The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean (19 page)

“But . . .”

She puts her finga on my lips.

“He caym insyd me. He caym insyd me meny times from that day forward. And after won of those times what was insyd me was you.”

“Me?”

“Yes you. A tiny you that was part of me. A you so tiny you cudnt even be seen.”

She smiles. The moon is passin throu the sky & no longer shinin down so brite on us.

“You wer the thing that caym from it arl,” she says. “You ar the miracl that says it wasnt all a sin.”

Its hard to lissen. I wonder wonder wonder.

“But how?” I say.

“O Billy Dean what a boy you ar!”

She stares up into the seelin.

“OK. Lissen,” she says.

“Im lissenin.”

“OK. Insyd a woman ther ar eggs.”

“Eggs? Lyk the eggs of the birds that fly in the air.”

“Yes. And insyd men there are tiny tiny swimmin things.”

“Lyk the fish that swim in the river & sea?”

“Kind of. Yes! Like the fish that swim in the river & sea.”

I wayt. She ponders.

“And,” I say.

“And the fish and the eggs get together in the body of the woman & make a brand new tiny body ther that grows into a Billy Dean.”

We say nothing for a wile.

“You understand?” she says.

“Yes” I say.

I keep on thinking.

“Of cors I do” I say.

We both laff at that. Just laff and laff.

The nite comes to an end. The owls stop hootin the birds start singin & the day is nerly bak agen.

I wake up proply & I say, “What a weard world. You solv won mistry & up jumps another mistry to tayk its plays.”

“Thats rite” she says. “So what wud you like for brekfast?”

“Sossijes,” I anser.

“Me too.”

And she kisses me & holds me cloas to her lovely body tiyt in her lovely arms.

Sumtyms Blinkbonny days ar just a blur with hardly eny form to them. One thing blends into another thing. Time slips & bends & buckls & twists. Mebbe what seems like days took months & mebbe months was really days. Mebbe things caym after what I think they caym befor. Shades & shados farl across the payj. Thers clowds & darknes & confyushon & telling of it all is like tryin to shyn a lyt into plases wer thers never been no lyt. Its like tryin to mayk shayps wer ther is no shayps. And I shyn my lyt & move my pensil & the pensil brakes or blunts & I sharpen it agen & the shayvins curl across my hand and farl to the erth & I press the point to the payj agen & start agen. And sumtyms I fynd nothing to rite & I am just lost & can find no sens nor shayp nor meanin & at such times the pensil wanders across the payper lyk a little beest creepin hoaplesly across the rubbl til suddenly a sent or a sownd catches its attenshun & it halts & lissens. Lyk wen it hers the knock on a dore.

Knock!

That knock.

The knock that eckos throu the blur of time & marks the first day of my dealin with the dead.

Knock.

Im at Missus Malones dore with Mam. My hairs all cleen and brushd. Mam knocks lowder.

Knock!

No anser.

Knock!

Shes abowt to knock agen but suddenly the dores open & Missus Malone peeps owt.

“I am not bluddy def!” she says. “Cum insyd, William.”

Mams abowt to step in with me but Missus Malone puts her hand up.

“Not you,” she says. “Just William me & the bereaved. You cum bak for him tonite.”

And she shuts the dore & leads me in & we go into the room with the taybl the curtans the chares & the liyt. She puts her hand on my chin & turns my fase bak & forwad. She looks at the bak of my nek.

“Very good,” she says. “Yor mother has always bene good at the clenliness. Now put this on.”

She lifts up a wite shirt thing. She helps to put it over my head. She tugs it into plase. It dangls down to my nees.

“Its always good to wer the wite,” she says. “It reminds us arl of aynjels gosts & godliness & of that clenliness I menshond. I of cors remane in blak to signify the dark forses we must confrunt. Wons the bereaved hav arriyvd, we wil begin proseedins with the planshet. Now sit down and lissen.”

I sit down at the taybl.

