Burn, Beautiful Soul

by William J. Donahue

  I believe the beast may be the last of a dying species, driven to rage by the stink, noise and other ills of the encroaching English.

  Most days I would not blame the poor chap for acting up.

  I have seen Old Billy. Thrice I have seen him—once, leaping from one rooftop to another, backlit by the smudge of the moon; a second time, crouched in an alley, greedily feasting on fistfuls of meat, the entrails of a freshly killed cur, no doubt; and a third, the night before last, the beast passing right by me as I worked to pry a rock from the wall of the blacksmith’s, where I have chosen to hide away my modest cache of coins. Old Billy stood so close I could have reached out and touched the scales of his lizard-like legs, his swaying black tail, before he disappeared into the night.

  This sort of thing simply does not happen in sleepy Berwick.

  Of course I cannot be certain of what my eyes have shown me, given the fact that my sustenance-starved brain fails me more than it serves. Yet part of me believes I share a bond with this creature—man and beast somehow coupled. For I have watched Old Billy, and he has permitted me to watch him: he the actor and I his audience.

  I am hardly the only one, of course. The newspaper stories gleefully quote hysterical Londoners claiming to have faced Old Billy, or to have survived confrontations with the randy old boy: a bread maker who arrived at his shop well before dawn to stoke the coals in his oven, to see Old Billy’s gleaming eyes staring down from the rooftop; a weary laborer, like me, who saw the beast leap from the edge of the bridge and into the gloom above the Thames; and, in one case, a banker who witnessed Old Billy lurking in an open second-story window, leering at the banker’s wife as she emerged from her weekly bath.

  Not all have been so fortunate in their encounters, if one puts his faith in the stories the newsboys have to share. By my count, seven have been murdered, absurdly so—a night watchman, among them—with certain body parts consumed or otherwise unrecovered, the stories say.

  “The work of a maniac and nothing more.” So said a constable quoted in the daily news, though the same constable seemed either unable or unwilling to assure the public anything could be done to stop the supposed maniac from claiming more victims.

  Most see Old Billy as a villain, as an evil presence to be cast out. But me, given my situation, I see enterprise.

  Old Billy owns the darkened corners of night and fades with the rising sun, likely resting somewhere warm and quiet by the time the first rays of daylight creep over the horizon. I imagine the old boy stuffing his body into a fissure beneath the chapel at Saint Stephen’s, lounging atop a pile of cleanly picked bones, or dangling by his feet, bat-like, from the underside of London Bridge, his claws sunk into the hollow spaces between stone slabs. No matter where he beds, he is vulnerable.

  One needs only to engage the imagination to know where to look.

  If I could find a gentle way to stop Old Billy’s heart, my pockets would fill and, in turn, my troubles end. I would then call for my bride and have her find me so she could see that my promise to conquer London’s wilds rings true.

  Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow I will put my fevered brain to work. Once I have the quiet time to work up a plan of attack, I will hunt down Old Billy. And when I find him, asleep in his lair, I will peel the hide from his scaly old back.

  My feet lead me back to Monument Bridge. My mind wanders. I think of home, of Berwick’s quiet hills, its rugged coast, its starry skies. And of course I think of her. A cold gust drives the tears from my eyes.

  Chapter 16

  Stoked Embers

  “Take the weekend to think about it,” Bulcavage tells his team. “I’m not asking you boys to walk on water here. Just do the job I’m paying you to do.”

  Herbert slaps the table with his doodled-up sketchpad.

  “We wouldn’t need the weekend if we knew what the hell we’re supposed to do, Bob. At least give us a nudge in the right direction. In any direction, for that matter.”

  Basil’s eyes jump from Herbert to Bulcavage, expecting fireworks, expecting to have to intervene, or perhaps to pile on. He has grown fond of Herbert, or at least he knows not to count his co-worker among his enemies. Bulcavage is a different story. For the moment, Bulcavage is a question mark.

  “I only know what you know: Hooke’s people want to try something different,” Bulcavage says. “They have a new line of cookers they’re all hot and bothered about, and they want us to pimp it. I’m thinking of a splashy print campaign—the national hunting and fishing magazines—and maybe some outdoor signage, if the stingy bastards agree to the budget.”

