The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean

by David Almond

  “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.

  Ther cum a knock on the dore & it was Veronica yor mother. Snow all over her hair wippd wild by the wind. I brung her in & took her coat off. She cud hardly rays her eyes cud hardly speke cud hardly stop her tremblin.

  She fel agenst me.

  “Whats up my littl love?” I said.

  “Im sorry Missus Malone,” she sobbd. “I didnt no who els to cum to.”

  I put Daisy to bed & caym bak to yor mother but she wudnt tel me what it was. She said she cudnt tel me not yet & she said that sumwon els was on the way. We just sat ther as the wind began to carm owtsyd. I dint no what to do. We cudnt just sit ther lyk a pare of statews. And then caym another knock at the dor & ther stood the priest arl strong & hansom & dressd in blak & mergin with the blak & glitterin nite behind.

  He caym in. He greeted yor mother carmly. I gayv him a wisky. He lit a blak sigaret. He took a deep breth of smoke & then he said,

  “This girl is in trubl Missus Malone.”

  He lookd at me with his brite bluw piersing eyes.

  “It cud happen to eny of us” he
said.

  I started gettin the pitcha fast enuf.

  “Whos is it?” I said.

  “I dont know” said Veronica. “Nobodys, Missus Malone.”

  “Nobodys?” I anserd. “So it is an immaculate . . .”

  Ha. And then I fel silent & lookd at the priest. He just lookd carmly bak at me & let the smoke trickl from his nostrils & seeth throu his teeth.

  “Ther but for the grase of God,” he said.

  Ther was even the gleme of a smyl in his eyes.

  “It is up to us to show compashon,” he said. “Don’t you agree Missus Malone? Don’t you agree?”

  And then he said hed lead us in a littl prare. He joyned his hands & so did we & he carld down Gods understyanding forgivnes & compashun.

  After that, William, I must admit that I wisperd, “You cud get rid of it, Veronica.”

  O how she sobbd in horra at the thort of that. She sobbd deep into her hands & was rackd with greef. The preest? He just lookd away & smokd for a few minuts then he turnd his eyes bak to me.

  “Sujest it agen,” he wisperd.

  So I put my arm arownd the girl & sujested it agen.

  “I cudnt Missus Malone” she cryd. “I just cudnt.”

  And I new that was trew & so did the preest. And I remember I then nelt down & held my fays close to yor mothers belly & I wisperd to the chyld that lay rappd deep insyd, to the littl story waytin to be born.

  “Dont wory. Well take care of you littl creecher.”

  Yor father stubbd his fag owt. He put his hands arownd my skull & the skull of yor mother.

  “This baby has been sent by God abuv,” he said, “& it is we who hav bene chosen to receev it & protect it. We wil fynd a way to let the childe grow in grase.”

  “Thank you Father,” said yor mother.

  “Dont wory,” he said like he was tarkin to a littl child.

  Soon I rappd Veronica in an aynshent woollen cote. I patted her belly & kissd her cheke. I rappd her in love & compashon then sent her owt into the winter nite. I told her to go home and to stay qwiyet and said that everything wud be wel.

  I closd the dore & turnd bak to the priest with his jet blak hair & his shynin eyes.

  “Sumtyms,” he said, “my vocashon is a grate torchur to me. You must no that. I hav always nown that God has a purpos for me. Ther is alredy tark of me being a bishop 1 day. And mebbe even that wil not be enuf for me. But despyt arl this I hav also always nown that I canot abandon the things of the world. My destiny is to be unlyk other priests.”

  He offerd me a blak sigaret & we smoaked.

  “In the earlyest days it was not so hard,” he said.

  “In the earlyest days?”

  “Yes. In the earlyest days the priest was not simply a man of spirit. He was a man of the world & the flesh a man of power & blood.”

  He moovd closer. And I did sens the power in him William. I sensd the kind of power I sens in you his son. & I sensd that alredy he was creating the littl secret speshal world with you at its heart.

  “Perhaps what is happening has been destind to happen,” he said. He smyld. “I hav often fownd in myself the desyr to hav a son.”

  I said that of cors it cud be a dorter but he just said no. It cud not be. He stared into the lite & we smokd together. He was deep in thort. He sat very very close.

  “You wil help us with arl this?” he said.

  “Yes Father,” I wisperd.

  “Can we keep it secret?” he said.

  I just laffd & told him no. I moovd my hands to show the shayp of a grayt belly on me.

  He siyed.

  “Of cors we cant. But of cors it can hav no conecshon with me.”

  Of cors I agreed with that.

  He ponderd agen & smiled & said,

  “I no. Well tell a tayl of 1 of those daft wild lads passing throu Blinkbonny & leadin the girl astray. Its common enuf isnt it? Familiar enuf?”

  I told him that yes of cors it was familiar enuf. And I told him it wud cum as no surpryz. Pepl wud simply say like mother like dorter. Theyd say she was nothin but a flibertygibert desended from a tart.

  He laffd when I said that & he litely punchd my arm.

  “Thats the mother of my son yor tarkin of!” he said.

  I grinnd bak at him & wisperd,

  “We cud even say it was the devil hisself who did the deed, Father Wilfred.”

  He laffd.

  “Indeed we cud Missus Malone. Indeed we cud.”

