The Cries of the Butterfly - A LOVE STORY (44 page)

ROCHELLE
visited Wolf that morning. And she made him gasp.

“What! … Have you decided to open a shopping mall at this place?” he cried, gawking at the stuff she had got with her—bags and bags of everything that was required for human sustenance over a lifetime. There were hygiene products: soap, toothpaste/brush, shaving gel/razor… Grocery: Tetra pack milk, Muesli, tinned food, fresh fruits, ready-to-eat meals… Clothing: towels, handkerchiefs, shirts, trousers, undergarments…indeed a whole new wardrobe. And a million other sundry things.

The doorbell rang then and Wolf snapped to attention.

“Who could it be?”

“I think I know,” Rochelle quickly said, going to the door. Wolf hid himself in the kitchen.

Four men carried a 320-liter refrigerator. Rochelle guided them to the bedroom and had the machine placed in one corner.

Ten minutes later, a microwave oven, a washing machine cum drier, a home theater, and two cupboards were delivered.

Wolf was holding his head in his hands.

“What?” Rochelle laughed.

He shook his head in befuddlement. “Nothing. What is there to say, except that you’ve gone utterly bonkers.”

“So now you see why I couldn’t call yesterday? I was shopping all day,” she smiled.

His eyes narrowed. “How did you know my undergarment size?”
And my trouser and shirt size?

“Oh, I know everything,” she said, waving her arm dismissively.

Really?
He blew air hard through his mouth.
It’s scary!

It was ten-twenty am and Rochelle got busy arranging the stuff she had brought, while Wolf peered at the newspapers she had got with her.

They were unrelenting.

Today they harped on Wolf’s disappearance.

The New Halcyon Tribune, under Maddy Witcher, screamed:

Wolf Butcher And Moll Vamoose Without Trace.

Leave Behind Innocent Corpses.

“Who told them I was no longer at Butcher Garden?” Wolf demanded of Rochelle.

“I did. So they would stop bringing violent processions to our neighborhood. Wasn’t that the purpose of your leaving home? Moreover, we could really do with a little peace.”

Wolf tossed the Tribune aside in disgust and instead watched Rochelle go about the process of making a home out of a house, quietly shaking his head in wonderment. The sparse dwelling was inundated—as if a sterile skeleton had suddenly been fleshed out and brought to throbbing life, blood streaming through its veins once more. There was hardly any space to move now.

When she finally finished, around noon, she stood in the doorway of the bedroom-living room and surveyed her work, her face lit up with immense satisfaction.

“Now
this
is a Home,” she said. “What you had before was a pigsty.” She waved her arms around. “You’ll lack for nothing now, big boy. You won’t have to go hungry ever, you won’t have to go without a bath or fresh clothes, you won’t have to wash the clothes with your own hands…” You won’t have to do this and do that. “You see, you cannot really chuck me out of your life. Somehow, our fortunes are inextricably linked together.” And she winked at him.

At that moment, neither she nor Wolf had any idea what a profoundly prophetic statement it would turn out to be.

She came over to him. “Aren’t you feeling too well? You look not so good…kind of jaded.”

Well, she had caught on. He hadn’t slept one wink last night, his mind greatly disturbed. Images of Grant kept reeling before his eyes. Of a man who had become so heartless, so harsh, so unforgiving—a man so completely at variance to the one Wolf had known. Of a man Wolf had loved deeply despite everything—despite all his present troubles. But what had transpired last afternoon had traumatized Wolf beyond words.
How could he change so utterly?
For Wolf, it was like losing someone very dear and he hadn’t been able to reconcile to it. He grieved—the death of a man he knew so well and loved so much, and the birth of a dreadful creature he knew not at all. It kept whirling inside his mind, like some crazy twister, giving him not a moment’s peace.

Though, he was no longer worried about Knott’s girls. For, last night, sleepless in bed, he’d suddenly had an idea.
I’ll look after the girls myself!
Get them better accommodation, stop them from working for a living, get them to school, and hire a full-time female caretaker for them.
Yes, I can do that! Why didn’t I fucking think of that before? I don’t need any President or any other fucker, and the Home can go to fucking hell!

