THE KILLING JAR
Mr Zamora is in full flow. We have finally reached the ‘emergence’ stage, which is what we saw happen in his office.
‘Once it has emerged it takes some hours for the wings to be hard and strong enough for flight. You remember how it flapped them lightly? That was so they’d dry quicker.’
Mr Zamora reaches down and carefully places a cloth-covered dome on the desk. With a flourish he removes the cloth. Mari leans forward to see better, and so do many of the other children. I can just make out a glass jar with what looks like a slice of mango at the bottom. The large tortoise-shell swoops and dives as though it is drunk, hitting the sides of the glass. The children ooh and aah, but all I can think is how horrible it must be to be trapped in there.
‘The final stage for this butterfly is preservation,’ says Mr Zamora. ‘Now we are done with our demonstration I can process the butterfly. Do you have a question?’
I turn around. San has his hand up. Mr Zamora only acknowledges questions from the orphans. ‘What does “process” mean?’
‘It means this.’ Mr Zamora holds up a clear bottle and a gauze pad. ‘Chloroform.’
He places a cloth over his mouth, and tips some liquid on to the gauze. I get a noseful of something chemical. It makes my head spin. Then he lifts the dome slightly and slides the gauze inside. Somewhere at the back of my woozy mind I know I am not going to like what happens next. The butterfly continues to swoop, but soon its movements become more purposeful. It throws itself against the glass with an almost sickening rhythm.
‘Stop!’ shouts Mari. ‘You’re hurting it.’ Kidlat starts to cry.
‘It’ll be over soon,’ says Mr Zamora. His gaze is fixed on the dying butterfly, and all my fear of him returns. He is enjoying watching it die. Mari is up on her feet and running to the front. She goes to lift the jar but Mr Zamora holds her wrist.
‘Don’t you dare,’ he cries, but Mari lifts her crumpled right hand and knocks the jar over. It smashes to the floor.
But it is too late, we can all see it. The butterfly has fallen on the gauze, its wings stilled.
‘Idiot child,’ hisses Mr Zamora. ‘You broke my killing jar!’
He is still gripping Mari’s wrist and I can see her skin going white from the pressure. He raises his hand and I can see that it is not going to be a light cuff.
‘Mr Zamora!’ Sister Teresa hurries to the front. ‘Control yourself.’
But Mr Zamora’s hand is not stayed by Sister Teresa’s words. He has caught sight of Mari’s right hand. ‘Leper,’ he croaks, releasing her at once. ‘Leper!’
‘She is not,’ says Sister Teresa, drawing Mari close beside her. ‘She has had it from birth.’
‘She is deformed?’ says Mr Zamora, eyes fixed on Mari’s hand with a sickening interest. ‘What caused this?’
Mari puts her hand behind her, and starts to back away.
‘Stay where you are,’ he says. ‘You broke my killing jar. You will fix it.’
We all look down at the shards on the floor. It is cracked into many pieces.
‘Mr Zamora, it is impossible—’ starts Sister Teresa.
‘She will try.’ Mr Zamora’s eyes glint meanly. ‘Or else.’
‘Or else what?’ Sister Teresa is flushed, her voice sharp.
‘This is the girl you wrote to the government about, no? The one who was abandoned.’
There is a pin-drop silence. I want to stop him talking, to drag Mari outside, but I feel paralysed.
‘I should have realized earlier. How many children are born so freakish?’ Mari flinches. ‘I was there when the letter came in about the white girl. You were ordered to put her into a workhouse, I believe?’
Sister Teresa is trembling, but Mari is quite still. She is watching Mr Zamora as though he is a nest full of wasps.
‘I remember now,’ says Mr Zamora, enjoying our rapt attention. ‘And I’m sure my brother would be most interested to learn what became of her, and how the nun flouted a direct order and spent valuable funds, put aside for orphans, on a girl who should be earning her keep.’
