The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean (12 page)

I stare at Mam. She stares at me.

“It is for yor mothers sayk,” says Missus Malone. “So say yes, Missus Malone.”

“Y-yes, Missus M-M —”

“Malone. Exelent. Do you have a cote? Its rather fresh owt ther & its not as if yor used to the owtsyd air, is it?”

Mam puts the too big coat on me agen. She puts the woolly hat on my hed. She holds me tite.

“Noreen Blair” says Missus Malone. “And Dorothy Wilkinson also needs yor attenshun.”

“Yes, Missus Malone.”

“And dont wurry. I wil hav the boy bak befor you no hes gon. And it wil be to arl our benefits.”

And she gets her stik from the bak of the chare & opens the dor & ledes me owt.

She dos not hold my hand. Her stik taps as she warks. Her body roks but her fete do not slitha & slip & slyd.

“Hold yor hed hiy” she says. “Behayv as if yor prowd of bein owt in the world at last. Ar you prowd?”

“I d-dont . . .”

“Of cors you ar. Now keep up!”

I try to do this but I kepe on stumblin. I kepe on turnin my fase bak howmwards.

“And wil you plees stop doin that?” she says.

“Y-yes, M-M . . .”

“And you must also stop that stammering.”

“Y-yes, M-M . . .”

She clicks her tung & warks on & I follo crunch crunch rattl crunch.

She stops and looks at me.

“Yor mother” she says “is still in meny ways a littl girl. Do you see that? You cant so you must take it from me.”

She leeds agen across the rubbl crunch crunch stumbl stumbl scrayp rattl tap tap crunch.

Then she stops. Wer in a wyd open spase with the marks of an aynshent rode acros it & lyk evrywer thers heeps of stoans & feelds of dust.

“Now” she says. “Stand stil & pay atenshun. This is wer Saynt Patriks used to be. You dont know wat I mene but ther was a grate stoan bilding here. It was a church that was dedicayted to God Albluddymiyty. It was yor fathers church in fact.”

“M-my —”

“Yes yor fathers. Wilfred the preest. Wilfred the bad bugga. It was also the plase wer yor mother started. You no abowt that? Its clear from yor fays that you do not. She was fownd in a box in the doreway of the church. A few days old. The child of sum flibertyjibert or a tart. Thats arl ther is to say abowt that.”

She wayvs her stik in the air.

“Imajin it arownd you a grate stoan bilding that had lasted for a hundred yers. Can you imajin that? No of cors you carnt which is just as well. Bluddy stupid plase full of bluddy stupid lies.”

She kiks the rubbl and sends it scatterin. She pokes it with her stik.

“Ha! See how the miyty ar farlen ilushons broaken ashes to ashes dust to dust.”

I kik the dust myself & I watch it skip. I here the lovely sownd of it. Skitta skitta wip wip skip.

“This was won of the senters of destrucshon William,” she says.

Her lips tiyten as she looks at me.

“You dont know it do you?” she says.

“No w-what?”

“The story of the 5th of May the day of yor birth.”

“N-no.”

She kiks agen.

“Bluddy Hell” she says. “Its like ritin the book of bluddy Jenisis. But lets get it dun with even tho you cannot understand it. Whats a bom whats a church whats a dorter whats a day of doom? You havent got a cluw & why shud you but Ill tell it anyway.”

I scrayp the dust with my foot. I want to rush bak home but dare not moov.

“Itll only tayk a sentens or 2 & here they ar so get yor lugs alert OK?”

She prods me with the stik.

“OK?” she says.

“OK” I anser.

“OK Missus Malone!”

“OK Missus Malone.”

“OK. Sit yorself down on that big stone & Ill sit down on this. Now lugs wide open & brane switchd on cos Ill only tel you wons.”

“OK. It was a suny Sunday mornin. I was in yor littl room & yor mam was lyin on the bed in the agony of birth. Id bene with her the hole long nite like a good nurs & a good frend shud but at last here you cum arl slippy & sloppy & shinin with blud. And such a howl you hollerd when at last you slitherd owt of her. Its a boy! I yelld. Its a bonny littl baby boy!”

