‘No!’ shouted Billy. ‘You’re lying.’
‘Why would I lie?’
Billy tried to blink away the tears that sprang to his eyes.
‘And as if that were not bad enough,’ continued Frankenstein, ‘he deliberately placed the blame with poor Justine – poor innocent Justine – who hanged for his crime. The monster placed the boy’s locket on her sleeping body to incriminate her. He is a murderer and a coward.’
‘And whose fault is all that?’ said Billy. ‘Who built him? It’s your blood in his veins!’
‘Can a father be responsible for every action of his son? How could I know that I would make a monster?’
‘Then why are you planning to build him a mate?’
‘What choice do I have?’ Frankenstein replied, a wild desperation in his eyes. ‘If I do not do as he says, he will exact his revenge. He will kill my family, my friend Clerval, my own Elizabeth, whom I am to marry: everyone who is dear to me.’
He turned away and leaned on a nearby bench.
‘Besides,’ he said, ‘I was moved by his request. I did have some responsibility to him, after all. And he promised that he would leave Europe once and for all and never bother mankind again.’
When Frankenstein turned back to face Billy, there were tears in his eyes. The small knife had been replaced by a much larger one.
Billy shut his eyes.
‘Oh God . . .’
But instead of cutting Billy’s throat, Frankenstein cut the ropes that tied him to the table, and he slid off, panting with fear.
‘I should report you to someone,’ said Billy. ‘I should get you arrested.’
Frankenstein grabbed his arm.
‘If you do anything to prevent me from building his mate, that monster will kill you. Whatever friendship you imagine you have with him, do not think to test it in this way. If I told him that killing you would speed the process of building his mate, he would do it in a heartbeat, you can count on that.’
‘No!’ said Billy. ‘He wouldn’t kill me.’
Frankenstein grinned.
‘Truly? You are quite sure of that?’
Billy’s heart fluttered.
‘He wouldn’t kill me!’ he repeated quietly. ‘I know it. He’s my friend.’
Frankenstein merely smiled and shook his head. He let go of Billy’s arm.
‘Look at what you’ve done!’ said Billy, moving away from him. ‘Don’t you feel guilty or nothing? Look at the lives you’ve ruined. You make me sick!’
Frankenstein was calm now, his voice quiet. ‘Have you ever lost anyone you loved?’ he asked.
Billy did not respond.
‘Have you ever seen someone die?’ continued Frankenstein. ‘Have you ever seen someone you love fade away, never to return?’
‘Yes!’ Billy replied. ‘My mother. What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I saw my mother die also,’ said Frankenstein. ‘My beloved mother. I vowed then that I would seek to conquer death – and I have!’
‘You haven’t conquered death! You haven’t even conquered life! All you’ve done is make a monster!’
‘I did what I did with the best of motives,’ said Frankenstein. ‘And I regret nothing!’
He leaned towards Billy.
‘Tell me, if you could have saved your mother’s life by killing another, would you have done it?’
‘And did you save your mother from death, then?’ Billy answered, avoiding the question.
‘No. But my work may help others. I have succeeded where the great have failed. I have created the first in a race of immortals!’
‘Immortal monsters,’ Billy corrected him. ‘What good is that to the rest of us? We’re all going to die and Creecher and his mate are going to live for ever. They’re going to breed. They’ll take over the world. You’re insane.’
Frankenstein waved Billy’s protests away.
‘Soon I will leave for Scotland,’ he said, opening the door to the warehouse. ‘I need only one more item to complete my work. Do nothing to stop me, or the monster will destroy everything you hold dear, and then – then he will come for you.’
CHAPTER XLI.
Billy searched the farm for the giant but found only the old man. He looked up and saw Creecher silhouetted on the ridge where he often went to sit and read. Billy climbed up after him.
Believing there could be good inside a monster like Creecher had made Billy believe there might be good inside him, too. But now that belief had been shattered by a lie. Creecher was a child killer. He was just a monster, after all.