The second ringing of the doorbell snapped him out of his thoughts. The chime was furious and unrelenting, so much Wolf thought the darn thing would burst.
Who the fuck is it now?
He cast Rochelle a nasty look, as if she was responsible for this caller as well. But she twisted her mouth and shook her head.
I’m not responsible for this one.
After a moment’s paralysis, she darted to the door, even as Wolf hid himself again.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

Wolf peeked from behind the bedroom door, then showed himself.

“Knott,” he said. Rochelle looked at Wolf quizzically, then stood aside.

Stanley Knott was seized. He was so animated he could hardly pitch a word. His face bloomed with a million smiles, his pallid teeth flashed wildly. His limbs were all over the place as he desperately tried to express himself. Wolf and Rochelle stood by and watched him, quite nonplussed.

Ten minutes later, Knott squatted on the floor and held his head between his hands, comprehensively overcome.

Wolf signaled to Rochelle and they went into the bedroom.

“You know who he is?” he asked.

She nodded. She had recognized him now. “What’s happened to him…why is he behaving like this?”

“I guess he’s having a fit of some sort.”

Stanley Knott was standing when they came back. His palms were joined in front of him. Tears streamed down his face in rivers.

“Can you talk now?” Wolf asked mildly.

He nodded earnestly. “Thank you, Wolf, sir…thank you so very, very much… I can’t tell you how grateful I am, sir…” He grabbed Wolf’s hands fervently. He was trembling.

“What…what’re you saying…!” And then Wolf understood. His face went white.
Sweet shit! No!
He looked at Rochelle. Her face was deadpan.

Wolf became very still, his mind a sudden blank. A loud globe of something swelled up in his chest and he went dashing for his cellphone in the other room. With a finger shivering like a Parkinson’s, he tapped the speed-dial digit. But Rochelle quickly snatched the handset out of his hand and cut the line.

“There’s no need,” she said quietly. “President Butcher did what any decent leader would do. He merely did his job. There’s no reason to go gaga over it.”

Wolf frowned at her, perplexed and piqued.

“No need,” she repeated firmly.

.

O
ver the next three days, Wolf sequestered himself in the small house during the day, leaving not a trace of his existence around. And when the doorbell chimed (rarely), it was Stanley Knott who answered it. If the caller was some nosy neighbor, Knott declared himself as the new tenant of the house and a rather unsociable one.

Rochelle visited every day, often twice a day. She brought with her a DVD each time, and the three watched movies in the bedroom. On Saturday, she got an old classic, ‘The Lion King’ and Wolf asked Stan Knott to get his girls.

They were thrilled beyond words. The infant hollered from time to time, but by now, twelve year old Melanie had become an apt foster-mom. Seeing the pre-teen thus broke Wolf’s heart. When someone should be caring for
her,
she was burdened with the minding of a child.
But not for long,
Wolf told himself. He now asked Rochelle to bring primarily adventure movies: ‘ET’, ‘The Beauty and the Beast’, ‘Jurassic Park’…

During these days, Wolf talked to Savannah on the phone at least ten times a day. She wanted to visit, or, “why don’t you come over to Lianne’s”. But Wolf preached patience:
Lie low, the jackals are on the stalk. One whiff and they’ll converge for the kill.
They were desperate to locate Wolf Butcher and his woman. With the renegade couple’s location suddenly unknown (some said they had flown the island), the city-state was thrown into utter disarray. All of a sudden, the daily dose of focused indignation had been cruelly snatched from them. They felt deprived, orphaned, and were in the throes of severe withdrawal symptoms.

Wolf, though, surreptitiously visited Robin every evening. Usually around ten-thirty. And taking Sister Clara’s caveat to heart, he went alone. Neither did he forget the biscuits for Mongrel, who unfailingly awaited Wolf’s advent.

