Butterfly Wing

Harry awoke to a typical sun-drenched Miami morning. The buzz of cicadas vibrated in the air as he groaned softly and wiped sleep from his eyes, his hand lazily flopping back to the empty pillow beside him.

From the home office in the next room the hammering of a keyboard drifted back to him, unrelentless as his girlfriend committed the story running through her mind onto her laptop. She never made a dime but she was happy writing away every day.

A smile spread across his lips, slow and easy. The warmth pleasantly soaked into his very bones, making the merest thought of moving a daunting task. His bed was warm and soft, his girlfriend was close, the day was glorious.

And he was going to be late for work.

Tipping his head to the side he blinked at the glowing alarm clock numbers, his cobwebbed mind finally registering 10:12. His first passenger of the day was at eleven o’clock. A transfer from a nice hotel to the airport.

He groaned again and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, his movement earning a new level of lethargy. Even outside of rush hour Miami traffic was famously torturous. But by the airport? Airport drops were never fun.

For another long moment he let his body sink into the mattress and listened to the rhythmic tapping of keys from the next room. A pause, his girlfriend sipped her coffee and surveyed her work. Perhaps time for a break?

Before he knew it his phone was in his hand and he was dialling the taxi company headquarters.

“Bert’s taxis, how can I help?” barked Bert himself.

“Listen Bert, it’s me, Harry.” He paused for Bert to acknowledge this but the old man said nothing. “I don’t know what happened but I feel rough. Sick. I mean I’ve been sick and my head is splitting in two. I can’t drive like this. Sorry to let you down Bert.”

The man grunted and the sound of flipping papers filtered over the phone. “You’re down for eleven, how am I gonna get that filled Harry?”

“Sorry Bert, I don’t know what to tell you.”

The man grumbled again, mumbled something about getting well soon, then slammed the phone down.

Unperturbed, Harry let the phone slip onto the bed, then padded through to see if his girlfriend wanted a fresh coffee that they could drink together on the veranda.

-

“Cancelled? How am I supposed to get to the airport now? I need to check in by twelve,” Doctor Harrington spluttered into his phone.

“Sorry, my driver called in sick. Nothing I can do.”

“Well, do you have another driver? Is there another company?”

“You’d have to ask at your hotel reception.”

Harrington swore and swiped to end the call. His family were watching him, sat on overstuffed velvet chairs in the hotel lobby, surrounded by large suitcases. A normal taxicab would be too small, which was why Harrington had taken the precaution of booking in advance.

Reception was little help, offering numbers but no guarantees. With the clock ticking down and no time to call around, Harrington penned the Uber app and booked a suitable vehicle close by and available. Nice and simple.

His stress levels sank and he relaxed in a chair and even ordered himself a beer while they waited. Soon the family were on their way to the airport, driven in a mini van with their luggage crammed into the boot and second backseat.

Harrington began to regret his decision, firstly when their tyres screeched taking a corner too fast as they exited the hotel, then as they bounced along almost hitting their heads on the roof due to speed and lack of suspension.

His wife shot him various glares as she held on for dear life.

“What’s that smell?” his daughter asked, her pre-teen face pinched into a scowl that said she didn’t like it.

“I don’t know,” Harrington hurried to say, hoping to shut her down and stop her asking more questions. As a doctor the stench of weed was something he had smelt on many a patient and the underlying odours beneath that were best not spoken aloud. His very particular daughter may very well shriek in disgust and fling herself from the fast-moving vehicle.

The airport however was soon in sight and Harrington breathed a sigh of relief. Which was promptly knocked out of him when the driver braked suddenly but not suddenly enough to prevent them slamming into the rear of a Ford Focus.

As the ambulance arrived and carted off the Harrington family, the aeroplane they were due to catch called politely for final boarding.

-

Christian Poole was a footballing superstar in England. His handsome, dark face smiled down on the walls of many boys. His no4 t-shirt was always the team’s best seller. His trading cards earned the most money on eBay.

Tragedy had struck during a training match yesterday; a nasty tackle causing a potentially serious injury to his ankle. Fortunately the team’s usual surgeon was flying back that day and had promised to immediately complete a minor surgery that he promised would have Christian fit for the final match of the season.

Christian and his manger had been clear; whatever it took, Christian needed to be on that pitch. They were playing the league’s second place team and were only one point ahead; they had to win this, or the title was lost.

