He puts the spoon down on the table and sighs. “I am going to skin you alive and then suck your eyeballs out of your head.”
“TRY IT, SHIT-HEAP. I DARE YOU!” I scream.
The walls of the house squeeze, the ceiling wobbles.
A dart hits the prime minister in the forehead.
Boo Boo is behind me.
“BITCH!” he cries, and slumps to the ground.
Mr Loveheart stirs and lifts his head, which is covered in custard, and smiles at me. “Rufus! Hello. I think I am a pudding!”
“Dear old sock, take my arm,” and I help him up.
Boo Boo points at the framed picture of a giant butterfly on the wall, “Rufus, get it for me!”
I step closer but the room is filling with blood. Knee high, I wade through towards the butterfly but there is too much blood and it is rising!
“Boo Boo, we have to get out quickly.” Too late! We are washed away on a wave along the corridors, fast out the door into the street.
A voice, that villain Zedock, soars over the blood and he’s laughing. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
What black magic is this? And before I can step back inside to chop the villain’s head off the house vanishes in a tidal wave of blood. HITS US. SLAPS US ABOUT. Carries us down the streets of London. FASTER, FASTER, FASTER. I try to grab a lamp post and fail, scream and get dragged as fast as a bullet across London. Ooze and foul slop of red. It goes down my mouth, into my eyes and nose. I see Boo Boo whizzz past – and is that Loveheart floating in a star shape in the distance?
We are vomited out into Hyde Park in a violent explosion of red.
I awake face down, disorientated by a park bench. Boo Boo is shaking Mr Loveheart, who is still somewhat delirious and talking about jam.
I stand up and raise my machete. “This is not over, Heap.”
Detective White and Constable Walnut meet Mr Poppy
Walnut and I are in Spitalfields outside the Magic Emporium, and we’re wondering if Mr Ink-Squid may have some information on the butterfly symbol. Waxford thinks he might come in useful.
“Did I ever tell you that my great grandfather was an amateur magician, sir?” says Walnut, scratching his chin.
“I don’t believe so,” I sigh.
“Well, he was. Pulled dead rabbits out of his hat. Tried to saw my grandmother in half. His career had an untimely ending when the stage collapsed at Brighton pier and he knocked himself unconscious. He never recovered. Couldn’t remember who he was.”
“There’s always a silver lining in every cloud of misfortune,” I reply, opening the door to the Magic Emporium. A large, black-bearded gentleman stands behind the counter.
“Mr Otto Ink-Squid?”
“Yes,” he replies.
“My name is Detective Sergeant White and this is Constable Walnut. I believe you have already spoken to Detective Waxford. We were hoping you might be able to help us with our investigation.”
Mr Ink-Squid nods. “What do you need?”
“We are investigating the kidnapping of a young woman. She was transported to a gentlemen’s club by the river Thames and kept in a cage. The members of this club had a black butterfly symbol on their hands. We need to know what information you have on any unusual groups operating in the London area.”
“You mean cults? Do I know of any cults in London?”
“Yes, do you?”
“I have heard of this butterfly cult. But only heard rumours. They are one of the more extreme cults and extremely difficult to join. I know of a man who is involved with them on a lower level. He helps them with transportation.”
“You mean kidnapping?”
“Very likely. He’s an undertaker. His name is Mr Poppy. His establishment is round the corner; there’s usually a few coffins propped up against the shop wall.”
“Do you have any idea what this butterfly cult do with the women?”
“I really don’t know. I don’t like to think what these people get up to,” Ink-Squid says, sadly.
“What have you heard about them?”
“I’ve heard Mr Poppy gets a lot of money for disposing of the corpses.”
We leave the Magic Emporium and in a few hundred yards find Mr Poppy’s undertaking establishment. Mr Ink-Squid was right, half a dozen wooden coffins line the entrance, as though pillars into the underworld.
“This is a bit creepy,” says Constable Walnut.
“Death is always a bit creepy, Walnut.”
We enter the gloomy premises, the black letters of Mr Poppy above our heads, malign, sinister marks. Inside, a very tall skeletal man, wearing a black undertaker’s coat and top hat with a purple feather, sits taking tea and crumpets. He looks over a hundred years old, face withered away, skin stretched over his skull like parchment. The remaining white wisps of his hair hang like loose threads from under his top hat. He looks at us suspiciously whilst devouring the remainder of his crumpet.
“So, who has died?” he says chuckling.
“Possibly your reputation,” I reply.
“Who are you?” his smile removed, wiping butter from his lips.