The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean: Telt by Himself

by David Almond

  “It is for yor mothers sayk,” says Missus Malone. “So say yes, Missus Malone.”

  “Y-yes, Missus M-M —”

  “Malone. Exelent. Do you have a cote? Its rather fresh owt ther & its not as if yor used to the owtsyd air, is it?”

  Mam puts the too big coat on me agen. She puts the woolly hat on my hed. She holds me tite.

  “Noreen Blair” says Missus Malone. “And Dorothy Wilkinson also needs yor attenshun.”

  “Yes, Missus Malone.”

  “And dont wurry. I wil hav the boy bak befor you no hes gon. And it wil be to arl our benefits.”

  And she gets her stik from the bak of the chare & opens the dor & ledes me owt.

  She dos not hold my hand. Her stik taps as she warks. Her body roks but her fete do not slitha & slip & slyd.

  “Hold yor hed hiy” she says. “Behayv as if yor prowd of bein owt in the world at last. Ar you prowd?”

  “I d-dont . . .”

  “Of cors you ar. Now keep up!”

  I try to do this but I kepe on stumblin. I kepe on turnin my fase bak howmwards.

  “And wil you plees stop doin that?” she says.

  “Y-yes, M-M . . .”

  “And you must also stop that stammering.”

  “Y-yes, M-M . . .”

  She clicks her tung & warks on & I follo crunch crunch rattl crunch.

  She stops and looks at me.

  “Yor mother” she says “is still in meny ways a littl girl. Do you see that? You cant so you must take it from me.”

  She leeds agen across the rubbl crunch crunch stumbl stumbl scrayp rattl tap tap crunch.

  Then she stops. Wer in a wyd open spase with the marks of an aynshent rode acros it & lyk evrywer thers heeps of stoans & feelds of dust.

  “Now” she says. “Stand stil & pay atenshun. This is wer Saynt Patriks used to be. You dont know wat I mene but ther was a grate stoan bilding here. It was a church that was dedicayted to God Albluddymiyty. It was yor fathers church in fact.”

  “M-my —”

  “Yes yor fathers. Wilfred the preest. Wilfred the bad bugga. It was also the plase wer yor mother started. You no abowt that? Its clear from yor fays that you do not. She was fownd in a box in the doreway of the church. A few days old. The child of sum flibertyjibert or a tart. Thats arl ther is to say abowt that.”

  She wayvs her stik in the air.

  “Imajin it arownd you a grate stoan bilding that had lasted for a hundred yers. Can you imajin that? No of cors you carnt which is just as well. Bluddy stupid plase full of bluddy stupid lies.”

  She kiks the rubbl and sends it scatterin. She pokes it with her stik.

  “Ha! See how the miyty ar farlen ilushons broaken ashes to ashes dust to dust.”

  I kik the dust myself & I watch it skip. I here the lovely sownd of it. Skitta skitta wip wip skip.

  “This was won of the senters of destrucshon William,” she says.

  Her lips tiyten as she looks at me.

  “You dont know it do you?” she says.

  “No w-what?”

  “The story of the 5th of May the day of yor birth.”

  “N-no.”

  She kiks agen.

  “Bluddy Hell” she says. “Its like ritin the book of bluddy Jenisis. But lets get it dun with even tho you cannot understand it. Whats a bom whats a church whats a dorter whats a day of doom? You havent got a cluw & why shud you but Ill tell it anyway.”

  I scrayp the dust with my foot. I want to rush bak home but dare not moov.

  “Itll only tayk a sentens or 2 & here they ar so get yor lugs alert OK?”

  She prods me with the stik.

  “OK?” she says.

  “OK” I anser.

  “OK Missus Malone!”

  “OK Missus Malone.”

  “OK. Sit yorself down on that big stone & Ill sit down on this. Now lugs wide open & brane switchd on cos Ill only tel you wons.”

  “OK. It was a suny Sunday mornin. I was in yor littl room & yor mam was lyin on the bed in the agony of birth. Id bene with her the hole long nite like a good nurs & a good frend shud but at last here you cum arl slippy & sloppy & shinin with blud. And such a howl you hollerd when at last you slitherd owt of her. Its a boy! I yelld. Its a bonny littl baby boy!”

  She pokes me with the stik agen.

  “That was you,” she says. “A bonny littl boy named William Dean. That was the very first tym you apeard in this world. Waaa! you went. Waaaa waa waaaa! And bak in them days I cud smyl William. I cud laff & dans & smyl. I cut you from her & I put you to her tit & I dansd rownd yor bed with yor blessed blud on my hands. Imajin that, me doin that & singin lyk that. Can you imajin that?”