‘Please, Mr Zamora,’ Sister Teresa’s voice shakes as much as her hand. ‘I—’
‘So really it is the least the child can do,’ he interrupts. ‘To fix my killing jar?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mari says clearly.
‘It is settled, then.’ Mr Zamora collects his papers together. ‘You can bring the pieces to my workshop. I have materials there you can use.’
He leaves a stunned silence in his wake, like the hush just before the monsoon falls like a sheet, as if the world is holding its breath. Mari kneels and begins to sweep the pieces on to a sheet of paper. Sister Teresa looks as though she has been slapped.
‘Dinner, children,’ she manages, then crosses to her office and closes the door. Everyone rushes to leave but I go to help Mari, holding the paper steady while she collects the glass.
‘Are you all right?’ It is a stupid question, and she doesn’t answer me. ‘He can’t make you fix this.’
‘He can,’ says Mari simply.
‘But how? Even if there were fewer pieces, surely with your hand—’
Her glare cuts me short. ‘You don’t think I can do it?’
Before I can say any more she folds the paper up and carries the glass outside. My body feels heavy, and I stay sitting a moment. The dead butterfly is still on the gauze. I sweep it carefully into my palm, but my hand is damp and the wings powder and stick. I brush it into the wastepaper basket, the crumpled wings shining forlornly until I bury it deeper beneath used maths sheets.
When I go out into the courtyard Mari is not there. Mr Zamora is sitting on a chair outside the closed door of his workshop.
‘She’s inside,’ says Luko, coming over to me. ‘He says she can’t come out until it’s fixed. Sister Teresa should send word to Manila.’
But if Sister Teresa does that, Mari will be sent to the workhouse.
Luko places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘He’ll calm down soon, I’m sure.’
The cook pads back to the fire. Mr Zamora already looks very calm to me. He is smiling that dead-eyed smile of his. Kidlat pads towards me, holding two bowls of noodles, and together we sit on the scrubby ground beside the orphanage door, and watch the workshop.
The stars are pricking through a dark sky before Mr Zamora unfolds himself from the chair and opens the workshop door. He enters and after a moment Mari comes out. She is even paler than usual, her head bowed. I hurry to stand, legs numb and full of tingles, reaching her as Mr Zamora closes the door behind her.
‘Are you all right?’ I say. She stumbles slightly. ‘What happened?’
It makes no sense for her to be so weak – she has been in there a couple of hours at most.
‘Just a bit dizzy,’ she says. The other children begin to crowd around, and she bows her head even lower. ‘Can we go to the cliff?’
I wrap my arm around her waist and mumble something to the others about her feeling a bit sick so they back off. I shake my head at Kidlat when he tries to follow, and he sticks his thumb in his mouth.
We walk slowly to the cliff and when we get there Mari flops down on the ground. She takes in three deep breaths.
‘Oh, that’s so much better!’
‘What happened? Why were you dizzy?’
Mari rolls on to her side. ‘That room, it has no windows, and he keeps all his chemicals in there. My head feels all sloshy.’
I remember the whiff of chloroform, how it made my head spin. ‘How awful.’
‘It stank. As for the jar it’s impossible – though you guessed that already, didn’t you?’
‘I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry,’ I start to apologize, but she is grinning.
‘It’s all right. It just annoys me when people think I can’t do something because of my hand.’
A huge wave of relief crashes through me at her words, washing away the worry stuck in my throat. ‘Did you manage to fix some of it?’
Mari snorts. ‘Not in the slightest. He says I have to try again tomorrow, but I’ll never be able to do it. No one could. I expect he’ll get bored of waiting and buy one sooner rather than later. Won’t want to be without his killing jar long.’ She shudders at the words.
I want to ask her if she is worried about his threat to send her to the workhouse, but she is back to her normal self and I don’t want to bring it up. We sit listening to the lull and wash of the sea, until Sister Teresa’s bedtime bell calls us back.