‘You lying freak!’ yelled Billy, trying to focus his tear-smeared vision.
He searched for a weapon and saw a rock near his foot. He picked it up and, without further hesitation, hurled it at the giant. It struck him on the forehead and he groaned and took a step backwards.
Creecher put one of his great hands to his head and then held it in front of his face, staring at the blood now smeared across his fingers.
‘It was you who killed that boy in Swissland, wasn’t it?’ Billy shouted at him. ‘To think I ever listened to you . . .’
‘What is this?’ said the giant. ‘Why do you suddenly say these things?’
‘Frankenstein told me!’
‘Frankenstein?’ snarled Creecher. ‘Why have you spoken to him? I forbade you –’
‘What does that matter?’ Billy cut across him. ‘Did you murder his brother or not?’
Creecher did not reply. Billy put his hands to his face.
‘It’s true, ain’t it? Frankenstein was telling the truth!’
‘You believe his –’
‘Don’t!’ shouted Billy. ‘Don’t you lie to me again.’
Creecher stood in silence, the blood already drying on his face. He lowered his head and looked at Billy from under his eyebrows.
‘There is not a single day goes by that I do not regret that boy’s death, or the death of Justine,’ said Creecher. ‘I was a child myself in age. I . . .’
The giant opened his mouth to speak again, but the words would not come.
‘Why?’ said Billy. ‘Why would you do something like that?’
‘The boy stumbled upon me by accident,’ said Creecher, after a moment. ‘I had no idea who he was.’ He looked at Billy. ‘I had a notion that I might take him away and make him my companion . . .’
Billy closed his eyes and shook his head. Is that what Creecher had done with Billy? Taken him away to be his companion? Tears dripped down his cheeks.
‘So what did he do then?’ asked Billy. ‘What did he do to annoy you?’
Creecher’s face twitched a little before he spoke.
‘He struggled,’ said the giant. ‘He called out and I tried to quiet him by putting my hand over his mouth. He called me an ogre.’
‘What? You killed him because he called you an ogre?’
‘No!’ yelled Creecher. ‘I killed him because he told me that he was a Frankenstein! And when I killed him I clapped my hands in triumph because I realised that I had power, too. Frankenstein could give life, but I could take it away!’
‘And the girl?’ said Billy coldly, into the echo of these words. ‘What was her crime?’
Now tears sprang to Creecher’s eyes and he put his hands to his face.
‘None,’ he murmured. ‘I found her by accident and saw her sleeping in a barn. She had been searching for the boy and was trapped outside the city when Geneva’s gates were locked that evening.
‘She was so lovely. But her loveliness only served to make me all the more conscious of my own ugliness. I placed the locket I had snatched from the boy’s neck in the folds of her dress.’
‘Why?’ said Billy.
‘Because I knew that she could never look at me the way I looked at her. I was filled with a hatred of all mankind – at the happiness that was denied to me. And don’t tell me that you do not share that hatred, Billy.’
‘Maybe I did once. But this ain’t about me. You
always want to shift the blame to someone else, don’t you? It’s always someone else’s fault. You murdered that little boy and then you killed the girl, just as if you had put those big fat hands round her neck as well.’
Billy felt tired all of a sudden. His head still ached from where Frankenstein had knocked him unconscious. His eyelids felt heavy.
‘I should stop the both of you,’ he added quietly. ‘The idea that he’s going to make another one of you – another ugly rotten ogre!’
‘Don’t,’ said Creecher, shaking his head.
‘What the hell will she look like? I mean, you’re bad enough. But a giant sow? It’s disgusting. It’s . . . But wait – maybe Frankenstein has learned some new tricks while he’s been here. Maybe he’ll build something that looks human this time. Maybe she’ll be beautiful! What will you do then, you big freak? She’s not going to be interested in you then, is she?’
