Shooting Butterflies by Marika Cobbold Page A

slower still as it pattered along behind, its stomach trailing the ground. Its tail was wagging in a lazy fashion. Maybe the hot tarmac felt good against its belly. Seeing the commotion, the woman prepared to cross the street, but by now the dog was getting nervous, circling its owner, entwining her trunk-legs with the lead. Grace had taken her camera from her crochet bag, about to take a picture of the troubled animal in the midst of the demonstration. In photography class at school, one of their visiting lecturers had talked a lot about irony. Grace reckoned that this was just what he had meant. She raised the camera and took her shot just as the basset hound lunged in panic, sending its owner tumbling, her white straw hat down over her face, her mouth open in a wide O. Grace’s shot turned out extra ironic.
    She was trying to help the old woman to her feet when a girl, her hair styled in a hostile bob, blocked her way. She made a grab for the carrier bag and yanked out the poncho with a triumphant shriek. ‘Blood-stained bitch,’ she yelled. Grace was slow to react as she was still trying to reach the old woman who remained sprawled on the pavement, the panicking basset hound pulling the lead ever tighter around her thick ankles. Grace, on her hands and knees now, dirty sneakers and frayed denim legs marching all round her, managed to reach out and grab the dog’s collar, unclipping the lead before getting to her feet and grabbing the old woman by the wrist, pulling and yanking until she had got her upright. The basset hound ran free; its high-pitched barking could be heard going down towards the river. ‘Dog went that way,’ Grace said.
    After that it took her a few minutes to locate the demonstrator who had stolen her poncho, but there she was, still swinging the bag over her head as if it was the enemy standard.
    â€˜Give that back,’ Grace said. ‘Give that back immediately.’ She made a grab for the poncho – sale or not, it had cost her fortydollars – but the woman was too quick and with a flick of her shot-putter’s wrist she had sent it flying across the wall into someone’s front yard. ‘Now what good will that do the poor creature?’ Grace wanted to know. ‘It was a dead rabbit in there, not Lazarus.’
    The woman raised her fist in a triumphant gesture. She was shouting and her wide-open mouth was inches from Grace’s face. She was carrying on as if she’d done something brave, something special, rather than chucking away forty dollars’ worth of clothing. For a second Grace hated her and that second was enough for her to punch a fist straight into that inviting mouth. By the time her knuckles made contact with the woman’s teeth she was already regretting hitting her.
    At the police station there didn’t seem much point in trying to explain that she had not, in fact, been part of the demonstration but an innocent shopper caught up in the hubbub. So she sat quietly with the others on the benches lining the walls of the small station, waiting for her turn to be processed. It was all taking such a long time. It had been a year since the last anti-war demo and, apart from a few domestic disputes and a guy caught speeding in his father’s car, not much in the way of crime occurred in Kendall. Grace supposed the police were unused to the sheer volume of suspects. She must have nodded off, and when she woke up the throng had cleared and there were fewer than ten people waiting. Amongst them was the boy she had been looking out for these last few days: Jefferson McGraw. Grace stared at him. She had a habit of staring which always annoyed Mrs Shield. But as Grace said, ‘What is the point of people if you can’t take a good look at them?’
    Jefferson McGraw must have noticed that stare because his cheek, the one turned towards her, turned pink. Seconds later he sat down next to her on the bench. ‘Pigs,’ he