  “I dont —”

  “Of cors you cant. Not wen you look at this bitter old bint with a limp & a stik. But bak then I went, A boy! A boy! A lovely little boy! Woohoo! Haha! And you wer lovely & I see that lovely bairn insyd you stil.”

  She reaches owt to me. She cups my chin in her hand.

  “I see yor hansom Daddy in you too. But wer was that Daddy at that hour you mite ask? He was in his church sayin his prayers & preechin his preeches & singin his hims & turning the bred into flesh & the wyn into blud. O what a miracl worka was yor Dad! Do you think that? That yor Daddy was a worka of such miracls?”

  “I dont no, Missus Malone.”

  “Indeed you dont but lissen. It was you that was the miracl it was you that was the propa flesh & blud. But he wasnt even brayv enuf to be ther in attendans for you. You wer his tiny bluddy massiv secrit. Imajin that. What kynd of daddys that? Yor dads a cowad that cudnt admit to havin a son do you no that William Dean? For arl his pomps & grayses, do you no that William Dean? Wud you go on like that if you had a son William Dean?”

  She pokes me with the stik agen.

  “Wud you?” she says.

  “I dont no Missus Malone.”

  “The anser is that no you bluddy wudnt!”

  She siys.

  “It wasnt just him to tel the truth. I was a coward too. But he was worst of all. He was the big bluddy monster of the tale. Not yor mam cos she was led astray. And sertanly not you. The sloppy bluddy bawlin bairn was the 1 true innosent in that plase that day. Do you think youll stay an innosent?”

  “I dont –”

  She siys.

  “Of cors you dont but I hav to say that its unlikly in this vayl of teres.”

  She grones & rubs her hip.

  “Oooo,” she goes. “Aaaaa! It burns in me stil the remnant of that day & wil do til the day Im dead and gon. It tayks mor than 2.”

  “Mor than 2?” I say.

  “I said it wud tayk a sentens or 2 to tel the tayl. I was rong. So kepe on lissenin OK?”

  “OK, Missus Malone.”

  “OK. Good boy.”

  She stops. She ponders.

  “You no” she says, “withowt what hapens next yor tayl wud just be a sordid old familyar tayl abowt a bad preest & a weak girl & the littl secret bairn. Gilt & payn & cowadis & sin & bla & bla & bluddy borin bla. But the bomers & ther boms mayd it into sumthin rather diffrent.”

  She pokes the erth.

  “You dont no what a bom is but soon youl get the jist. You wer born into a time of war William Dean. Until yor birth the war was far away acros the sea & past the mowntans & in hiden sitys & faroff feelds. So we wer like you bak then William Dean. Non of us in littl Blinkbonny new enything real abowt war until that sunny Sunday mornin when the war came rite into Blinkbonnys hart. Just 3 daft fools in 3 littl truks brout it to us. The truks wer loded up with boms. They parkd a truk owtside the church & a truk insyd Blinkbonny Sqare & the third they put in Blinkbonny Row. And they steppd down from the truks & wanderd throu the town & each had a bom rappd rownd his belly & another on his bak. Theyve just been wanderin a few short minutes when the boms on the trucks start goin off. Bang bang bluddy boom kabluddybangbangboom! Down goes the frunt of Saynte Patriks church & down gose the plays calld Eden Hows & disasta hits Blinkbonny Sqare & cat
aclism erupts in Blinkbonny Row. Down go walls & down go roofs & smash gos glass. Grate holes open in the erth & fyr rayjes & smoke belches & filth & poyson are rushin throu the Blinkbonny air. And this is just the start of it for the booms of them boms is the signal for 3 brite & dedicayted fellers to start switchin ther switches & settin off the boms on ther baks & blowin themselvs & meny mor to smithereens.”

  She pawses. She stares up into the empty air.

  “Ha! They said theyd send themselves to Paradiys & us to Hell. Ha! Imajin thinkin a thing like a bom cud do a thing like that. Arl they dun was kil & blo things up & kil & kil & mayk a bluddy mess & start a biger bluddy mess thats kept on gowin ever sins. What bluddy fools! I herd the bangs & wollops of the truck boms as I dansd by the bed. I stoppd. The hole hows shudderd. Warls just beyond us crashd into the erth. The seelin siyed & grayt craks opend in it. The warls qwayked. I put a blanket over the mother & the child. I ran owt to the windo of the kitchen. I lookd owt to the topplin bildins & smoak & flayms & screems. Too late for enything to be dun of cors. Too late for eny of the Blinkbonnys that wer dun across the land that day. Too late for all the Blinkbonnys thats bene gettin dun sins the start of time & thatll get dun till the day it ends.”