She pokes me with the stik agen.

“That was you,” she says. “A bonny littl boy named William Dean. That was the very first tym you apeard in this world. Waaa! you went. Waaaa waa waaaa! And bak in them days I cud smyl William. I cud laff & dans & smyl. I cut you from her & I put you to her tit & I dansd rownd yor bed with yor blessed blud on my hands. Imajin that, me doin that & singin lyk that. Can you imajin that?”

“I dont —”

“Of cors you cant. Not wen you look at this bitter old bint with a limp & a stik. But bak then I went, A boy! A boy! A lovely little boy! Woohoo! Haha! And you wer lovely & I see that lovely bairn insyd you stil.”

She reaches owt to me. She cups my chin in her hand.

“I see yor hansom Daddy in you too. But wer was that Daddy at that hour you mite ask? He was in his church sayin his prayers & preechin his preeches & singin his hims & turning the bred into flesh & the wyn into blud. O what a miracl worka was yor Dad! Do you think that? That yor Daddy was a worka of such miracls?”

“I dont no, Missus Malone.”

“Indeed you dont but lissen. It was you that was the miracl it was you that was the propa flesh & blud. But he wasnt even brayv enuf to be ther in attendans for you. You wer his tiny bluddy massiv secrit. Imajin that. What kynd of daddys that? Yor dads a cowad that cudnt admit to havin a son do you no that William Dean? For arl his pomps & grayses, do you no that William Dean? Wud you go on like that if you had a son William Dean?”

She pokes me with the stik agen.

“Wud you?” she says.

“I dont no Missus Malone.”

“The anser is that no you bluddy wudnt!”

She siys.

“It wasnt just him to tel the truth. I was a coward too. But he was worst of all. He was the big bluddy monster of the tale. Not yor mam cos she was led astray. And sertanly not you. The sloppy bluddy bawlin bairn was the 1 true innosent in that plase that day. Do you think youll stay an innosent?”

“I dont –”

She siys.

“Of cors you dont but I hav to say that its unlikly in this vayl of teres.”

She grones & rubs her hip.

“Oooo,” she goes. “Aaaaa! It burns in me stil the remnant of that day & wil do til the day Im dead and gon. It tayks mor than 2.”

“Mor than 2?” I say.

“I said it wud tayk a sentens or 2 to tel the tayl. I was rong. So kepe on lissenin OK?”

“OK, Missus Malone.”

“OK. Good boy.”

She stops. She ponders.

“You no” she says, “withowt what hapens next yor tayl wud just be a sordid old familyar tayl abowt a bad preest & a weak girl & the littl secret bairn. Gilt & payn & cowadis & sin & bla & bla & bluddy borin bla. But the bomers & ther boms mayd it into sumthin rather diffrent.”

She pokes the erth.

“You dont no what a bom is but soon youl get the jist. You wer born into a time of war William Dean. Until yor birth the war was far away acros the sea & past the mowntans & in hiden sitys & faroff feelds. So we wer like you bak then William Dean. Non of us in littl Blinkbonny new enything real abowt war until that sunny Sunday mornin when the war came rite into Blinkbonnys hart. Just 3 daft fools in 3 littl truks brout it to us. The truks wer loded up with boms. They parkd a truk owtside the church & a truk insyd Blinkbonny Sqare & the third they put in Blinkbonny Row. And they steppd down from the truks & wanderd throu the town & each had a bom rappd rownd his belly & another on his bak. Theyve just been wanderin a few short minutes when the boms on the trucks start goin off. Bang bang bluddy boom kabluddybangbangboom! Down goes the frunt of Saynte Patriks church & down gose the plays calld Eden Hows & disasta hits Blinkbonny Sqare & cataclism erupts in Blinkbonny Row. Down go walls & down go roofs & smash gos glass. Grate holes open in the erth & fyr rayjes & smoke belches & filth & poyson are rushin throu the Blinkbonny air. And this is just the start of it for the booms of them boms is the signal for 3 brite & dedicayted fellers to start switchin ther switches & settin off the boms on ther baks & blowin themselvs & meny mor to smithereens.”

