Nobody's Butterfly Read online

  Beaten Track

  www.beatentrackpublishing.com

  Nobody’s Butterfly

  Published 2017 by Beaten Track Publishing

  Copyright © 2017 Claire Davis and Al Stewart

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  ISBN: 978 1 78645 191 0

  Cover Design: Amy Spector

  Beaten Track Publishing,

  Burscough, Lancashire.

  www.beatentrackpublishing.com

  Cobweb ghosts are inconvenient—especially grumpy ones with bad breath. Don’t they know silence is golden?

  Johnny Strong is the expert; he hasn’t spoken in two years. Not one word to anyone except the ghost. The main purpose of life is to avoid people and not get noticed. Friends? He doesn’t need them; and certainly nobody wants him despite what the ghost says.

  Until a new boy appears at Windybank—Finn Lyons, teenage wizard. He eats frogs, concocts potions, and is always hungry. Not only does Finn stand up for Johnny; he actively seeks his company and soon becomes part of life.

  First love; family and words; a heady mix to go in the potion but how will it all turn out?

  Hubble bubble; Johnny Strong’s in trouble! Silence is not always golden in this sweet, zany story of the purest magic at Christmas.

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About the Authors

  Other Publications

  Beaten Track Publishing

  Thank you Ofelia, Amy, Andrew, Baz, Noah. A massive thank you to Amy Spector for the wonderful cover! And finally, thank you Debbie McGowan and Beaten Track for giving us the power to publish and have a voice.

  Shout it out! If you have no words then use a pen, a paintbrush, or anything you’ve got, but make sure you shout loud and don’t stop until they hear.

  Johnny’s list: Mum.

  In the morning sun, spider’s web threads reverberated with light. Johnny considered if the occasional glinting flash was a message or mere particles of the atmosphere. Depending on the sunshine’s position, the intricate trap could look brilliant, or flimsy and insubstantial.

  Before breakfast was always the best time to curl up on the bed and wait. The rest of the house was often overrun by crazy kids buzzing through the rooms like angry bees, but outside the windowpane, the web was ever silent.

  “Are you there?” he whispered, heart beating fast but not to the same tune of floorboards bouncing with kids’ feet on the way to the bathroom. Never the same tune as anyone else.

  Johnny would be in trouble if they spotted him watching the corner of the window for hours on end again. It hadn’t been hours. Not that morning, anyway. In trouble, though they called it something else at Windybank. A therapy diary was right there on the yellow desk. “You can pick the colour!” Anna had said, as if it was great fun. “Lime or orange!”

  In trouble again—not enough to stop chatting to the web or the ghost who lived within its silver threads. He poked his head out the door and checked from left to right—rapidly as a spy undercover. Anna or Greg could appear at any moment, and both were sneaky enough to wait around the corner, just to prove a point. Coming. Getting dressed. Sometimes an extra ten minutes of peace could be earned if they thought he was getting ready. Life would be oh-so-much better if the door still had a lock.

  He wrote ‘busy’ on the whiteboard hanging on his door, adding two exclamation marks, stepped back inside and shut the door firmly. The staff weren’t bad but they weren’t good either—not from the point of view of a boy trying to get a few minutes’ peace and quiet.

  “I’m here,” he whispered again, and launched himself at the bed to get as close to the web as possible.

  It shone and shimmered. Johnny held his breath and waited. This was always the hardest part—relief mixed up with resentment and anxiety. There had been nightmares—more than usual—of the ghost vanishing.

  “Are you here?”

  Didn’t the ghost understand the perils he faced during these few minutes? If Anna or Greg came in, it would mean extra therapy if not another tiring visit to the cycle and tricks.

  “Come on,” he said crossly. “Where are you?”

  “Here. Hold your horses, mardy arse,” the ghost grumbled. It was typical of Johnny’s luck to get a ghost with a constant bad temper and awful breath, not that he minded. Actually, the ghost’s honesty was a nice change from the sycophantic lies floating around Windybank; invisible but deadly.