Sister Clara was restored. She seemed happy to see Wolf now. And she saw to it that he came to her room after the visit. “For coffee.” On Friday, she made him stay for twenty minutes. On Saturday, it stretched to an hour. On Sunday, she didn’t want him to leave.

.

A
ctually, it was Monday. One-eleven am to be specific.

Wolf was tense as he sat facing Sister Clara, an empty coffee mug in his hand. There was something in the young woman’s eyes today that he hadn’t seen before, but had seen a countless times in his female fans. What however made this situation dangerous was that this woman had power over him. Great power. With one snap of a finger, she could keep him away from the most important person in his life. So he quietly sat there and listened to her make empty talk.

“How does it feel to be no longer working in the movies?” she was asking keenly.

He shrugged. “It was my choice, so…” He had already spent an hour in her room, an hour of dreadful dreariness—of stupid questions and listless answers. Finally now, he flashed her a dazzling smile and got to his feet.

“Well, I better get moving. I’ve taken up too much of your time and I’m really sorry about that,” he said with cultivated casualness. “Thanks for the lovely time and the wonderful coffee.”
…which is now going to keep me up all night!

Panic leapt to her eyes. “Oh, no, there’s no hurry! Please!” she blurted. “I’m not tired at all! You can stay! Please stay!” She leapt up and almost grabbed him.

But I am tired, so very tired. And bored to death.
He looked at her. He wanted to say:
go screw yourself, lady!
Instead, he said, “You go on duty early in the morning, Clara. It wouldn’t be fair to keep you up anymore.”

“NO…PLEASE STAY!” she shouted, startling Wolf. For a brief second, her eyes flashed.

Wolf gaped at her.

She looked back.

Then her eyes began to shade. She gave a little groan and her head dropped. Her right hand shot forward and she grabbed Wolf’s forearm. Her fingers jabbed into his flesh for an instant, then she let go and fled to the bed. She sat on the edge and covered her face with her hands. A low whimper began to emanate from her.

Wolf was stunned. What was wrong with her…what was happening here? He regarded her.
Oh, god, what should I do?
For a long minute he did nothing…but finally he did what seemed the only proper thing to do in the situation. He went over and sat next to her on the bed.

He hesitated, then put a light hand on her shoulder and fumbled for words. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Sister. I really didn’t mean to.”

The low snivel became a little louder. Goaded by instinct, Wolf squeezed her shoulder consolingly. It was the natural thing to do. It was the kind thing to do. Under the circumstances, it was the daft thing to do. Sister Clara looked up. Her eyes were shining with a weird brilliance. Then her pupils dilated wildly and she threw herself on him, burying her face in his chest and hugging him tightly around the waist. A thin wailing sound began deep in her throat.

Sweet shit! What have I got myself into!
But again, instinctively, he wound a comforting arm around her.

Fatal mistake.

The assault was sudden, and violent beyond words.

With a loud moan, she squeezed his back brutally with both hands. Then she raised her head and Wolf gasped. Raw lust had swollen her face and her eyes were glazed like some deep-in-it junkie’s. She now clasped his shoulders like an octopus and in the same instant bit him hard on the chest. He yelped in pain, but she bit him again, near the shoulder this time. Her slender fingers turned into claws and began to grope frantically, snatching here, snatching there—all over his torso, from neck to waist. Insane animal grunts gurgled in her throat. Then she pushed him so savagely, he fell back on the bed.

Instantly she jumped him. Her knee dug into his groin and he screamed as hot white pain walloped his brain. She lunged forward and seized his neck in both paws. Then she bent low and pressed her upper body down against his, and she began grinding, her nipples digging into his chest. She hardly had any breasts, but the nipples compensated. Over-compensated, in truth. When gorged, they jutted an inch. And right now they were gorged and stiff and ablaze under her shirt. He could smell her want. It was urgent, and acrid like onion. She cried out as pain shot up her nipples and stung her brain. But that only buoyed her further. Hot water streaming down her wild eyes, she pinned him to the bed with unreal strength, and groaning like a beast, she continued grinding her breasts on him with feral fervor, her fingers jabbing into the side of his ribs.