She pawses. She stares up into the empty air.

“Ha! They said theyd send themselves to Paradiys & us to Hell. Ha! Imajin thinkin a thing like a bom cud do a thing like that. Arl they dun was kil & blo things up & kil & kil & mayk a bluddy mess & start a biger bluddy mess thats kept on gowin ever sins. What bluddy fools! I herd the bangs & wollops of the truck boms as I dansd by the bed. I stoppd. The hole hows shudderd. Warls just beyond us crashd into the erth. The seelin siyed & grayt craks opend in it. The warls qwayked. I put a blanket over the mother & the child. I ran owt to the windo of the kitchen. I lookd owt to the topplin bildins & smoak & flayms & screems. Too late for enything to be dun of cors. Too late for eny of the Blinkbonnys that wer dun across the land that day. Too late for all the Blinkbonnys thats bene gettin dun sins the start of time & thatll get dun till the day it ends.”

She pokes the erth with her stik agen.

“Look,” she says. “You can still see the scorch marks on meny of the stones. You can see arl the mixtures & minglins. The ash is mingld with the rubbl. Boans with shrapnel. Blud with dust. Screems is mingld with the silens. Hell is arl mixd up with Heaven. The soles of arl thats gon is mingld with the wons thats left alyv. This plays is filld with death William Dean. Its better that you no it now at the beginin of yor tym in it.”

She stirs the erth.

“Why did they do it here? Why did they do it in littl Blinkbonny that was such an ordnary littl peesful plays? In the end ther is no anser. But I gess they thort they wer goin for ordinary littl peepl ordinary littl famlys. I gess they thort they wer goin for the hart. They went for lots of harts in lots of playses on that day. Mebbe they got some of them. But mebbe they missd Blinkbonnys hart, William, when they missd littl you.”

She keeps on scraypin the erth & stirrin the dust. I see the dust & rubbl yes but I also see beetls & spidas & the weeds & flowas that grow in the dust. I see things that can hardly be sene at arl things so tiny a millyon of them cud fit into the hand of Billy Dean. Ther ar wite things blak things brown things that move & liv & tiny tiny plants that show ther first tiny shoots of grene. I reech down towards it arl & tuch a tiny wite petal with my fingertip & its so soft & tenda & lovely and O then a beetl crarls onto my hand & then anotha then anotha & a littl spida too & I fele the tiny ticklin of thees lovely livin creechers on my skin. I see livin creechers crawlin acros the stoans of death. I see livin plants growin owt of the dust of death. I see turf that spreds across the stones I see brite green moss & am entransd.

Missus Malone stands abuv me leenin on her stick & lookin at me with her cold eyes.

I kepe on starin & as I stare I see thers sumthin stickin up just lyk its poyntin at me. I tuch it & tayk it betwene my fingas & I see it is itself a finga itself curlin up owt of the erth. I pul it free of the tangl of roots that hold it ther. Its smooth & wite. I hold it agenst my own finga & see that it is just as slenda just as long as a finga of my own but it cannot shift & moov lyk myn can for it is a thing of stoan.

“What ar you doin ther William?” says Missus Malone.

Then she sees.

“Ha!” she says. “And look — a hole hand rests rite ther.”

I see it. A little hand no biger than my own lyin flat with its parm open lyk it is beseechin me or maykin an offerin to me. I stand up & reech towards it & pik it owt from the rubbl too. I nock the roots & dust & dirt off it & see how smooth it is how cool how lovely.

“Bluddy relics evrywer,” says Missus Malone. “Put them in yor pocket William. They wil remind you of how things used to be & they will be a syn of the worlds frajility & of the evil & ilushons of mankynd. O look another crakpot thing!”

I crowch agen. Ther is a hole foot this tym, with a sandal paynted on it.

“Tayk that too if you wud lyk it,” says Missus Malone. “Straynj how the styupid creations of man last longa than the man hisself. Propa flesh & bone wud hav bene long gon by now & good bluddy riddans to it. Now cum along. O I tel you it givs me grate plesha to crunch this plays beneeth my fete & it shud do the saym to you.”