  “You’ve got donkey breath again.”

  “Ghosts don’t have breath, stupid.” The outside thread of the web twanged as the ghost laughed. “Anyway, you’ve got a bogey so we’re quits.”

  “No way. Donkey breath is way worse than a bogey. Know why?” Johnny put his palm flat against the glass. A long time ago, he’d stopped touching it in preparation for when the ghost left—a kind of planned experiment which lasted all of two days. It hadn’t prepared him, only increased the anxiety.

  “Why?”

  From outside the window, the ghost placed his hand on the glass in exactly the same place. Warmth, distant at first and then flooding, went up Johnny’s arm and across his chest. Once during therapy, Anna had called it memory, but it wasn’t. She didn’t know anything. The neck tingles were just because he was pleased to see—even though there wasn’t any physical manifestation—his ghost friend. “Because bogeys have antibodies. They’re good for you.” His only friend.

  “Disgusting,” the ghost chuckled.

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s the pet shop owners?” The pet shop was their name for Windybank children’s care home and moving-on hostel.

  Johnny sighed, and pressed his hand harder against the glass. “Same as.”

  “Ah. You got therapy tonight?”

  Johnny’s head lurched uncomfortably. “Yeah.” On therapy days—Monday and Wednesday—the ghost was around to poke fun and offer much-needed sarcasm, missing from the appalling cheeriness of Windybank. Always around when needed. “Bloody sick of it. Not like I’m crackers, is it? Why can’t everyone leave me alone?”

  “Yeah, you are. Crackers as a pack of cheese and onion. If not, you wouldn’t be talking to me.” But the glass under Johnny’s hand was friendly and familiar. “Anything else? New pets?”

  “Only that boy. He’s not new now. Finn. Always banging about.”

  “Yeah? This the one came in a few weeks ago on a wheelchair?” From the window, you could see the garden and woods, and also the side of the house with the ramp used for wheelchairs and bikes. One morning, about a month ago, the boy had appeared, surrounded by nurses, blankets and fuss. But even from up in the bedroom, Johnny hadn’t missed the pale face, sick as fever. Something about the way he sat, frozen, gave the impression the boy was frightened, terrified half to death.

  “That’s the one. He’s up and walking now, though. Offered to cook everyone pancakes!” Some of the younger kids asked Greg what was wrong with him; of course they all wanted to know. “And then the dork went and messed it up. He forgot the eggs and burnt the frying pan black.”

  “He’s sick?”

  “Hmm. No, I don’t think so e
xactly. Or not anymore. Greg wouldn’t tell us the details—obviously—just that he’s weak and needs building up.” He thought back. “Oh yeah! Anna said loud noises make the kid jump so we all have to be careful around him. Funny, that—’cause now he’s the loudest of the lot. Made pancakes for everyone.”

  “No! That’s bad with a capital B.” The ghost laughed softly. “Helpful, is he?”

  “Everyone else thought so.” The boy was tall, with dark hair around his forehead. Although Johnny hadn’t been anywhere near, he sensed the boy’s eyes watching each time he walked past his bedroom. “Got pimples.”

  “Nice hair, though?”

  “No! Stupid hair. Like a guinea pig.” Ages ago, it became apparent the ghost could read his thoughts, especially lies. The ghost laughed knowingly. “Shut up. I gotta go, anyway. See you later.” He squeezed the glass. “I’ll miss you. I always miss you.”

  “You can’t squeeze glass, sunshine. Have a good day. Be thinking of you.”

  “You too.” Whatever ghosts got up to during the day—or night—Johnny had no idea. “You gonna be around later?” It didn’t matter about not sounding needy in front of a ghost.

  “Course.” The web threads moved slightly, meaning the ghost had further things to say. “Johnny? I’ve got an idea.”

