The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean (22 page)

The yer of fragments — fragments of statew fragments of time fragments of tales — begins to darken & come to an end. Frost gliters like stars on the erth in the Blinkbonny nite. Ice hardens the dust & welds it to the rubbl & we can discover & lift no mor. I wake each morning to byutiful flowers of ice on the crackd windo that mask the heaps of stones outside.

I wark. I crunch & slip & slide. I wer the toobig coat & toobig hat. I tiyten the blakfrinjd scarf at my throte. Smoke from fires drifts from chimneys & throu crackd roofs & broken warls. Sometyms I stand & look down to the sity & see smoke rising ther too & ther is no way to no if it rises from the fires of warmth or the fires of war.

Beyond the sity & abuv the sea the enjins of destruchson continue to fly & to do ther dredful work.

We feed the birds with bred & sausage fat.

Mr McCaufrey gives us meat to carry to Mams customas.

The bereaved stil come to Missus Malones. They still serch for ther lost loves with the mysteryous planshet. They stil gayz at me with yerning in ther eyes. Ther voyses waver with fere & chatter with cold. I do not become possessd. I speak kindly to the bereaved. I hold ther hands & stare into ther eyes. I close my eyes. I see nothing hear nothing. I do not see Dad. All is empty. I do not become possessd.

A grate silent snowstorm comes. It continues meny days and meny nites & leevs a deep wite covering upon the ruwins. In the distans the mowntans ar wite. The moors are wite. The distant sea is black. At nite the lite turns ther & turns & turns. We shiver Mam and I. We tel each other that wen the sun comes bak we wil wark together past the sity to the iland. Even as we say it we wunder if we wil. We burn broken timbers from the broken houses & we wer our coats inside & sit together close to keep each other warm.

The snow pawses for a wile & the sun shines brite and we see that all of this is very byutiful. Our feet make no sownd upon the snow. We see no crarling creechers. We see no tiny plants. We see the traks of pepl in the snow like weard unreadabl sentenses that wind bak & forth across Blinkbonny. We see the byutiful jagged footmarks of the birds. Our breath drifts sloly in the ded stil isy air. Our voyses seem to go nower.

1 morning we wark to Yankovya Yakubowska & find that she is gon. She is lying in her bed ded stil. Mam weeps. We bring Missus Malone who cleans Yankovyas body & prepares it for the erth. Mam cowms her hair a final time. We rap her in blankets & bring Mr McCaufrey to carry her. He carries her throu farling snow & we follow him in a littl proseshon – me my mam and Missus Malone & then a littl way behind is the artist Elizabeth.

Mr McCaufrey carrys Yankovya to what he says is 1 of Blinkbonnys deepest darkest holes. He carrys her down into what was wons a deep deep selar & carrys her further to what he says is an aynshent casm far beneeth.

We on the surfas sing All things brite & byutiful.

The snow stops the sun shines the birds sing.

Mr McCaufrey cums out of the erth agen.

We wark homeward across the gleeming snow throu what apears to be a wite wite afterlife.

Elizabeth stands still & draws us as we wark past her.

“Maybe Yankovya wil return to us throu the planshet,” says Missus Malone.

“Maybe” I say.

I no that she wil not.

Next day we selebrate the birth of Jesus in our kitchen. We say happy birthday to our hedless Jesus. Missus Malone brings cake. Mr McCaufrey brings a leg of lamb. We see Elizabth owtside like shes wayting to be let in. I go to the dor and carl her in.

As we eat the snow farls & farls & farls as if it wil farl forever mor.

“Maybe this is the yer that the world stops turning,” says Missus Malone. “Maybe this is the yer that winter never ends.”

But it is not that yer. The byutiful winter softens & melts. The spring starts coming bak.

1 aftanoon wer warkin home with a bag of bits in our hands & we hear footsteps behynd us. Wen we turn thers nothin. We wark on & the footsteps cum agen & we tern agen.

Its that treasure hunter.

“Tayk no noatis,” hisses Mam.

We wark on.

“Veronica!” cums a voys.

We keep on warkin.

“Hairdresser!” he says.

We keep on warking.

“Ar you ignorin me, pet?” cums the voys agen. “Veronica Id like to be introdusd to yor lad.”

Mam grips my hand ded tiyt.

Rattl rattl crunch goes the rubbl as we try to hurry home.

Rattl crunch as the man cums nearer & nearer.

“Stop a wile,” he hisses wen hes rite behiynd us.

“Stop a wile,” he hisses wen hes got me by the colla.

“Just stop a wile,” he hisses wen Mams beggin him to let me go.

He grins. He licks his lips.

“Ive workd sumthin owt,” he says. “Ive workd owt who this lad mite bluddy be.”

Mam gose for him with her fists up. He laffs. Then hes got a nife in his hand and hes sayin, “Go on then. Do what yor abowt to do & Ill do what I wil.”

I kik him. I kik him agen. He grips me tiyter.

He puls my fays rite close to his.

“I no sumbody that mite not be pleesd to no yor owt and abowt,” he says. “I no sumbody that mite pay good money to keep mowths like this won shut.”

