Mr Angelcakes is clapping and laughing, “Such fun, such fun!”
The Professor, “I’m not telling you, you little bitch.”
“But YOU must tell her,” Mr Angelcakes panics. “YOU must.”
“NO,” he says, and he whispers a word of magic.
ZAP!
Everyone else turns into butterflies.
A heap of rainbow wings fluttering about. Some dead on the floor. I can see Mr Loveheart; he’s a cherry-glitter red one soaring above the others. I am transfixed by this magic; I smile, half bewitched.
Professor Hummingbird pulls the sword out of his stomach and grabs me by the hair. The butterflies soar and whizz round us, swoop in circles, move in spirals.
He presses his hands round my head, squeezes my skull.
I am on my knees; I am pulled under the weights of his magic. I shut my eyes; I shut my eyes and I see hovering in black space: the Angel-Eater. Huge, opening its wings. A book turning pages.
My name is written on its wings.
The Professor kills me with a kiss. Venom. Murderer of butterflies. It seeps through my skin: black in my veins. My story is ending
And I see, I see the red butterfly of Mr Loveheart dazzle and float on air: the shape of a heart.
I raise my blades. Slice the Professor in half.
His scream is the sound of glass breaking. The butterflies in his house are flying out of their confines, a whirlwind of wings beating at a hundred miles an hour. The butterflies in the church turn back into people. Hit the floor with a thud.
But the favourite, the Angel-Eater, is still behind glass, and Mr Angelcakes is weeping.
Death has arrived.
“Hello, Boo Boo,” he says, in a voice like liquid silver. Eyes like black mirrors and he holds out a hand and helps me off the floor. “You’d better come with me.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said ‘no’.”
He grabs me by the arm and starts dragging me along the floor, but Mr Loveheart intervenes suddenly and sweeps me up in his arms and kisses me.
Time has no meaning anymore. It is electricity! We are sparks!
“What do you think you are doing, Loveheart?” demands a very annoyed Death.
“I am saving her, for I am the Lord of the Underworld and my kiss will bring the dead back to life,” and he takes a bag of rhubarb and custard sweeties out of his pocket and offers me one.
“Unbelievable! I will require some compensation for this blatant disregard for the natural laws.”
“Of course,” smiles Loveheart and offers him a boiled sweet.
Detective Waxford is banging on the entrance of the church.
“Someone open the fucking door!” he shouts.
Mrs Charm opens obliges, “Ah! You’re still alive, detective.”
“There’s a pile of dead people in here!” he cries.
“Surely it’s not that bad,” she replies, and we all turn to view the heap of body parts splattered over the church floor. Waxford walks outside, tripping up over the dead body of Reverend Plum on the way out and cursing loudly.
Mr Loveheart takes my hand. “I believe you are now available for courtship.”
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 opening 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 wonder 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.
Hanging 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.