“It is arl very straytforwad,” she says, “& thers no nede to be nervos. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Missus Malone.”

“This evenin,” she says, “thers a cupl thats serchin for a son. Thers a woman whos lost a mother. And thers a mother with her dorter who seem to be after a father. It is our juty and our joy to help them in ther qwest.”

She lifts the planshet from under the tabl & puts it at the senter. She lites the lamp & the taybl shines & the letters glow.

“We wil now do sum revishon,” she sayes. “Name these letters.”

She poynts. I speak the wons I no. I no most of them by now which pleases her. She tests me by pushing the planshet slowly arownd the taybl then suddenly pointing at won leter. I speak it if I no it. I discover I am alredy lernin mor. But often I hav to paws to think & often I naym the leter rong.

“Not too bad,” she says. “But you must qwiken up, William. Sum of the gosts ar fast as litnin wons ther unda way.”

And she shows me that by wizzin the planshet arownd the watery taybl & stabbin at letters so fast its impossibl to kepe up.

“See what I mene?” she says. “Sum spirits get so exited by the hole experiens that they go qwite bluddy barmy. And sum can spel & sum carnt spel & sum forget arl abowt propa spellin wons ther under way. But it is up to us as the intermedyaries between the livin & the dead to make sum sens of it arl. This is qwite a responsibility, William. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Missus Malone.”

“Good. Wud you lyk a wisky?”

“A wisky?”

“Of cors you wudnt. I take a tot or 2 befor we start it gets the jooses flowin.”

She pores sum wisky into a glas and swigs. She pores sum mor.

“You ar not naymd William,” she says.

I just look at her.

“We wil tel them that you ar a visitor & this wil make them think of meny things such as a visitor from a different land wer ther is mor understanding of the unreal world or a visitor from that unreal world itself. We wil simply refer to you enigmaticly as The Aynjel Child & alow them to imajin the rest. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Missus Malone.”

“And I suppose I must tel you to behave yourself. Ther must be no daft carry on & you must be stil & solem & sho respect & put a look of innosens & holynes in yor eyes. But on the otha hand thers no need to tel you enythin of that cos that is how you ar enyway. Isnt it?”

“Is it, Missus Malone?”

“Yes it is. You ar perfect for this role, William. It is yor destiny isn’t it?”

“Is it, Missus Malone?”

“Yes indeed it is. Now, we must remember that the planshet is but a tool. Ther ar much mor profownd & direct ways that the dead can cum into contact with us. This may wel happen as the planshet wips arownd the taybl. If not, after the proseedings with the planshet hav come to a conclooshon I wil ask you to simply sit very stil with yor eyes closd. And as you sit ther, ther is the possibility that you wil be possesd. You dont know what I mean do you?”

“No, Missus Malone.”

“No. Poseshun is wen the spirits present themselves to you or even speke throu you & tayk over yor body & yor mynd. Do you understand?”

“No Missus Malone.”

“Of cors you don’t but wons it begins to ocur you wil. It hapens only to those who hav the graytest gifts to those whoos soles ar achoond to the yoonivers. I suspect that you may be 1 of these speshal pepl, William.”

“Thank you, Missus Malone.”

“When it hapens to you the spirit of a dead person wil enter you. You wil lose yourself & you wil becum anotha.”

She stops. She stares at me.

“I do hav grate faith in you, William Dean,” she says. “I have a feelin abowt you & have had it ever sins you slitherd owt into the world on the day of doom. Why wer you the 1 that apeard in this world at that very moment of disasta? Ther is sumthing speshal in yor body & in yor eyes. You wer sent here for sum purpos. And a boy with yor bakgrownd & with yor straynj life semes very wel fitted for the tasks wich I wil ask you to undertayk. Do you understand?”

“No, Missus Malone.”

“No, Missus Malone. Of cors you dont. But it wil probly be qwite plesant for you & wil bring you grate satisfacshon. Now it is just a mater of waytin for a wile.”

