Black Butterfly Read Online Free Page A

That’s what we’re all about.’ She looked into the middle distance. ‘It will be a great Movement.’
    ‘I always say it’s important to manage a great Movement at least once a day.’
    Her green eyes narrowed. ‘Great because young people,’ she said silkily, ‘are the future, are they not?’
    ‘Well, there’s no arguing with that,’ I said. ‘They’ll still be here, long after we’re dust.’
    Miss ffawthawte gave me a look over her steel spectacles that seemed to say: ‘Long after some of us are dust.’
    ‘So,’ I said, moving on in the hope of speeding up the whole wretched parental business. ‘When does everyone arrive for the knees-up?’
    Miss ffawthawte crossed her hands in front of her. ‘The Jamboree begins next week. In Kingston.’
    ‘Super,’ I said distractedly, imagining how disappointed all those foreign Scouts would be with suburban little Kingston-on-Thames. But no doubt gallons of ginger beer and pickled eggs would put them right.
    We were approaching a large dark hut, constructed from logs in that quaint fashion one associates with spa towns and skiing resorts. It was exactly the sort of lifeless place I had expected and, once we were through the double doors, I took in the noticeboards covered with neatly typed announcements, the stacks of tubular chairs and a slightly crippled ping-pong table under a tin lampshade. The place stank of damp.
    A long corridor stretched off immediately in front of us, the windows inset in it looking into cheaply panelled rooms. Fromthe blur of white vests and navy-blue pants within, it seemed the Scouts were engaged in vigorous exercise.
    I was about to look away when I became aware that someone was watching us through one of the interior windows. I took a step back.
    It was a strange and sickly boy, hollow-eyed and jaundiced-looking, like the ghost of a Victorian child drowned in a weir. Limp yellow hair slimed its way across the pale forehead, and his arms and legs were pathetically shrivelled in indigo pants and a startlingly white vest.
    He stared at me unblinkingly and I had the oddest feeling I’d seen him somewhere before. Then he was gone, swallowed up in the mass of spotty youth tearing excitedly round the room.
    ‘Can I go now?’ piped up Christmas.
    I glanced down and his face was shining with excitement. Well, if the little scrap wanted to volunteer for all this leaping about and frog-spawn collecting, who was I to gainsay him? I bent down and was all too aware of the pistol-shot cracking of my joints.
    ‘Have a lovely time, Christmas,’ I murmured, awkwardly patting my child on the head. ‘Don’t get into any trouble now, promise?’
    His bright gaze was straying already to the back of the hut. He looked at me crossly. ‘Of course I won’t.’
    My temper flared, but Miss ffawthawte intervened, dragging the boy behind her back. ‘I’ll just settle him in, Mr Box,’ she said quickly. ‘And then perhaps I can show you the rest of the camp.’
    I nodded. ‘Yes, please. I can’t wait to see your…facilities.’
    She met my gaze. ‘Oh, they don’t disappoint, I can assure you. I won’t be a moment. I’ll meet you down the corridor. Third room on the left. Say goodbye to your father, Christmas.’
    The boy peeped round her skirts and mouthed, ‘Bye.’
    I waved at the boy, feeling a sudden, disturbing pang of what I dimly recognised as guilt.
    Miss ffawthawte took his hand and turned to go.
    ‘Oh, by the way,’ I said. ‘Third room on the left. What’s in there?’
    ‘The Games Room, Mr Box,’ she said coolly. ‘Do you like to play games?’

.3.
KISSING THE PINK
    I n stark contrast to the rest of the gimcrack establishment, the Games Room, which smelled pleasingly of beeswax, was in exceptional order. Tennis racquets in wooden frames lined the panelled walls, and well-polished shields commemorated past glories on the field. A pile of laced leather footballs, brown and shiny as conkers, had been built into a tidy