  “Outdoor means billboards,” Herbert tells Basil.

  “We can’t afford to lose this one,” Bulcavage continues. “Sales of their existing cookers have gone stale, they say, so they need to punch up the branding for the new line. What else do you need from me? Everyone likes barbecue, for chrissakes.”

  He takes a breath—more of an annoyed sigh.

  “Tell you what: They gave me a prototype, so take the damned thing home, fire it up and throw on a few drumsticks for dinner. That should inspire you.”

  “I got shit to do, Bob,” Herbert says.

  “You got work to do, Herb,” Bulcavage says. “Don’t make this awkward. I need you two”—his index finger draws a line between Herbert and Basil—“to collaborate on this little science project. Spend some quality time together. It’ll be good for both of you. Consider it a team-building exercise.”

  “I’m free this weekend,” Basil says.

  “Of course you are,” Herbert says. “No one likes you.”

  Bulcavage laughs, adding, “Check with Anton. He’s always got something dead in his freezer. I’m sure he’d be happy to let you roast some hunk of meat on a spit.”

  “Barbecue, sir,” Basil interjects. “It’s barbecue, not rotisserie.”

  “Whatever. Just have something fleshed out and ready for me on Monday morning. We’ll want to do the storyboards and have whatever you come up with ready for the client by Tuesday. And another thing—”

  A ruckus interrupts Bulcavage, and all three lift their eyes toward the door. Two female voices bicker from somewhere in the office. Determined footsteps follow.

  “Where is he?” says a familiar voice.

  She hurries past the conference-room door and then, course correcting, backs up to block the doorway.

  Basil’s stomach drops. It’s her: Melody.

  “By all means, Mel,” Bulcavage says flatly. “Do make yourself at home.”

  “I’ve had it up to here with this shit, Bob,” she says. “Those loudmouths in the parking lot are driving me up a goddamned tree. I had a flat tire last night—a fucking flat tire—probably from all the goddamned broken bottles those fuckers have been leaving all over the goddamned place. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone slashed my tire on purpose. Because of him.” She stabs the air, pointing to Basil. “You ever try to change a tire in heels and a skirt? It’s not fun.”

  “We’re all making sacrifices, Mel.”

  “The whole place smells like a goddamned sewer—all those fuckers pissing and shitting in the bushes. And they just won’t shut the hell up with that goddamned chanting. All because of him,” she adds, circling Basil’s face with her index finger.

  “What do you want me to do about it?” Bulcavage says. “They’ll go away eventually.”

  “He’s your employee, Bob. You’re responsible.”

  As if noticing Herbert’s presence for the first time, she pauses in her assault. She gives a wave and a knowing wink.

  “Mel,” Bulcavage says. “Everything in life is temporary.”

  “Bullshit,” she says. She crosses her arms and tilts her head. “You,” she says, pointing emphatically to Basil. “Come with me.”

  Basil rises from his seat and follows Melody down the hall. They file past a scowling Karen, her right cheek brushed with a wisp of powdered sugar. Basil scowls back and sticks out his tongue for childish emphasis
. Melody flings open the office door and makes a beeline for the stairwell, Basil failing to keep up with the echo of her footsteps. By the time he makes it to the first floor, Melody is halfway down the hall. She disappears into a door he presumes to be her office.

  Basil approaches the pane of frosted glass, which bears a collection of letters rimmed with gold foil: MELODY K. MULRONEY, ESQ. He pushes the door open to see Melody leaning over a wide oak desk, where a petite, well-dressed blonde nods her head, popping her gum and diligently taking down notes.

  “Tell him to be here ASAP,” Melody demands. “Tell him he owes me a favor.”

  Melody stomps into an adjacent office, all glass from floor to ceiling. She dons a checkered blue blazer and leans down to check her face in a desktop mirror.

  Basil smiles at the blonde. She squints and returns the smile, though it somehow seems less than sincere. With the phone’s beige receiver crooked between her cheek and shoulder, she points to the mouthpiece and mimes two words: It’s ringing.