She swigs her wisky.

“Wud you lyk sumthing to ete?”

“No thank you, Missus Malone.”

“No. I expect you ar full of the butchers chops & sossijes. Wud you lyk sum warter?”

“Yes plees.”

“No thank you yes plees you ar so poliyt. My dorter wud hav bene like that as wel. Wudnt she, William?”

“Yes, Missus Malone.”

“Indeed.”

She givs me sum warter & she swigs the wisky & the lamp hisses over the gleemin table.

“Its good to sit with a childe in the house,” she says.

From owtsyd comes the screemin of guls and a distant clankin.

“I used to sit in this very room with my dorter,” she says. “Just like this. Of cors ther was no rownd taybl then & no letters & no planshet & no dark curtans just a niys big windo to let in the lite. Thats how the world was bak then. We wer just an ordnary littl pare of pepl in a littl ordnary room in a littl ordnary town. Sumtyms I try to imajin or dreme myself bak to such far off ordinry wundros days. I even try singin like I used to. Of cors the singin that was wons so swete cums owt mor like a croke these days. The voys wont sing just like the fete wont dans. But havin you here at last brings bak the memry & the feelin of it and it is lovely.”

She swigs the wisky pores another.

She starts to sing in a wobbly voys.

“Arl things brite & byutiful Arl creechers grate & smarl Arl things wys & wonderful The Lord . . .”

She stops & laffs.

“See,” she says. “A croke just lyk a bluddy frog. Never mind.”

She swigs agen.

She gayzes at me like Im miles & miles away.

“It was in this very room I new of you first, William Dean,” she says softly.

She swigs.

“It was an isy winters niyt,” she says. “Ill tel you of it qwik befor the arrival of the bereaved. Lissen to me but also keep lissenin for ther knock knock”

Id nown of yor Mam sins she was a littl bairn. I had a tender heart bak then. Id grown with a devoshon to the church & a sens of public juty. I becaym a nurs & workd in the grate hospital down in the sity. And I was a Friend of Eden House. I used to go to see the children ther — all the orfans & the fowndlings & the wons whose parents had given up on them. Id rede books to them when they wer smarl. Id wyp ther noses & chek ther throtes & tel them they wud all grow up to be things of wunder. Id giv adviys to them when they wer getting older. Id hav them here for tea when they wer gettin close to gowin owt into the world. From the time yor mam was tiny hairdressing was her thing. I used to let her practis on me. I can feel her littl fingers on me still. I can feel her brushing me still hear the snip snip of her sissors. When my dorter Daisy arrived yor mother used to pop in & play with her sumtyms.

O happy days O happy days.

When yor Mam was tayken on by Gabriellis I was so prowd. I was so pleesd when she got the littl house just down the road in Blinkbonny Row. She was still a bit timid stil a bit shy & stil so yung & stil so innosent — but ther she was striding owt into the world. I was getting older myself of cors. A lot of the tendernes was gettin driven owt of me. My heart was gettin colder & my thorts wer gettin bleaker & my behayvyor was startin to go a bit bad.

Much of this I suppows was to do with Daisys dad, my disappeard husband. Huh! But nows not the time to tel abowt that bluddy rat.

I could look at Daisy & at yungsters like yor mam & think that yes thers still a lot of goodness in the world. I cud stil think that arl that goodness will shurely shove asiyd the bad. I cud stil think that the bad buggers of the world cud be defeeted. Ha! Haha! What a bluddy innosent I was! And I stil beleevd in bluddy God! Imajin that. Ha! Pass that wisky. I need another glass to tel what happend next.

It was an isy winters niyt. Daisy was 8 yers old. Shed just got redy for bed — her red pyjamas with the ducks on them her teddy ber a glass of milk. I was redin her a barmy tayl of men with wings that livd on a distant iland. The wind was wippin throu the Blinkbonny streets owtside. Snow was farlin.