, shouts across the temple.

“
COME TO ME,
”
he says and the walls shake, ooze blood.

I shout back:
“
Boo Boo, WIPE THE FLOOR WITH THEM!
”

Detective White and Constable Walnut infiltrate
t
he Butterfly Club

W
alnut and I have just returned to Scotland Yard where a note has been pinned to my desk.

Percival,

Butterfly Club under Houses of Parliament. Boo Boo and I already there. QUITE POSSIBLY DEAD. Hurry Up.

Waxford

“
Let
’
s get to it
,
Walnut!
”

“
Yes, sir!
”

We race outside and hail the nearest cabbie.
“
Quick as you can. Houses of Parliament.
”

“
Yes, guv
’
ner.
”

Our carriage races along the streets of London. The moon is full tonight and wicked.

“
Eventful day so far,
”
says Walnut.

I load my pistol. Walnut holds up the hand grenade Mr Loveheart gave him for Christmas, shaped like a potato
, a
little red heart painted on it.

“
Could prove useful,
”
he says.

The cabbie drops us off and we circle round the back of the Houses of Parliament to where an enormous man stands guarding a small door, obscured from view by the shadows. We approach him.

“
Can I help you gentlemen?
”
he says, carefully.

“
Open the door. I am Detective Sergeant White and I am investigating a series of murders.
”

“
No,
”
he replies coolly.

I take my pistol out.
“
Earlier today my
c
onstable and I were blown up. I
’
m not in the mood for the word
‘
no
’
tonight.
”

“
You
’
ll have to shoot me.
”

“
Fair enough.
”
And so I do, albeit in the leg.

We enter the building and follow the staircase downwards, following the noises of screaming and gunfire. Finally we enter the enormous temple. A body part (I can
’
t distinguish exactly what part) flies past my head. Walnut and I stand there for a moment, dumbfounded.

Waxford runs towards the altar, shooting hooded figures left right and centre. We hear him swearing loudly and as he proceeds to push his way towards what appears to be
–

“
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
vers
u
s
Mr Angelcakes

W
ell 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 po
cket. It has a red love
heart 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 nigh
t 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
s
lices
a
nd
d
ices

Chop chop choppity chop chop

chop
chop

chop chop

CHOP

CHOP

CHOP

CHOP

CHOP

CHOP

CHOP

CHOP