As the blog tour for Teresa Solana’s The Butterly House, translated from Catalan by Peter Bush, is coming to an end, allow me to invite you to an extract from the book. However, before that I would like to share posts from other bloggers who have already read the novel. They are: LoveBooks, ReadBooks, Jen Med’s Book Reviews, Blue Book Balloon, AnnaBookBel, Peter Turns the Page, Shots Blog, WildWritingLife Madame Bibi Lophile Recommends, West Words Reviews and Books’n’banter.
Now, Chapter 5 of The Butterfly House: Barcelona at its noirest (Barcelona Nights Book 2):
‘There’s a dead woman in the garden,’ repeated Gerard, struggling to recover his breath.
‘What do you mean?’
Standing in the doorway, a stunned Violeta stared at Gerard’s frightened face.
‘What I said. I found a woman and I think she’s dead. I reckon she’s been murdered.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m not.’
Gerard stood to one side and Violeta took a few steps towards him.
‘Where is she?’
‘Next to the elder tree,’ said Gerard, pointing to a tree by one of the walls surrounding the property.
Violeta stood on her tiptoes and, leaning into Gerard, strained her neck. Straight away she saw the red painted nails on the bare feet sticking out of the green weeds.
‘Oh my God, I think I can see her… Are you sure she’s dead?’
‘I think so, well…’
‘We should go and check…’
They made their way through the bushes of wild mustard that had started to take over the garden at the beginning of spring. Violeta walked towards the body. The woman’s skirt was rolled up, her legs were apart and her knickers had been pulled down to her knees. Violeta averted her gaze.
‘Are you OK?’ asked Gerard.
‘Yes, I just need a moment.’
The stranger lay there, mouth open, eyes shut. To confirm she was dead, Violeta stooped down to find her pulse. As she held out her hand, she saw the woman had several injuries to the chest and stomach, and she instinctively stood up and stepped back. The ground was wet and she almost slipped, but Gerard came to the rescue, grabbed her, making sure she didn’t fall.
‘She’s been stabbed,’ she muttered.
Her heart was pounding, and as she pulled herself up, her legs went all floppy again. She made every effort to stay on her feet, but began to feel nauseous, and realised she was about to pass out. Leaning against Gerard, she made her way to one of the plastic chairs scattered across the garden and sat down.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Gerard.
‘Trying not to faint,’ said Violeta, bending forward and putting her head between her knees.
She had to steady herself. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a corpse, though it was the first time she’d found herself at a crime scene and not an aseptic autopsy room listening to Octavi droning on about the transformations the body undergoes after death… Besides, that woman was the victim of an attack, not of a random accident or illness. When she began to feel the blood returning to her cheeks, she got up and, with Gerard behind her, returned to the spot where the body lay.
The victim was a young woman, but her appearance didn’t match the aesthetic of the girls who lived in the butterfly house or other nearby squats. She was dressed conventionally, in the fashionable colours of that season, and the gaudy pattern on her blouse hid the blood, injuries and torn material. Violeta stooped down and scrutinised her for a few seconds.
‘She’s been stabbed, though there’s not much sign of blood,’ she said, thinking aloud.
‘And what does that imply?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Gerard’s shouts had also alerted the other house occupants who gradually emerged and congregated in the garden.
‘What the fuck’s happened?’
‘Where are the cops?’
‘I heard someone screaming…’
‘Fuck, I feel shattered…’
Twenty or so squatters lived in the butterfly house, but on weekends that number tripled. Violeta knew what their parties and meetings were like and thought it very unlikely any of them were involved in that woman’s death.
‘For fuck’s sake…’ exclaimed a shirtless young man in jeans, the first of them to set eyes on the corpse. ‘What on earth…’
‘I found her this morning. I went out to get some breakfast and spotted her when I came back,’ said Gerard.
The youngsters recoiled and looked away in horror.
‘Do you know who she is? Does anyone recognise her?’ asked Violeta.
They all shook their heads.
‘She’s not one of us,’ said one male voice. ‘And I don’t think she’s from around here either.’
‘Nor do I…’
‘Poor thing…!’ muttered a girl.
A couple of lads went to approach her, out of curiosity, but Violeta put her body between the corpse and the squatters.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ she warned them. ‘I’m going to call the Mossos.’
‘The Mossos?’ exclaimed a girl.
‘You want to call the cops?’
‘Since when did we ever trust them pigs, I’d like to know?’ said a half-naked lad with dreads as long as Violeta’s.
Violeta recognised his voice: he was an idiot with an alpha-male complex, and, according to some, a snitch.
‘You got a better idea? Just so you know, this is a murder,’ retorted Violeta.
‘They’ll pin it on us. You know the cops have got it in for us. They’ll seize the opportunity to accuse us of being rapists and murderers. As if we didn’t know how they like to set us up!’
‘Fuck, they’ll put us inside!’ shouted another voice.
‘I pass…’
‘So do I…’
Violeta confronted the people protesting.
‘So what do you want to do?’ she exclaimed. ‘Convene a meeting and vote on whether we leave her here, and act as if nothing’s happened?’
‘Violeta’s right. We must tell the police,’ said a female voice.
‘Don’t count on me… I’m outta here.’
‘Me too!’
Most of the young people started to walk towards the house. Ignoring the protests, Violeta took out her mobile and dialled Norma’s number.
‘Nothing will happen to you, kid, your mum’s a cop…’ snapped a dark-haired girl with her fair share of piercings.
‘Fuck off, you!’ shouted Violeta viciously. And addressing the group of youngsters still standing around her, she added, ‘If I were you, I’d go back to the house and give it a good clean. This place will soon be swarming with cops.’