  She pokes the erth with her stik agen.

  “Look,” she says. “You can still see the scorch marks on meny of the stones. You can see arl the mixtures & minglins. The ash is mingld with the rubbl. Boans with shrapnel. Blud with dust. Screems is mingld with the silens. Hell is arl mixd up with Heaven. The soles of arl thats gon is mingld with the wons thats left alyv. This plays is filld with death William Dean. Its better that you no it now at the beginin of yor tym in it.”

  She stirs the erth.

  “Why did they do it here? Why did they do it in littl Blinkbonny that was such an ordnary littl peesful plays? In the end ther is no anser. But I gess they thort they wer goin for ordinary littl peepl ordinary littl famlys. I gess they thort they wer goin for the hart. They went for lots of harts in lots of playses on that day. Mebbe they got some of them. But mebbe they missd Blinkbonnys hart, William, when they missd littl you.”

  She keeps on scraypin the erth & stirrin the dust. I see the dust & rubbl yes but I also see beetls & spidas & the weeds & flowas that grow in the dust. I see things that can hardly be sene at arl things so tiny a millyon of them cud fit into the hand of Billy Dean. Ther ar wite things blak things brown things that move & liv & tiny tiny plants that show ther first tiny shoots of grene. I reech down towards it arl & tuch a tiny wite petal with my fingertip & its so soft & tenda & lovely and O then a beetl crarls onto my hand & then anotha then anotha & a littl spida too & I fele the tiny ticklin of thees lovely livin creechers on my skin. I see livin creechers crawlin acros the stoans of death. I see livin plants growin owt of the dust of death. I see turf that spreds across the stones I see brite green moss & am entransd.

  Missus Malone stands abuv me leenin on her stick & lookin at me with her cold eyes.

  I kepe on starin & as I stare I see thers sumthin stickin up just lyk its poyntin at me. I tuch it & tayk it betwene my fingas & I see it is itself a finga itself curlin up owt of the erth. I pul it free of the tangl of roots that hold it ther. Its smooth & wite. I hold it agenst my own finga & see that it is just as slenda just as long as a finga of my own but it cannot shift & moov lyk myn can for it is a thing of stoan.

  “What ar you doin ther William?” says Missus Malone.

  Then she sees.

  “Ha!” she says. “And look — a hole hand rests rite ther.”

  I see it. A little hand no biger than my own lyin flat with its parm open lyk it is beseechin me or maykin an offerin to me. I stand up & reech towards it & pik it owt from the rubbl too. I nock the roots & dust & dirt off it & see how smooth it is how cool how lovely.

  “Bluddy relics evrywer,” says Missus Malone. “Put them in yor pocket William. They wil remind you of how things used to be & they will be a syn of the worlds frajility & of the evil & ilushons of mankynd. O look another crakpot thing!”

  I crowch agen. Ther is a hole foot this tym, with a sandal paynted on it.

  “Tayk that too if you wud lyk it,” says Missus Malone. “Straynj how the styupid creations of man last longa than the man hisself. Propa flesh & bone wud hav bene long gon by now & good bluddy riddans to it. Now cum along. O I tel you it givs me grate plesha to crunch this plays beneeth my fete & it shud do the saym to you.”

  She warks agen crunch crunch tap tap crunch crunch.

  “Dos it do the saym to you?” she says. “Just say yes Missus Malone.”

  “Yes, Missus M —”

  “Exelent.”

  I put the finga & hand & foot in my poket & hold them ther.

  She warks more qwik she speeks mor qwik I stumbl to kepe up with her.

  “Youd think thatd be the end of it wudnt you?” she says.

  I stare at her. She glairs.

  “The end of w-what?” I say.

  “The end of all of it of cors! Buildins smashd & pepl killd & fyrs burnin. Youd think that wud be qwiyt enuf of bluddy that. Wudnt you?”

  “Y-y —”

  “Well it wasnt! Cos I havent told you to the end & here it cums so kepe on bluddy lissenin OK?”

  “OK.”

  She siys. Her body slumps a bit. Then she tayks a depe breth.

  “The 3rd daft fool,” she says. “He wayted, William. He didnt switch his switch & he kept on wanderin. He wanderd rite into Blinkbonny park. He wayted ther. He herd the boms behynd him goin off. Kaboom! Kaboom! Kaboom! He saw the smoak he saw the flayms he herd the screems he felt the blasts. Stil he wayted. Mebbe he was havin 2nd thorts. Dyou think he was havin 2nd thorts, William?”