  Half-listening to the blonde’s conversation with someone named Brandon, Basil lets his eyes rove, hoping Melody returns quickly. With the certainty of a hound on a scent trail, Melody strides back to the reception area. The two lock eyes. Something tells him to maintain the stare.

  “We’re going to put an end to this bullshit right now,” she says. “I don’t know who in Hell you pissed off or why, but even you have rights here. … You’ve met Audrey,” she adds, nodding toward the distracted blonde.

  Melody moves to the window. She bends at the waist, and Basil’s jaw involuntarily drops as he takes in the view. He pats down the patch of black fur struggling to cover his budding erection.

  Basil begins, “I think we—”

  “Don’t say anything,” she says, her voice soft, quiet. Her eyes scan the parking lot. “Just shut your trap and be still.”

  He stands in silence and wills his erection to fade.

  “Okay, he’s here,” she says. “Follow me. Try to look solemn.”

  Seconds later Basil finds himself outside, the sun warming his skin, facing the full wrath of the crowd. The hostility deafens him.

  He takes his post behind Melody. The knob of his erection jabs the small of her back.

  “Not so close,” she says through the side of her mouth.

  She stands with her back to the door, legs shoulder width apart, hands on her hips, a model of cool composure, fully in control. Basil admires the curve of her hips, the back of her head, the way the russet-colored hair cascades over her shoulders.

  A broad-shouldered man dressed in dark blue parts the crowd and nods to Melody. He sidles up to Basil and tips the brim of his hat. Sunlight bounces off the silver badge pinned to his left breast. Basil squints from the glare.

  “You and me going to have a problem?” the officer asks.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good man. Now be quiet and let Melody do her thing.”

  The officer hands Melody a worn white bullhorn and then turns to face the crowd.

  Edna Babych stands by herself, away from the chaos. Even from a distance Basil can see the determination in her thin lips. Her eyes glint with fury.

  “My name is Melody Mulroney,” Melody barks. Her voice booms through the bullhorn. “I’m an attorney who works in this building. You should know that each of you is trespassing. This is an act of unlawful protest.”

  She takes a breath. “Furthermore …”

  Her legalese flows, the words authoritative, convincing, even poetic.

  Basil leans forward and inhales the sweet scent rising from Melody’s scalp, her perfume and other odors drifting from the hidden parts of her body. His erection pokes through the thatch of fur between his legs, looking for fires to put out.

  “Each one of you is interfering with my client’s right to work unmolested,” she continues. “That’s a violation of his rights and the rights of every individual working on this property. Officer Pierce will see to it that you disperse and leave the property peacefully. Consider this your only warning. If you persist with this unlawful behavior, I will take appropriate action on behalf of my client, and see to it that you are dealt with to the fullest extent of the law.”

  She lowers the bullhorn and retreats into the building, while Officer Pierce steps forward with arms extended. Basil watches as the sea of signs recedes, the grumbling protestors amble off. Officer Pierce accompanies two men to their pickup trucks, and one of them hands Pierce a canned beer. All three of them laugh like old friends.

  The crowd dissolves within two minutes. Everyone returns to his or her vehicle, with one exception. A defiant Edna Babych remains, standing less than ten feet from Basil’s hooves. He can see hatred etched into the lines of her face.

  “Have a good day,” he chirps, not sure what else to say.

  Just as he turns to head back into the building, Edna spits on the ground. He feels her eyes on him, expecting a blade to the back.

  He steps inside, eager to banter with Melody. Instead, he finds himself alone, eyeing the rust-colored stain on the carpet beneath the water fountain. His smile fades. He wonders how to proceed with her, whether he should trot down to her office and offer to pay a few bucks for services rendered, or whether he should wait for her to bill him. Eventually he skulks into the stairwell and clops up the stairs toward his office. He meets Herbert on the windowless landing, and the two mince words.

  “So … I guess I’ll see you over the weekend,” Herbert says. He struggles to maintain his loose grip on the oblong Hooke-branded cooker. The large, gray cylinder trails a pencil-thin wire.

