Chapter 7

The Butterfly House

‘Like a giant igloo-shape, but hot,’ said India as they entered a small passage way. Then they opened the second door of the misty Butterfly House...

‘Keeps the heat inside,’ guessed Art. Waves of warmth came towards them.

‘Stops the butterflies escaping,’ said Mars Bar. ‘Bet they’re worth millions.’

‘Like your Grandad’s greyhounds.’ Art stared as butterflies of all colours flitted Big ones. Tiny ones. But all fast movers. He needed a remote to put them on slow motion.

‘Like ideas flitting around in your head.’ India stared.

Inventor India’s’ head might be full of butterfly ideas, but Art didn’t think that way. Clues filled his head like a jigsaw with missing pieces. Mars Bar’s head would be messy, with blobs everywhere, like Tiny’s dinner, thought Art.

Had Shorty gone inside the Butterfly House to collect butterflypoo? Or was he following the Butterfly Expert? One little girl shrieked.

‘EEEEE.’ A butterfly had landed on her eyelid. She stood motionless.

‘Shh,’ said the Expert. ‘Don’t frighten them.’

‘Do butterflies drop much poo?’ asked Mars Bar. The Expert smiled.

‘They drink mainly nectar from flowers. So they drop liquid. Not very much.’

‘Yuk,’ said Mars Bar. The little girl scrubbed at her eye with a tissue. Ahead, Art glimpsed a figure in khaki. Was it Shorty?

‘No. He’s a Voluntary Zoo Guide,’ India pointed to his badge.

The guide wore khaki long pants and a shirt which just buttoned over his tummy. Leaning against the railing, he watched everybody and answered questions. Could insects tell the difference between people if they wore the same colour clothes, wondered Art?

‘Why are you whispering?’ said Mars Bar loudly. A butterfly landed on Art’s nose. Its wings tickled. Art felt a sneeze coming.

‘Ahhhhh.’ Art watched Shorty point towards certain plants. The Expert nodded and Spiky brought her microphone closer.

‘Ask him something,’ whispered India.

‘So I can get another photo of Shorty.’

‘Do butterflies get asthma?’ asked Art. The steamy heat of the Butterfly House reminded him of his asthma treatments at the hospital.

‘Not that I know of,’ said the Expert.’ Do you get asthma, young man?’

‘Sometimes.’ Art checked in his pocket for his puffer. The Cyclist felt his top pocket. He pulled out a butterfly postcard. He matched it to the picture on the wall.

‘A rare butterfly.’ The Expert talked for a bit and then they moved on.

Spiky kept the tape running.But Art watched the Cyclist. Was it the card that Shorty had given him?

The Cyclist held out his helmet. Suddenly he clutched it to his chest. Was he trying to catch a butterfly? Or had he changed his mind about something?

Suddenly he hurried out of the door, helmet clutched to his chest. Between the two exit doors were signs about NOT removing butterflies. The Cyclist ignored the signs. So did Art. But for a different reason.

Had he smuggled a butterfly out of the Butterfly House? Was he a butterfly napper?

Busy reading his picture map, Art crashed into something on the side of the path.

‘Silver scales,’ said Mars Bar.

‘My aunty went to Weight Watchers. Do people want to lose weight at the zoo?’ Old fashioned scales big enough for a person to stand upon were near the pathways. A clock face showed the weight.

‘Silver robots!’ Each was close to an enclosure gate. What would need to be weighed?

‘Are they for weighing the animals’ food?’ guessed Art.

As Sam’s Dad agreed, his mobile went off. Beep! Beep! Did butterflies send messages to each other, thought Art? Did they have their own sound system? Could they tell the difference between people’s shapes or sounds? Experts could tell the difference between butterflies. Would a butterfly think that the mobile was part of Sam’s Dad?

‘My uncle says mobile phones mess up his racing pigeons. They don’t always come home.’ Mars Bar came from a racing family.

Art twisted his butterfly tag. Had the Cyclist taken the rare butterfly? If he passed it to one of the staff, no-one would take any notice. Visitors noticed only uniforms. Would they notice if someone changed places, Art wondered.

As long as the uniform was the same, mix ups were possible. Maybe that happened on the walkway this morning?

‘Listen kids, I’ve got to check at the zoo office about a message Will you are all right? The Zoo School is just down there. You’ll be five minutes early for Mrs.Tasker and the Zoo Teacher. Just wait there.’ Sam’s Dad worried. ‘Sorry, but I need the work.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ said India, but the moment Sam’s Dad hurried away, Art was off. With the picture map, it would take five minutes to find the right walkway, if he ran fast. On the zoo map, he’d found the kiosk picture. That was a start.

‘Hey Art. Come back!’ shouted India.

‘No way.’ Art wanted to check on that body he’d seen from the balloon. Was it a real body? Was it lunch? Or was it something else?

Across the swampy land, there were several wooden walkways. On the ground, they all looked the same. He checked against the photo. He started to run again. Right. Then left. Boards sounded hollow under his feet. This must be it!

Art knelt and felt under the walkway. Gooey. Yuk! His knees hurt. He leaned further over. Something was underneath. A bag! Was there a body inside? He pulled. It felt soggy.

‘And what do you think you’re doing?’ Art looked up at the face of Shorty.

‘You’re with that school group, aren’t you?’ Art nodded.

‘Saw me from the balloon this morning?’ Art nodded again. If he tried to speak now, his voice might not work.

‘Your dad’s got a mobile hasn’t he? He’s the courier?’

‘Sam’s Dad,’ croaked Art.

‘He’ll be back soon.’

‘Ask him to ring the front gate, will you. Message for him to pick up something at The Butterfly House. The number’s 123 456.’

‘What’s in this bag?’ asked Art.

‘None of your business, sonny.’ Shorty hoisted the bag into the passenger seat.

‘Art!’ Mrs.Tasker sounded ready to explode.

‘Here, at once. Stop making a nuisance of yourself.’