  “Whatever it is, the answer’s no.” Just lately, the ghost had lots of ideas, and all were uncomfortable and shit. At first, it was one or two a week; now, every day. It wasn’t up for discussion, same way they never mentioned the bottom left side of the cobweb that was starting to collapse. “No.” Goodbye was in the air, in every particle, and nobody could evade it.

  “Just smile at him.”

  “No.” He wasn’t going to interact with the new boy other than necessary.

  “But he’s your age. Be going to your school. Might be in your classes.”

  “No. Hasn’t been to school yet. No-one knows why.” Actually, the pet shop owners still treated him as if he could break. “Maybe because of germs?”

  “Could be good to have someone on your side?”

  “I’m not gonna, all right? Just like I’m not going to the stupid after-school club or watching telly with the pets Friday nights. They don’t want me around. No—no—no. Stop telling me what to do.” Johnny pulled his hand away sharply. “See you later.”

  “Have a good day,” the ghost called.

  As Johnny opened his door, he noticed pine needles on the carpet outside. They were dotted about in little heaps. Bloody Christmas coming.

  Johnny’s list: Mum, photos of Mum.

  The new boy’s name was Finn. No point making any effort because he wouldn’t be there long anyway—was merely part of the endless stream of faces and shoes that went through Windybank. Only Johnny stayed, constant as mildew around the bath and the tiny blue flowers on the edge of the plastic plates.

  “All right?” Finn said, leaning forward over his bowl of popping Rice Krispies. “I keep trying to find you. Hello.”

  Johnny nodded politely; in here, good manners got you a long, long, way. Not far enough to get a person anywhere really good such as Paris, but far enough for now. He concentrated more than necessary on plastering toast with peanut butter—carefully so every corner was nicely smeared in light brown.

  “I’m Finn. That’s my name,” the boy added unnecessarily. “I’m new.” Probably he didn’t realise how much had been given away in such a short statement, thrown out with careless abandon. Old timers like Johnny didn’t bother with explanations or names; there was little point when such information could be used against a person. Finn had, in fact, revealed several juicy bits of information: number one, he still thought other people were there as potential friends. This indicated vulnerability to coercion, bullying or any number of ghastly things that went on at Windybank.

  And numero deux, Finn had a need to ‘fit in’, as the staff would call it. What this meant was, he would no doubt be used by the others to do all the duties they hated—washing up, cleaning, homework, providing alibis…Oh yeah, Finn would be fitting in—into their long wish lists of desires fit only for mugs.

  A wisp of memory floated past. There had been a time when it was OK to ask questions, easy as drinking milk…Johnny bit savagely into his toast and didn’t look towards the gaping hole of loneliness where Finn sat.

  “What’s your name?”

  Johnny replied by pointing at the shiny laminate name card Windybank always left on the table for newcomers. ‘Johnny Strong’, it said, written in bright red as if he were three years old.

  “No way! You’re Johnny? Thought you might be but I wasn’t sure. My mistake! Hah-hah. This must be my lucky day.” Finn began shovelling spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth, quickly as if it might run out. Milk dribbled down the sides of his lips, which he wiped with the one sleeve. “I was warned to prepare myself for the advent of your good self. Yippee!”

  Johnny carefully put down his toast and made a good deal of fuss about giving off tired-out body language—shoulder rolling—mouth pursing—a slight sniff. Without moving any limb except his neck, he looked straight at the other boy to see if he was taking the piss.

  Finn grinned, a lopsided shift that made him look even more untidy. Messy hair fell across his forehead, though it might have been carefully styled to look that way for all Johnny knew. The obligatory school shirt looked a state—buttons askew, and the clip-on tie hanging by a precarious thread. Some kind of pen marked one sleeve, which was admirable since Finn couldn’t have had it longer than one day. After all, he’d only been ordered to school yesterday. Johnny had overheard Anna saying he was ready. Ruining the school uniform so quickly was definitely interesting.