  “Company barbecue, we’ll call it,” Basil says.

  “More like forced fun,” Herbert responds.

  “Should I come over your place or—”

  “I’ll come to your place on Sunday. Let’s say eleven. I’d like to be home by two.”

  * * *

  Edna Babych sits at the library desk and dutifully turns page after page. Her stomach grumbles. She looks up from the black-and-white drawing of a pointy-eared humanoid with bloody fangs, slits for eyes and needle-like spines jutting from its scaly back. The figure crouches above a helpless baby in the middle of a field, crescent moon overhead. Edna sighs in disgust. The page turns with an audible snap.

  She lifts her gaze to study the men and women—more women than men, mostly mothers reading to their sons and daughters—at the surrounding tables. Much too crowded for a Saturday morning, she thinks. She guesses at the basest acts each sinner has committed in the past twenty-four hours. Some doozies for sure, by the looks of ’em. Each one of these heathens deserves the electric chair. She’s certain of it. Drop a bomb in the middle of the Beak Public Library and the world would be a better place, no doubt about it.

  She eyes the sign for the women’s restroom. She’ll have to pay a visit soon enough, though she decides to wait for one or two more of the nearby desks to clear out so as few people as possible see her enter, so as few people as possible can trace the source of the noises she’ll undoubtedly make in the process of soothing her uncooperative gut. She then returns her attention to the book, so she can take her mind off the daily battle with her intestines and focus on a more important task: uncovering the secrets to besting her enemy.

  A moment later, halfway into a passage about demons roaming the English countryside, she closes the book. She detects a subtle change. She feels the shift in her bones, especially in her rump, the sensation vibrating in her tailbone. Then she hears the approach: the sound of one hard surface clacking against another—the telltale clopping of horse hooves … or the cloven hooves of a goat.

  No, she thinks. Not here.

  At first she refuses to believe it. Then she has visual confirmation.

  The enemy approaches.

  Basil, the demon, strides down the aisle. The creature offers friendly nods to some of the folks reading their newspapers or magazines or, more likely, pornography cleverly disguised as art.

  She locks eyes wit
h the enemy. He—it—stops in its tracks. Then it proceeds, heading straight toward her.

  “Good day,” it says.

  “Every day is a good day in the eyes of the Lord,” she replies.

  It leans across her table and, incredulously, plucks the book from her hands.

  “A Seeker’s Guide to Slaying Warlocks, Werewolves and Wyverns,” it says, reciting the book’s title. It drops the book onto the table in front of her, and the sound booms in the cavernous library. It shrugs its reptilian shoulders, seemingly out of embarrassment. “Good luck with your endeavor,” it adds.

  “Have a seat,” she tells the demon.

  It hesitates. Sitting across from her is the last thing it wants to do, she knows, which is why she extends the invitation.

  “Go ahead,” she adds. “We’re on neutral turf.”

  The demon pulls the chair out from beneath the desk, making a noise like stone being dragged across a sheet of metal, and flops a stack of books onto the desk. In turn, Edna reaches across the table and pokes the stack with her wiry finger until she can read the spines of all three books. The one at the bottom of the pile: Fanaticism, Zealotry and the Erosion of Western Civilization. The middle: Blood and Treasure: A History of Killing to Win, from Pangaea to the Persian Gulf. And the one on top, the thinnest of all three: Into the Inferno: Man’s Place in Hell.

  “Fact checking, are we?” she asks.

  “Enough with the pleasantries, Edna,” it tells her. “What do you want from me?”

  It knows my name, she thinks. I must be doing something right. I must be doing a lot of somethings right, dadgummit!

  “My distaste for you has nothing to do with what I want,” she says. “It’s nothing personal, you see. It’s about what the Good Lord God wants.”

  “And what do you pretend to know that might be?”

  “To destroy you. To see you writhing on the ground, to hear you scream his name in contrition, to see your skin burning off in your own accursed fire.”

  “Pity,” it says. “This skin doesn’t burn, lady—as fireproof as asbestos, I’m afraid. You’re going to need a more colorful imagination.”