Creecher marched forward, his eyes blazing, his arms outstretched.
‘Stop calling me a freak!’
‘That’s right!’ Billy cried. ‘Come on! Kill me! That’s what you want to do, isn’t it? That’s what you would have done when I wasn’t any use any more.’
Creecher pulled up short and put his hands to his face.
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘We were friends!’
‘We were never friends!’ yelled Billy. ‘We were just two freaks walking in the same direction! But no more! You’re on your own. I’m staying here.’
‘But –’
‘No, I don’t want to hear it. If you’re going to kill me, then get on with it. Otherwise go away and leave me alone.’
The giant grabbed Billy by the collar and lifted him off his feet.
‘What will a boy like you do in a place like this?’ He tossed Billy to the ground. ‘You will not last a day.’
‘That’s my problem,’ said Billy, through his tears. ‘I don’t need to have a woman built for me. I’ve got a real girl. A girl who loves me.’
Creecher snorted.
‘She doesn’t love you!’ he sneered. ‘She loves the boy you pretend to be. She loves a poet, not a thief.’
‘I’ll be a better man for her,’ said Billy. ‘She will make me better.’
Creecher took a step forward and towered over him, blocking out the sky and standing like the night in human form.
‘Treasure her, then,’ he growled. ‘Because if you try to prevent Frankenstein from completing his work in any way, I will crush her pretty head, and those of her mother and her friend, before I come for you.’
With that, Creecher turned on his heels and strode away across the hilltops until he disappeared from sight, merging with the dark clouds that seemed to sink to greet him.
Old Thwaite made no comment about the giant’s departure. He seemed to accept it with the same fatalism that he accepted their arrival.
In the days that followed, Billy caught the odd glimpse of Creecher on the hills above the farm. He seemed to have become part of the fells now, haunting the crags like some giant of old, more myth than man.
But Creecher made no attempt to speak to Billy, and Billy had no urge to climb to meet him. He waited for the time when he would look to the hilltops and not find the giant there, and know that he and Frankenstein had finally gone north and out of his life.
Billy had wanted to visit Jane, but the giant’s words still rankled with him. She doesn’t love you. She loves the boy you pretend to be.
It took him days to work up the courage to visit again, but when he arrived at the cottage he was told by her mother that she could not see him that day.
Could not, or would not, thought Billy, as he walked forlornly back to the farm. Had Jane already guessed that he was not who he seemed? Had Florence guessed and poisoned her against him?
He suffered three sleepless nights worrying about all this, and then, on the fourth day, when he returned from mending a wall in one of the top fields, the old man gave him a letter.
‘Lady come with this after you’d gone,’ he said, eyeing Billy suspiciously. ‘Asked for Mr Clerval. Hadn’t a clue who she was talking about, and then I figured it must be you.’
The old man fixed him with a stare that Billy could not hold, waiting for an explanation that Billy was not going to give.
‘Yes,’ said Billy. ‘Thanks.’
He walked to the barn, opened the letter and read it. It was written in a neat but faltering hand, the pen pressed so lightly on the paper that the ink had scarcely left a stain in places.
‘Dear Mr Clerval,’ it said.
‘Thank you so much for reading your poem. It was a moment that I will treasure always. A thing of beauty is indeed a joy for ever. I do so wish we had been given more time to get to know each other, but sadly it was not to be. I hope you have a safe journey to Scotland and a happy life thereafter. Yours truly, Jane Cartwright.’
Billy smiled, slightly puzzled. As if he would have left without saying farewell! How pleased Jane would be when she discovered that he was not, in fact, leaving at all. They would have all the time together that they wanted. ‘A moment that I will treasure always,’ she’d said. There was something special between them. He knew it.
CHAPTER XLII.
Billy rehearsed what he was going to say over and over again as he walked towards Jane’s cottage the next day. He set off intending to tell her the whole truth about his life, excluding only those parts that involved Creecher and Frankenstein – and those only to ensure Jane’s safety. Billy was going to prove Creecher wrong. Jane could love him for who he really was.