I bite his hand rite throu the skin. I taste his blood & see it triklin.

“Wel yor a rite fukin moster arnt you?” says the treasure hunter. “Yor a —”

“No hes not,” cums another voys.

Its Mr McCaufrey cumin acros the rubbl. He grabs the treasure hunter by the throte.

“No hes not but yes I am,” he says. He yanks the man off me.

“Yes I am” as he gets the nife from him and drags him acros the rubbl rattl rattl scrayp scrayp crunch crunch crunch.

“I am” as he pulls the man behind a harf farlen wall.

“I am” as his hand with the nife plunjes downward.

“I am” as the man screams & screams agen.

Then silens.

Minuts pass in silens.

Mr McCaufrey cums owt to us agen.

“You didn’t hav yor nife?” he says to me.

“I kepe it for the butchers shop.”

“You must keepe it with you now & keepe it sharp. Sumtyms the butchers shop must be owt here in the world.”

Mam gasps sliytly at my syd.

“Dont wurry” wispers Mr McCaufrey. He wipes his hands on his butchers apron. “Evrythins OK. Ill chop him up & fling him deep. He wont be fownd. Whats the end of 1s like him in tyms like this? Go hoam in peese & never menshon this agen.”

Watch now. Follow the pensil and look upon this. Its an ordnry afternoon in Missus Malones. Or whats becum an ordnary afternoon in the life of Billy Dean. He is with the bereaved & hes swayin & swingin & naymin the words. The mother Cristina & the dorter Maria ar ther agen. He looks into ther eyes with such tenderness such simpathy. He does this job so well. I feel yor pane he says. I share yor loss. He tells them with his own eyes that thers nowt today — thers silens in the relms of darknes & other suchlike stuff. Missus Malone keeps looking at him too and he just stares bak at her. Nowt, Missus Malone. She looks away. Mebbe she has stoppd beleevin in it & she just gos on with it for the coyns & notes that are pressd into her parm eech time the day is dun.

Billy looks throu the warls. Its spring owt ther & wil soon be summer. He looks beyond Blinkbonny towards the sea & then the iland and he trys to imajin bein ther — to see the sunlite on the sea & to feel the sand beneeth his feet. Wil sand feel like dust? Wil it feel like rubbl? And how wil it be to see a horizon that is just empty just sea just sky just emptiness. O to go ther! To be ther! He and his mam tark mor & mor of leaving this plase & of going there & of bein free. Its time for that. Hes growin older stronger. Shurely its coming to the time that they must go. But they are timid & wary of the world & the wilderness of Blinkbonny seems so safe.

He sags down in his seat. Allows his finger to be pushd and pulld. Allows himself to swing & sway above the shining leters beneeth the dangling lite. He no longer wunders who dos all this pushin & this pullin. He serches the dark no longer. Giv me lite he siys within himself. Whos ther? carls Missus Malone. Whos ther whos ther? He shuts his eyes lets her voys & the voyses of the bereaved slide over him. O giv me lite! He trys to see the castl the beach the upsyd down boats the shining sea the bonny puffins flying in the air. Then thers faroff slappin lyk the lappin of warter. Then thers winds & breezes. Thers kind of muffld wispers muffld breth muffld crys & carls & gasps & siys. He lissens. He trys to hear more clerely. Its lyk lissenin to sumthin far away & deep insyd him all at wons. He lissens deeper deeper & its not like lissenin to the sownds of death at all. He sags down further in his seat. O giv me lite!

And then it comes.

It comes like hands at his throte sqeezin the life owt of him.

It comes like a hand shuvd rite inside his chest that grabs his heart and grips it and stops it.

It comes like hands liftin him up hiy & flingin him down to the erth & breakin arl his boans.

Like hands that rip him arl apart & fling the bits of him away across the world.

Like a hundred creechers porin in throu all his openings — mise & ants & dogs & cats & rats that run in throu his eyes his nostrils his mowth his ears his arse.

Like a roarin & screechin & yellin & thumpin.

Like evrythin thats insyd him is burstin to get owt.

Like evrythin thats owtsyd him is burstin to get in.

Its noys & anger fury yellin screems & payn & kik & punch & stab & smash & payn & yells & Aaaaaaa & Aaaaaaaaa & Aaaaaaaa & Aaaaaaaaaa!

And then just nothing just the pane of it just silens & the deep & endless pane of it.

Its pane that has been here for ever & that wil go on goin on for ever ever mor.

And then despite the endlessness ther cums a sudden stop.

And a wisper that is deep inside him a deepinsidehim plays that he has never nown til now.

A wisper that grows from the deepinsidehim plays & turns into a groan.

The groan is his. The groan is him.

“Yes. Yes. I am here. Yes. I love you.”

And then thers nothin nothin at all just a deep blak casm that he farls throu & farls throu & farls throu & farls throu for the rest of tym.

Tears farl like warm rane to his fase. Warm breth & tender fingers tuch his cheek. Gladsom words ar wisperd arl arownd.