That morning Christian had been chauffeured by his glamourous girlfriend to a private hospital and waved to the photographers who were lined up by the doors, lights flashing and microphones shoved in his face.

“Dr Harrington is the best,” Christian boasted confidently. “I’ll be fighting fit for the match this weekend. And we will win!”

He raised his fists in triumph and his girlfriend remembered to smile, then pushed his wheelchair through the double doors.

No sooner had they arrived at the reception desk than they were delivered the bad news. And only minutes after his dramatic entrance, a rather embarrassed Christian was wheeled straight back out of the hospital, this time waving off the confused reporters.

That weekend he sat on his sofa, injured ankle propped up on pillows, and seethed as his team lost 1-3.

-

Zane Walker had a bit of a gambling habit. In the same way that the Atlantic Ocean is a bit wet.

The football match played in the background while he balanced his laptop on his knees and entered his credit card details into a new betting site he had found. His browser already had three tabs with other sites all going; bingo on one, scratch cards on another, slots on the third. This new site had attracted him for the roulette and after his card was accepted he deposited three hundred pounds (you got a 10% bonus if you deposited more than a hundred so he was actually getting a free thirty quid).

Ten minutes in he was down to two hundred and that was when he glanced up at the screen and almost knocked his laptop to the floor.

“What the hell?” he yelled. “Why aren’t we scoring? That dimwit Poole can’t be the only scorer we have. Jeez, we’ve been relying on that loser for way too long. Now he’s broken a toenail…no. We can’t lose!”

His wife ambled through from the kitchen. “You said you’d put the pinboard up this weekend, Zane.”

“I will, in a minute,” he grumbled, his face a scowl as he got up his social media account to follow what fans were saying. He hadn’t been watching closely; perhaps there was a glimmer of hope that they were playing well and were likely to bring it back in the second half.

“Zane, it’s nearly four o’clock. There isn’t much weekend left,” his wife spat. “And you said you’d take Lily to the park. She’s got her wellies on and everything. She’ll be disappointed.”

“Melissa, this is important work I’m doing here. Do you know how much I have riding on this damn game? And they’re damn well losing!”

Melissa pressed her lips together, catching sight of the roulette wheel on his laptop. “Zane, you said you’d stop all this. Can’t you just enjoy the match without the betting side. Wouldn’t that be less stressful?”

“Don’t talk to me about stress! What about you? I saw the clothes bags, you went shopping yesterday. You think I’m made of money?”

“I used my own wages,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

“Yeah yeah, we still need to make rent this month. It was irresponsible of you to do that. Can’t believe it…” he muttered, jabbing at his keyboard.

Melissa sighed and left.

The match ended. His team lost. His three hundred pounds was gone on the roulette and when he tried to add more his card was declined.

“Declined?” he snapped and with a roar he threw his laptop at the wall, where it crashed and went dark.

In a fit of rage he upturned the coffee table, spilling his empty bottles and bowl of crisps with a clatter. Then he kicked the sofa and threw the remote at the television screen.

Breathing heavily, his anger faded and depression sank in. he had no money. They would be evicted. His team had lost. He had no money. No money.

What was he supposed to do?

The answer came to him with blinding clarity and he stumbled like a zombie to his bedroom, where he found a spare belt and looped it around the sturdy curtain rail.

-

Lily Walker was admiring her wellies. They were dark blue and had bright yellow ducks on them. They matched her little plastic umbrella, which she was desperate to spring open wide but her mother insisted it was bad luck, so she just twirled the closed umbrella a few times.

Then, when her mum went to see her dad, she giggled and pushed, puffing out the umbrella so the little ducks around the trim danced as she twirled it round and round. When her mum returned she quickly snapped the umbrella shut, plastering an innocent grin on her face.

“I’m sorry Lily-bean,” her mum said, ruffling her hair sadly. “Daddy’s busy today. Go play by yourself outside, I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

“Okay,” Lily agreed, eager to go outside where she could open her umbrella as she pleased without consequence.

After an hour of her games, splashing in puddles and swinging by herself on the rusting set that the downstairs flat had bought for children now long since grown up, Lily trudged back home, bored with her own games and wondering if her dad was ready to play yet.