But even as Billy told himself that this must be the way to go, he was troubled by doubts. It might be too much for her to take. What good would it serve to present to her the whole novel of his life in one short story?
Would it not be better to ease her gently into a greater knowledge of his shortcomings after he had won her affections? That was not a lie. It was the truth in chapters.
He had been certain that he was going to admit that he was not really a poet, but she had quoted the poem in her letter. Perhaps it was best that he draw a line under everything that had happened before and start again.
‘I’d like to speak to Miss . . . Jane,’ said Billy, when Florence came to the door. She looked even more dour than normal, her face wan and her eyes red-rimmed.
‘I’m afraid that –’
‘Look, I just want to see her,’ he said quickly, determined not to let this gatekeeper prevent him. ‘Tell Jane that –’
‘She’s dead,’ said Florence.
‘What?’
‘Jane. Jane is dead.’ Tears welled up and rolled down her cheeks.
‘She can’t be . . .’
Florence began to sob. Billy grabbed her by both arms and shook her.
‘You’re lying,’ he growled.
Florence stared, wide-eyed, recoiling from him in horror. Billy let her go and she tried to shut the door. He put his foot in the way to prevent her.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ said Mrs Cartwright, coming to the door. ‘Mr Clerval?’
Billy did not reply. He stared past Jane’s mother and saw a coffin on the table beyond the kitchen and the hall.
‘No!’ he shouted, banging the door with his fist and almost knocking it off its hinges. ‘No! Why did you have to die, you . . . you . . . ?’
‘Please,’ said Mrs Cartwright, trembling. ‘This is not right, sir. Show some respect.’
‘When?’ said Billy, stepping backwards. ‘How?’
‘Last night. She had a weak heart,’ sobbed Florence. ‘She told you so herself. We were here for peace and quiet. But her heart . . .’
Florence could say no more and Mrs Cartwright put her arm round her and hugged her. Billy stared past them both to the coffin, his eyes burning.
‘I would ask you to leave now, sir,’ said Mrs Cartwright.
‘Don’t worry,’ he replied coldly. ‘I’m going.’
Billy turned and left, heading towards the stone cir
cle. He clenched his teeth together so hard they felt as though they would crack under the strain.
He strode forward to the largest of the stones and punched it with his right hand. Then he punched with his left. Then right and left and right and left, until his knuckles were bleeding and he could stand it no more.
CHAPTER XLIII.
Billy stood on a hilltop, watching Jane’s funeral far below. He had barely slept those past couple of days, and his face was drawn and pallid. His heart ached and a drowsy numbness pained his senses. The mourners were few and tiny, like little black beetles.
Billy walked back along the fell tops, sunlight beaming from between the clouds, lighting swathes of bracken and crag. A clap of thunder sounded in the distance and then another, louder this time. The long lake below was as black as pitch, until the wind scratched a thousand ragged waves across its surface.
A twilight fell across the fells and a pulse of lightning lit up quartz veins and the wet scree, where spring water seeped out like a weeping wound.
Rain fell and Billy strode ever higher, reaching a ridge that shelved away steeply on either side. He walked its ragged knife edge, willing the lightning to strike him or the gusting wind to push him off. But the more he walked, the calmer the air around him became.
The storm was moving. The sky was clearing and, one by one, the pin-sharp points of starlight punctured the blackness above.
When, at last, he reached the highest point, Billy slumped, overcome by exhaustion, against the summit cairn. On those cold stones, encased in darkness, he howled out his pain until the tears would come no more.
Billy sat in the barn before first light, head bowed, staring at his feet. He could not have felt more ruined if he had been struck by lightning on the fell top. He felt like his soul had been blasted and splintered.
The barn suddenly grew darker and Billy looked up to see Creecher blocking the doorway.
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