  And we stoppd tarkin of the girl & the preshus child in her & of the devil & then O bluddy buggerin Hell we did things. We did many foolish things wile Daisy my dorter slept innosently in her bed upstares.

  Missus Malone siys. She looks at me across the shining taybl. She runs her fingas over the shining letters. She swigs her wisky.

  “We ar arl of us such bluddy idyots, William,” she says. “Lern that lesson qwik befor yor letters and yor numbers. Its so easy to be tempted & deseevd & led astray & brout to beleev the most foolish things. Its not just vishins of Paradiys that do the harm. Its brite blu eyes & blak sigarets & wisperd prares & tark of holyness & vocashon & destiny & wite collars shinin owt agenst the blak & lips & tungs & . . .”

  “Did he cum insyd you?” I say.

  She blinks.

  “Eh?” She says.

  “Did the priest Wilfred my father cum insyd you?”

  She takes a gulp from the glass & stares at me.

  “What do you no of such things?” she says.

  I dont tel her abowt eggs & fish. I just ask agen.

  “Did he cum insyd you the way he came insyd my mam?”

  “Aye,” she says at last. “He did.”

  “Meny tyms lyk he did with Mam?”

  “Eh? Aye.”

  “But he didn’t leev a Billy Dean insyd you?”

  “No. No. O ther! 2 knocks! Thank God! The bereaved hav come to carl at last.”

  The bereaved come in & sit arownd the shining taybl & off we go to hunt for the dead.

  Missus Malone turns the hissin lite down low so that the taybl & the letters softly glow.

  “This is the lad I have menshond befor,” Missus Malone says. “He is able to visit us at last. He is the kind of childe that can apear in dark & weard tyms like these. He is a childe of grate gifts known only as The Aynjel Childe.”

  I can not look up to ther fases. I see ther bodys & chests. I see ther arms stretchd owt & ther fingers resting on the planshet. I hear ther scared breathin.

  “He is shy & silent til the spirit tayks him,” she says. “Leev him to his own devises. Do not press him. He wil interseed if & wen it is appropriat. Aynjel, plees joyn with us in tuching the planshet.”

  I stretch my arm & finger owt. Other fingers moov slitely to giv me spays.

  “Is enybody ther?” says Missus Malone.

  She speaks more deeply more groany.

  “Is enybody theeeer?”

  I hear the others gasping with hope & frite. I hear ther wispers. Plees. O cum to me. Return to me. The planshet begins to moov. We begin to sway bak & forward as it slides in wayvs & sircls arownd the shiny taybl. Our shados lurch & loom arownd the warls. The planshet begins to tuch the leters & we begin to carl them owt. I turn my eyes towards the fases now & see how scaird & trubbld they are & how desprat to reech across the frontyers of death.

  The planshet slithers faster faster. The pepl gasp & siy & sob & jently laff. They name the leters & put together sentenses & messajes & the nayms of those that have been lost.

  Missus Malone carls owt the messajes.

  “Yes I am happy. From Oliver. Thats nice.”

  “Be trubbld no longer. Dad.”

  “This seems to be from a yung girl. Yes! Alison. And she says arl is peesful on the other syd.”

  “Be kind & jentl to eech other.”

  “Death is not the end.”

  “O I beleev in yesterday. From Harold & Elayn.”

  “Uncl Dan & Anty Jan ar with me now.”

  “Be very care
ful near warter. From Josef. No. From Josefeen.”

  “I mis the tayst of chees thats arl says Edmund.”

  After a time the planshet begins to slo & then to stop. Missus Malone tels them ther is only silens in the relm of darknes now. The dead hav retreeted from us for a time.

  “Aynjel,” she wispers. “Aynjel!”

  I realise its me shes tarkin to. I rays my eyes.

  “Did enything ocur?” she says.

  I just look back at her. I shake my hed. Nothing.

  1 of the bodys comes from the taybl to me. A girl with tears in her eyes.

  “Nothing?” she says.

  I look bak at her. I do not no wat to say to her.

  “My nayms Maria,” she says. “He was Jorj. My daddy. He did not carl owt to me?”

  I shake my hed.

  “Nothing at arl?”

  “No.”

  A woman comes to her side.

  “I am the mother,” she says. “I am named Cristina. Ther was nothing?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe next time?” she says.

  I reach owt & take her hand & hold it in mine & feel the tendernes of her skin.

  “Yes,” I tel her. “Mebbe next time.”

  I feel how she grips me tite in her greef and how she looks at me and how she needs me to say sumthing to her. I hold the hand of the girl as well.

  “I mis him that much, Aynjel,” she says.

  “I no that,” I anser. “I no that you both do.”

  As I speak to her I start to get the idea of what an aynjel childes supposd to do. I reckon if a planshet can spowt owt nonsense then Billy Dean can sertanly do the saym. So I tilt my hed lyk Im lisenin to sumthing in the air.

  “He loves you I am shure,” I wisper. “He thinks of you I am shure.”

  “Dus he?” she says. “Stil? You no that, Aynjel?”

  “Aye. Yes he dus. I am sertan of it, Maria & Cristina. Be comforted.”

  Its weard. Its like I sumhow no what kynd of things to say. And ther powerful for the woman & her dorter but ther just emty words for me.

  The woman kisses my brow.

  “You have kynd & understanding eyes,” she says. “I think you hav had trubbls of yor own, Aynjel.”