She sang loudly as she passed her mum in the kitchen. Her mum turned from her as she entered, clutching her phone closer to her ear and speaking louder to whoever she was talking to. Lily’s smile slipped when she caught sight of her mother’s smudged mascara and red-rimmed eyes.

But Lily continued into the living room and once again paused; the room was a mess. The television was loud with post-match interviews and the eyes of a footballer followed her as she crossed the room, picking her way carefully over broken glass.

“Daddy?” she called. “Are you okay?”

She was worried now. Worried that he had been hurt by whatever happened. The flat was small; he wasn’t in the bathroom and was unlikely to be in her own bedroom, so she headed for her parent’s room.

The carpet was thin and worn beneath her feet and soaked up the mud from her wellies as she crept along.

“Daddy?” she asked again.

Her little heart quickened as she carefully peeked into the room. At first she saw nothing; the big double bed had been made and the vanity table was stuffed with makeup, aftershave and a few tattered paperbacks.

When her eyes swept to the window she dropped her umbrella. For a moment she didn’t know what she was seeing but then the horrible bulging eyes seemed to lock onto her and she could almost hear her dad rasping her name.

Lily…

She screamed. A long, piercing scream that didn’t do justice to the horror that sank deep within her and planted like a seed, that would bloom throughout the rest of her living years.

And she laid the blame entirely on herself; her mum had told her it was back luck to open her umbrella indoors, and she hadn’t listened.

-

Don Meyer was livid. So his team had lost. What had they expected? Christian Poole had been out and the damn doctor that was supposed to save his ankle had never arrived.

How was that his fault?

But they had lost the title and the manager had been fired. Don had returned to Germany shortly after but his foul mood and newly developed drinking habit soon had his wife pack up and take the kids with her.

Good, he thought. They can all go to hell. I don’t need any of them.

In his darker moments he would realise how wrong this was. How he missed the laughter of his three year old son, who had been learning the game of football himself. Every time he tried to kick he would fall and land on his bottom, a moment of surprise before he would burst into giggles.

Don knew he couldn’t continue like this. He was too famous to stay here; the pitying eyes knew him not only as a failed football manager but also a failed husband and father. And that was far worse.

So he packed up his things and moved to America to try again. The soccer leagues there were starting to gather momentum, perhaps America was far away enough that his failure wouldn’t follow him like a dark cloud pissing all over his dreams.

But without a good reference he ended up in real estate just to make ends meet. His only connection to soccer being as coach to a Saturday league local team.

Still, the weather was nice, better than either Germany or England had been. Day after day of sunshine began to lift his spirits, despite his dismal performance at work and daily risk of dismissal. With the sun so bright and the water gleaming, his mood soared.

With that his confidence returned and he began to frequent the bars of Miami, in search of companionship. He missed sharing his bed and he was hoping to start a new life out here under the glorious skies of never-ending sun.

One night he was lucky; a beautiful dark woman with a smile that sent his pulse racing. He bought her a drink, then another, while she spilled out her story.

She was an aspiring writer, working hard to make her dream come true. Her boyfriend was lazy, didn’t carry his weight. She was thinking of ditching him, hoping for a fresh start.

Don was happy to provide that start and embellished his stardom as a football manager, how he had flown all over the world with his team and brought them to victory time and time again.

Her place was closer and they were soon tangled in the sheets, making love in the hot Miami night on cool sheets that smelled of orchids. Her skin was as hot as the sun had been that day, her lips melted to his as their bodied crashed together in passionate ecstasy.

As they lay in the afterglow, her nestled in his arms, Don’s heart skipped a beat when the sound of a key in the front door disturbed their peace.

A man sauntered in, unzipping his light jacket and flipping the lights. His expression went from calm to shocked as quickly as the lights had changed. Then slowly melted to anger.

“Who is this?” he roared.

The woman gathered the sheets around herself and was suddenly cool and distant to Don. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“Sorry? I work my butt off driving idiots around all day and let me tell you they don’t smell like roses in that damn taxi and you’re supposed to be writing and living off my money and I find you in bed with this loser?”

Don almost wanted to protest, then sensibly thought better of it. While the couple argued he discretely moved the grab his clothes. They were so angry they didn’t see him leave, hurrying down the steps of the condo zipping his jeans as he went.

Crazy world, he thought to himself. Not even knowing the half of it.