Shooting Butterflies by Marika Cobbold

red one in the window and a white one with white fur at the back. ‘I reckon the white one would be really neat on you with your dark hair and all. You know Abba?’
    Grace nodded. ‘Sure.’
    â€˜Well, the dark one has a poncho just like this one. I saw her wear it on TV the other night. It’s, like, really cold in Finland even in the summer.’
    â€˜Sweden,’ Grace said. ‘Although she’s actually Norwegian.’
    The girl looked at her blankly for a moment. ‘Whatever. I find them European places real hard to remember. You’re British, aren’t you? I know about Britain.’
    Next she made Grace try on the white one, telling her it looked great. Grace asked to try the red and the assistant told her that too looked great. Grace asked her which of the two looked the greatest. The girl said there was nothing in it. Grace decided on the red, thinking that although it was half price it was still an expensive item of clothing and as she tended to spill quite a bit and sit in things it made sense to be practical and go for the darker colour.
    She had been aware, for minutes now, of people gatheringoutside the shop, but she had put it down to the sale. As she waited for the girl to wrap the poncho, however, she realised that these were not shoppers. Fists were raised and there was shouting, although she could not hear what exactly.
    â€˜Lord.’ The girl returned from the back, handing Grace a glossy pink and white paper carrier with the handles tied with a pink ribbon. ‘Mr Andersen won’t like this.’
    It was a demonstration, by now that much was clear to Grace. ‘But the war is over,’ she said. ‘Anyway, what does it have to do with the shop?’
    â€˜Nothing. But this isn’t about no war. It used to be all about that, but this here is about skin. Fur-skin. I don’t mind tellin’ ya that Mr Andersen has had about as much as he can take of that kinda thing. His blood pressure’s shooting up. He’s at the clinic right now, as a matter of fact, and it’s not as if they’re making any sense.’ She nodded towards the crowd outside. ‘I mean, them animals are dead anyway, so I say you might as well turn them into something pretty like a collar or a hat …’
    â€˜I suppose the point they’re making is that if there weren’t shops selling fur and people like me willing to buy, then the animals wouldn’t be dead in the first place.’
    â€˜I don’t agree with you there. I mean to say, there would be no point to them in the first place if it weren’t for that you could turn them into something nice and useful. Take them minks; I mean, yours is rabbit, but take them minks.’ She gesticulated towards a loose fur collar draped round the shoulders of a shop dummy. ‘No one in their right mind would have them breed if it wasn’t for what you could turn them into. Same with rabbits. You ask my Uncle Kirk what he thinks of rabbits. Darned pests, that’s what they are. As I see it, none of them critters would be allowed to be born if it wasn’t for folks like Mr Andersen. Anyway, you come with me and use the back door and that’ll bring you out right by the pizza parlour with no one being the wiser.’
    Grace told her she disliked the idea of sneaking out the back as if she had something to be ashamed of. The girl shrugged and said, ‘Suit yourself,’ before unlocking the door and closing it the second Grace was out.
    At first no one took any notice of her. They all seemed too busy managing their placards and shouting slogans. ‘He’s your brother not your coat,’ one guy yelled right in Grace’s face, but Grace didn’t think he even saw her. It was just as well, as she had a bag full of bunny brothers in her hand.
    An elderly woman walking her basset hound came down the sidewalk. The woman was fat and slow, but the dog was fatter and