  “I dont no.”

  “Of cors you dont. But he definitly wayted. He wayted long enuf for me to get ther. Cos soon as I was owt of that room I was runnin away from the new bonny babe & runnin for the park. I was sprintin screamin. He wayted long enuf for Missus Malone to run throu the Blinkbonny slorter rite to the gayts of Blinkbonny park. Im yellin yellin for my dorter. I see my dorter runnin in panic with other kids arownd the swings & slyds & seesaws. I see parints lyk me rushin across the park to them. I carl her naym. Daisy! & she carls myn. Mammy! And mebbe in the end its carls like that that stir the bomer. Mebbe its cries of love & frite & loss that prod him. Those things, & the bluddy stupid dreme of bluddy stupid Paradiys thats depe insyd him — the dreme thats driven mankynd deathwads sins the start of tym. So bang! he went at last. Bluddy massiv bang!! Kabluddybluddyboom! And hes gon & so ar the kids thats near him & so ar many of the runnin parents. And Im farlin at the gaytway to the garden & metal from the bomb is in my flesh & the blud of my dere dorter is splashd across my skin. Ha! Ha! Enuf!”

  She hurrys on. I puff and pant.

  “We got to get you fit!” she says.

  “Y-yes Missus Malone.”

  She stops. She stabs the erth hard with the stik.

  “Im the 1 thats crippld! Im the 1 that shud be struggling to kepe up! Arnt I? Arnt I? Say yes, Missus Malone!”

  “Yes, Missus Malone.”

  “Yes, Missus Malone! I had a dorter & she was a childe like you wasnt she? Say yes Missus Malone.”

  “Yes, Missus Malone.”

  “And I was tending to you at yor burth wen I cud hav bene tending to her. Wasnt I? Say yes —”

  “Yes, Missus Malone.”

  “Yes! Enuf! Wark on!”

  We wark on in sylens just the crunch crunch rattl crunch. Then she stops agen.

  “Do you no yor letters? Yor ABC yor XYZ?”

  “S-sum of them.”

  “S-sum of them! Knowin yor leters wil be essenshal in yor deelins with the dead. What is this for instans?”

  She wayvs her stik in the air. I havent got a clu what shes doin.

  “You havent got a bluddy clu hav you” she says. “Il do it mor sloly. Wotch!”

  She waves her stik agen mor slow.

  “Wel?” she says.

  I say nothi
n. I dont know the anser.

  “You dont bluddy no do you?” she says. “Yor father mite hav been a bugga but he was also a very clever man! Wat happend to the branes you shud hav got?”

  “I dont —”

  “Enuf! Lets do it this way.”

  She crowches down & scratches marks with her stik in the dust. I wotch but I also look for other fingas other hands.

  “Wel?” she says.

  I look at the marks for sumthin I no.

  “A” I say.

  “OK. Wer gettin somewer. And this?”

  “X” I say.

  “Wel dun. I wont ask enythin mor complicayted today as I dont wish to furtha disapoynt myself. Look — anotha styupid relic for you.”

  I gasp for joy cos its a stony wite fether snappd off from a wing. I pik it up. She leens across & takes it from me & laffs & the laffs dont reely sownd like laffs but mor lyk snarls & wayls. She warks on. I see nothin els but spidas crawlin & weeds growin in the rubbl & so I follo.

  “And what is this?” she says turnin bak to me.

  She makes a grate big sircl in the air with the little bit of fether.

  I stare.

  “What is it?” she snaps agen.

  “O” I say.

  “Correct!” she says. “O. The shape of the world the shayp of a hed the shayp of a mowth wyd open howlin!”

  She holds the fether in her parm & gayzes at it.

  “O my dorter,” she wispers. “O!”

  Then she flings the fether to the erth.

  I pik it up.

  “Oooooo!” she says. “Mayk the shayp & mayk the sownd William. Oooooooo!”

  “Oooooo!” I go.

  “Thats bluddy useless!” she says. “Yor not maykin it horribl & desprat enuf! Try agen! Put sum agony in it, boy! OOOOOOOO!”

  Then she stops. She puts a finger to her lips.

  “Hush” she wispers. “Lissen! And come qwik!”

  She runs acros the rubbl to a rowind hows throu its shattad dorways up sum stares to a dilapidayted room smashd open to the owtside air with a grate stone shatterd windo fraym & throu that to a metal balcony that teetas over the rubbl & dust belo.

  She drags me after her.

  The balcony sways & juddas with our wate.