  Warned? First impressions were important. It wouldn’t do to be too friendly or too distant. Either one could get him in shit. He sipped his tea, showing lack of interest in whatever Finn had to say, even though he burned to know who had been bitching.

  “That’s right! I was warned to be ready for the meeting of Johnny Strong.”

  Johnny waited, making it seem the tea was terribly interesting. He waited by counting to ten, which turned into twenty, and then tapped silently with his thumb on the wooden table. The therapist hated this form of deviance—calling it diversionary tactics. He sensed the other boy slurping tea and wiping more residue on a sleeve. A noise shot suddenly across the kitchen.

  “Pardon me,” Finn said, and then burped again. “I’ve swallowed a frog this morning.”

  Johnny lost control, and looked sideways. Finn was staring with his chin on both hands, eyes faraway. A smear of milky breakfast went from his mouth to one ear.

  “I swallowed but it didn’t go down easily.” Finn nodded seriously. “Was a right fighter, but the strong frogs are the most potent.”

  Johnny considered his options. What he didn’t consider was giggling, or shoulder shaking. He stopped both immediately.

  “You’re the seeker,” Finn burped. “And I am your finder. But, of course, you already know that.”

  Ah. Loon. Loop-the-loop. It happened sometimes, often accompanied by much more shouting and hostility. Various kids came through Windybank like leaves in the wind. A few suicides, more drug users, and lots of issues with anger. The big old house was a chocolate box full—bursting—with adolescent mental health pralines deluxe.

  “Of course, you know that.”

  Try as he might, Johnny’s eyes simply wouldn’t look away. Finn had freckles that shone through the milk and Rice Krispies stuck to his face. Milk moustache.

  “Have I? Bugger. I was trying to look cool for our first meeting.” Clumsily, Finn pushed his chair against the table.

  Johnny could have told him the chairs didn’t actually fit under the table, but instead he gulped down the last bit of tea.

  “Drinking the dregs—nice! I like that. We need proper tea so we can do tea leaves.” Finn knocked against a few chairs on the way, and generally made a lot of noise before stopping next to Johnny’s chair. He thrust out a dirt
y hand. “How do you do. I’m honoured to make your acquaintance.”

  Finder? Honoured?

  After a few awkward seconds, Johnny took the hand. It was sticky. Finn shook vigorously. “Oh, you don’t call it finder here? Well, then—let’s dispense of the rubbish. I am Finn Lyons, and I came because you called.”

  Called?

  “Yeah, and very glad I was to get the calling.” Finn held on to Johnny’s hand and beamed. “I’m your wizard.”

  Johnny’s list: Mum, photos of Mum, anything at all about Dad.

  It wasn’t a bad school, not compared to the dark ages. Sure, gangs waited about in the quiet corners behind the science building, sharks hovering before a kill. And yeah, facing the corridors between lessons was fraught, but any place could be conquered with patience and cunning. Johnny had tried racing out the classroom door the instant the bell rang, navigating the school quickly, before anyone else got there. Sometimes it worked, but often it didn’t.

  The last few kids trailed away, leaving him with the teacher, a nice woman who left him alone. He made a great show of pretending to drop some books, because it earned him a little more time—hopefully long enough for the corridors to have emptied.

  “All right, Johnny?” Mrs. Baker asked. Some of them still talked to him; most had stopped long ago.

  Will be once I get out of here. He nodded, and moved towards the door.

  “See you Thursday, then.” Worry and resignation crossed Mrs. Baker’s face, too careful to allow disapproval to flicker, but still Johnny knew it was there. He raised a hand by way of answer and stepped into the dusty domain of the corridor that served as a ring road around the school.

  Running the gauntlet. It wasn’t that he minded the odd punch or scuffle, or even the jibes and mockery. Not really. Not if it ended there. But it never did. The memories came back at night and prevented sleep, adding more stones to the pile of proof that Johnny Strong was a loser.