The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean (29 page)

Moov the pensil. Make the marks. Rite what must be writ.

Start with sumthin simpl. Start with the neklas thats put in yor parm as you sit at the tabl in Missus Malones. Its put ther by an old bloak with a tender fase. His naym is James. Hes shy. He looks away when he tels you how much he lovd her. It was all so long ago & it only lasted a littl wile & they wer hardly mor than kids but hes never been abl to get her out of his mynd. He only had time to giv her a singl gift and this is it. You look at it a thin and frajiyl band of silva.

“I just wunder,” he says, “if shes stil ther sumwer. I just wunder if I miyt sumhow get to see her agen.”

“Her naym?” you ask him.

“Her naym was Beth.”

You no so easy how to do it by now. The tuch of the object on yor skin the voys of the bereaved in your ear the watchin groop at the watery taybl the eyes of Missus Malone.

Then the silens.

And the waytin.

Then yor smashd apart & flung into the dark.

And now you see James the old man as a yung man. Hes on a brij the suns shinin thers a jentl breeez thers seaguls flyin under him & the waters flowin far below. Thers a bote on the river with music cumin from it. Thers a sity on the riverbanks. Towers & churches & houses. Evrythings intact nothin smashd nothin in ruwinayshon. Everythin as it shud be evrythin as it was before the forses of destrucshon got to work. Thers meny peple warkin on the brij & on the paths beside the river. You feel his heart beatin. You feel the strenth & the laffter in him. Hes hummin a sweet tune to himself. Hes got the silver neklas in his poket. He tuches it to chek its ther and smiles to hisself. He looks down and its all so lovly the sparklin wayvs the brite wite gulls the red & blue bote & the music. And then he turns and here she cums the won hes bene expecting. Beth. She warks qwik and laffing and with her blak shoos gowing clak clak clak on the path of the bridj and her red hair lifting round her hed & her red cote swirling in the breez & her green eyes shining brite so brite. And he warks fast to meet her and he puts his arms out wide & probly you do too in the depths of yor poseshun.

“Yes,” you grone. “Shes on the bridj. Shes coming to you. Red hair red cote green eyes. Shes callin owt for you. James! James! Shes laffing with the joy of seein you!”

Probly James is grippin you tiyt by now. Probly hes gaspin, “Yes thats her thats her thats her! Thats Beth! O Billy you hav brout her bak to me.”

But she dosnt stay. Yor smashd apart agen & flung owt of the lite & thers a new voys carling from the heart of all the dark.

“Billy! Billy! Billy!”

And its yor own mothers voys. And its not an intens wisper comin throu Blinkbonny to call you home. Its a yell of payn & shok & fere comin from the deepest darknes from among the lejons of the dead.

“Billy!” she calls. “O look what he has done to me!”

James is hunchd besiyd you to welcom you bak to thank you & prayz you. Missus Malones at his back then the others at the watery taybl. Thers nothing you can say to nobody. You run from the room down the stares through the dore onto the rubbl crunchcrunchcrunchrunchcrunch stars starin moon glarin cold breez blowin. Crunchcrunchcrunch bloodycrunch & stoans & pebbls scatterin & skitterin & feet slitherin slippin slydin. And all the way acros the ruwins of Blinkbonny its stil in yor hed that voys even tho the poseshuns over. Billy Billy Billy Billy! That voys yelling like therl never be no end to it but then the voys twists & lifts hiyer & becums a howl a screem with no words in it like therl never be no words agen like everything is over like all the sens is gon like ther is just a screem thatll fill the world foreva mor.

You run to the house. You open the dore. Insyd thers just silens. The curtans ar shut. A dim lyts shinin.

You enter the hevanly kitchin & ther she lies dead stil & sylent at Jesus fete.

Not a sownd in her not a moovment in her not a breth.

How to tell the payn of that? Dont even try is the anser.

Ther is no marks to mayk no words to rite no tales to tel thatd catch the smarlest jist of it.

Just ther she lys.

Just she is dead.

And just you ly down ther with her & weep & weep & you wud weep for ever more.

If it wasnt for the moovments that you hear within the house.

If it wasnt for the voyses.

If it wasnt for the qwestion,

“Master! What brings you here so soon? We wernt expectin you just yet.”

Its Jack & Joe in the doorway. Its Jack & Joe in the passage from the room in wich I grew. The first dore and the second dore ar hangin off ther hinjes and the room in wich I grew is opend up.

“Hav you cum to work a miracl O Master?” says Jack.

“Hav you cum to bring her bak?” says Joe.

“It didnt work today,” says Jack.

“That was just practis,” says Joe.

“And practis mayks perfect,” says Jack.

“So lets get him dead & he can begin to practis gettin his self bak to life.”

“And he can bring his blessed mother bak wile hes abowt it.”

And hes got a nife in his hand. And hes comin at me. And he wispers,

“We told you how we fered for you Billyboy. We told you how you needed sum protecshun. But whos here now to protect you from this?”

He rases the nife. He shows his teeth & grins.

“Acsept this blessing from yor father, Billyboy.”

But he dusnt expect a nife to be in my hand too. My butchers nife the 1 Ive kept so sharp & clean the 1 Ive got the fingers and the tuch for the 1 I sharpen this very pensil with. His clowths ar thin his skin is thin his flesh is soft as eny flesh. The nife goes in so easy. I stab it sudden & deep into his guts. I yank it owt & Joes in shok in deep supryz. I stab it into him as wel into his nek. The 2 of them ar gasping & gogglin on the flor at my feet & the bloods cumin owt of them in spurts.

