Lisa Heathfield - Paper Butterflies

‘I’m glad you’re not choosing my wedding flowers,’ I say lightly.

‘Church decoration isn’t my strong point,’ he smiles. But he knows that I’m trying to take the conversation far away.

‘People do strange things when they’re scared,’ he tells me.

‘Megan wasn’t really scared.’

‘She was a child too,’ Reverend Shaw says. ‘A very lost one, I should imagine. You wouldn’t have been the only person frightened of Kathleen. Any child living under her roof would have been terrified at times.’

‘So Megan could just do what she wanted? And get away with it all?’

‘I’m not excusing her behaviour,’ he says quickly. ‘But maybe now you can see it differently? Maybe you can distance yourself from the pain and try to see Megan for what she was – a confused child, just as scared as you, but in a different way.’

I close my eyes as the sunlight streams in through the window. I need to think of something else. How these early spring days are my favourite, before it gets too hot and mosquitoes clam up the skies.

‘June?’ The reverend’s voice is patient as he waits for me to open my eyes.

‘But Megan hurt me.’ My tears are sudden and angry.

‘I know.’

‘I don’t feel sorry for her.’

‘I do,’ Reverend Shaw says calmly.

I decide to turn right outside the house and ride my bike along East Lane, even though there’s never much to see this way. The freedom moves my legs, faster and faster. The fields are flat on either side of me and seem to stretch to the ends of the earth. I pass the Picketts’ Farm and, after longer still, the empty blue building I sometimes see from the car.

I pull my bike to a stop at the edge of Creeper’s Forest. Dad’s always made me promise never to go through it on my own, but, today, it doesn’t seem frightening. I think it will curl round me and protect me from anything bad. I turn my wheels on to its path and start to move again.

The trees are packed tightly and almost block out the sunshine, but I’m not afraid. I like the way that the air is colder. I like the way it smells of dry sticks. It’s bumpy, but if I follow the trees’ lines, it’s not too slow.

I’m humming to myself when I see light. I go towards it until I’m out of the forest, on a smaller track, but I’m not sure where it’s going.

Further ahead, surrounded by more trees, there’s a field of broken trailers. I slow down as I get closer. There are five of them, dotted around the edge of the small field. Weeds clamber up them and I can see that some have had their windows smashed. They have curved, soft roofs, covered with speckled moss and grime. But there’s a path through the long grass, going from one to the other.

I lean my bike against the locked gate and look around. There’s no one here, so I climb over and jump down the other side.

Slowly, I walk down the path to the nearest one. It smells rotten as I stand on my tiptoes and peer in the window. There’s a kitchen, with a kettle and a bench and a table. It looks clean. Somebody has been here.

I walk carefully down the next path. The window of the second trailer is dirty, but I can see through it. There’s no kitchen, just two small chairs and big cushions and piles of paper all over the floor. Hanging from the ceiling are tons of brightly coloured shapes – bees and flowers and aeroplanes.

‘Can I help you?’ The voice startles me and I jump back.

‘I was just looking,’ I say.

He’s smaller than me, but not by much. His white cheeks are red from the sun and he has large freckles dotted over his nose. His glasses are too big.

‘Why?’ he asks.

‘I saw the trailers.’

‘They’re not mine,’ he says. ‘But I use them.’

‘Oh.’ I look back towards my bike. I can see its yellow handlebars sticking between the wood of the gate.

‘Are you on your own?’ the boy asks.

‘Yes.’

He looks at me, as though I’m meant to say something else.

‘Did you make the paper shapes?’ I ask, looking at them through the smeary window.

‘Yes.’ He smiles and small dimples dent his cheeks.

‘Can I see them?’ I ask.

‘OK.’ He nods.

He climbs up the steps of the trailer next to us and pushes open the door. I follow him up. Inside, the air is dry.

‘This is my art room.’

‘Did you really make these?’ I reach out gently to touch a paper Christmas tree that hangs from its star. It has so many layers and at the end of each branch sparkles a tiny bauble.

‘Yup,’ he says proudly. ‘I’m Blister, by the way.’

‘Blister?’ I smile cautiously.

‘Long story.’

‘I’ve got lots of time.’

‘I was left out in the sun too long as a baby. Got burnt so bad that I was one big blister. And the name stuck.’

‘That wasn’t a long story.’

‘Nope, I suppose it wasn’t,’ he laughs. ‘Do you want to see the other trailers?’

‘OK.’

He moves past me and we go down the steps, along the path and back towards the first trailer.

His T-shirt is too small. His trousers are too long.

He goes up the steps and moves back so that I can come in.

‘Welcome to my kitchen,’ he says with a bow.

‘It’s lovely.’

‘Thank you. Do you want a drink?’ He opens a cupboard and gets two glasses out. ‘You can have water, or water.’

‘I’ll have water, then.’ I nearly laugh, but I don’t.

He unscrews the lid of a big bottle, fills the glasses and passes one to me.

‘What’s your name?’

‘June.’

‘That’s a nice name.’

‘Thanks.’ I sip the water to stop a blush creeping up.

‘Were you born in June?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s the nicest month of the year, I reckon. Not too cold, not too boiling hot. In August, it’s like an oven in here.’

‘Whose are these trailers, if they’re not yours?’

‘They were a man’s, called Mr Jones, but he killed his wife and then killed himself.’

‘He killed her?’ I ask, looking around.

‘It’s all right,’ he laughs. ‘I don’t think it was here. But their only child lives miles away and can’t be bothered to keep the trailers properly, or sell the land. And no one else wants to come here – everyone says they’re haunted.’

‘Are they?’

‘I’ve never seen a ghost in them.’

I follow him as he goes out and down the steps.

‘So now they’re all yours?’ I ask as we walk back down the path.

‘I pretend they are.’

We go back into the trailer with all the shapes, and I copy Blister as he sits on a beanbag. He’s a bit chubby, like me. His fingers are muddy and his nails are bitten down.

‘I’ve been digging,’ he says.

I look away. ‘Oh.’

‘So, where do you live?’ he asks, putting his glass down on the floor.

‘Potter’s Lane.’

‘Down by the river?’

‘Yes,’ I say, my heart thumping a bit faster. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Near Picker’s Yard.’ He takes a piece of red paper from the table and starts to fold it.

‘I don’t know it,’ I say. Blister unfolds the paper and rubs it flat again.

‘There’s not much to know,’ he smiles. ‘But if you like chaos, you’d love my house. It’s good chaos, though.’ He drinks a bit of his water. ‘Now, if this was orange juice, it would be delicious.’

‘It’s still nice.’

‘Yeah, I suppose it is.’

‘How did he murder her?’ I ask.

‘Who?’ He looks surprised.

‘The husband. Who owned these trailers.’

‘Oh, right.’ Blister leans on his hands and stares at me across the table. His eyes are almost black, which looks a bit strange, as his skin is so rosy and white. ‘They say he strangled her and then chopped her up and . . .’