I neel by them.

“This is the healin tuch,” I tel them. “This is the bluddy blessing from the Master Billy Dean.”

And I stab them both agen & then agen until ther gon into the dark.

Then ly with Mam agen in sylens with the blood on me & the payn & silens in me & I think its over.

Then I smel the smoke of the blak cigaret & see it driftin throu the doors.

And then his voice.

“Billy. Come in here.”

Hes on the sofa. Hes all in blak. The bulb abuv him flickers. The full moons in the windo in the roof. Thers the stench of mows & filth beneeth the sent of his sigaret. The sofas all nibbld up & the plays is worn owt & aynshent. Dust and rubbl and fallen plaster lie all across the flore. His eyes ar gleemin but I can see that hes starting to look aynshent too. Creeses in his cheeks & gray in his hair & yello in his eyes.

“Daddy,” I wisper like a littl boy.

“Hello Billy.”

I catch my breth at his words at his voys that for yers Ive only herd in dremes.

“I thort youd be with the dead all nite,” he says.

“I was. But now ther gon.”

“Haha! Thats good to no.”

“My Mam!” I gasp.

He closes his eyes he grones.

“Yes. Yor mam. You shud hav stayd away, Billy. I would hav been long gone. Its not what I intended.”

He draws deeply on his sigaret. It crackls. I hear the smoke seething deep down inside him. He breeths it out in a ploom arownd his hed.

“But here you ar,” he says, “& maybe theres never been any other way it cud turn owt.”

I stand ther styoopidly. I want to rush into his arms I want to plunj my nife into him I want to weep & wail.

“The tayls of you hav travelld far and wyd,” he says.

“Hav they?”

“Yes. I saw how pepl watchd you today & how they lovd you. Yor growing into a fine yung man, Billy. It dosnt matter abowt the dead man. Nobody cud do that.”

“My Mam!” I carl.

“I no, my son. And she was so byutiful.”

He lenes bak & looks arownd the room & stares up at the windo abuv.

“Do you remember how we lookd at the stars Billy?”

“Yes.”

“Id never seen them truly until I saw them throu yor eyes. And do you remember the beests and the books and —”

“Yes. Yes.”

“I am like God, Billy.”

“Like God?”

“Yes. Remember how I told you he had to come bak to look upon his creation?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Silly God. And just think what happend to him. Come closer. Let me tuch you.”

“My Mam!” I wisper.

“I no, my son. I didnt intend it. Come. Let me hold you 1 last tym.”

He laffs softly.

“I thort Id rush into Blinkbonny see my boy then get sum things and then away. That was my plan. Silly Dad.”

He poynts to sum paypers spred out on the flore.

I kneel down and look. Ther all fayded & nibbld but I can make them owt. Pitchers of him that I drew when I was a littl boy. Scribbld tales about him. The creesd crackd fotograf I kept of him. The little note he left me wons at the end of my unreedabl tayl of Noa and the fludd.

You are coming along very well, my son. With love and blessings from Father Wilfred.

The sellotaypd paje of his words.

YOU ARE A MONSTER, BILLY DEAN.

My tears splash down.

“I should never hav left thees things here in the first plays, Billy. Ther not things that anywon shud no about a priest.”

He opens his black cote & shows the shining purpl silk beneeth.

“And look how splendid yor father the priest has become, Billy. Arnt you prowd?”

“My mam!”

He reeches owt to me.

“I love you Billy. I always lovd you. But you must no that yor mother was never realy anything to me.”

“O Dad!”

“Its true Billy. Dus it make you hate me? Perhaps it dus. Perhaps it shud. Perhaps it helps you to no how evil the world is & how evil it has always been & how evil it is becoming. God is gon, Billy, & wer all turnd to monsters. Me espeshaly Billy. Evil. I was evil from the start. The evidens is all arownd.”

He stands up & despyt myself I stand befor him & let him hold me. I feel his heart his breth I smel his sent.

“Hav you made anything for me this time, Billy?”

“Anything?”

“No masterpees?”

“No.”

He reeches into his poket. He takes owt the aynshent book ritten with the fether of a bird on the skin of a beest.

“The most byutiful thing Ive ever ownd,” he says. “Ive carryd it with me always.”

He holds it tenderly. Its darkend & dryd owt & hardend to a shrunken twisted thing. I tuch it & I tuch his preshus skin besyd it.

He smyls.

“And do you remember how you rote on me?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Yes, with the fether. It stayed for many days — a masterpees upon my skin. Ha! And do you remember the words drew blood & how our blood mingld?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. So my blood is in you. I saw today that you have much of me in you. Dos that mene you wil becom as evil as I? Wil you becum a monster?”

“I dont no, Dad. Yor not evil, Dad.”

“Arent I? Ha! I am proud of you, Billy. How did you turn owt to be so good?”

I think of the nife in my hand of Jack & Joe lying dead next dore.

“I’m not good,” I tell him.

“Oh son. Come here. Let us put an end to it at last.”

And he groans and drops the masterpeese to the flore. I have the blakfrinjd scarf on. He takes the ends of it in his hands.