The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean (16 page)

It is that tiny I can hardly see it at all.

“What is this?” he asks.

“A bit of cow,” I anser.

“Thats rite,” he says. “I keep cutting it & cutting it & its still a bit of cow. No matter wot I do to it, it is stil a bit of cow. Even if we cannot see it, still it is a bit of cow. Put owt yor tung Billy.”

I put owt my tung.

He presses his fingertip to my tung & leavs the tiny bit of cow upon it.

“Now swallow, Billy.”

I swallow. I feel nothing go down but I no that bit of cow has gon down.

“What is it now?” he asks.

“A bit of cow,” I anser.

“Yes. And it is also a bit of Billy Dean. The cow has becom a bit of Billy Dean. Billy Dean has becom a bit of cow.”

He smiles.

“When you eat the beest the beest eats you” he says.

Then he leads me owt throu the door. He reaches down & presses his fingertip into the Blinkbonny dust. He tels me to put owt my tung agen. He presses his fingertip to my tung. I swallow. Blinkbonny becomes me & I become Blinkbonny.

“All things flow into each other,” says Mr McCaufrey. “That is the wonda & mistry of the butchers work. That is the wonder & mystery of the world. Remember that Billy Dean.”

“Ill remember Mr McCaufrey,” I say.

And I remember it now as I rite him, lovely Mr McCaufrey, as I see his wundros shop & see the rayza passin so smooth back & forwad across his skul. Ther he is. He keeps raisin his eyes & smiling at me throu the yeres. Wen its dun he lifts his hed agen & rubs his hand acros it and says like always,

“That is a perfect cut. Thank you, my deer.”

On this 1st day its a lovely bit of gammon that he gives us.

“Boil it slow with onions, love,” he says.

He kisses his fingas to think of such delishusness.

Befor we leev I reech into my poket and speak.

“I brout a gift for you, Mr McCaufrey,” I say.

I take out the fragmint of statew.

“It is a bit of an aynjel,” I say. “I thout you woud like it.”

“Indeed I do!” he crys. “I wil tresure it always. Thank you my good frend Billy Dean.”

And then we wark bak homewad crunch crunch crunch.

I rite them homewad crunch crunch crunch.

We pass Saynt Patricks & inspect the erth. Its like the earth is givin Jesus up to us. Mebbe its the crunchin of our feet that bring him up the way a bird wil bete upon the erth to bring up worms.

We lift our fragments from the dust & wipe the dust away.

We place them in our plastic bags.

But thers no hed of Jesus.

“And O he was so lovely,” says my Mam. “He was so byutiful & sweet.”

We keep on lookin & still no hed.

And the sky is red & blak & darkenin darkenin as we wark bak homeward crunch crunch crunch.

I cud follo them endlessly those fete that wark acros the erth that wark throu time & throu my memries & my dremes.

It is like warkin on my skin & throu my hair & throu my blood & bones & brain.

Wil the warkin never stop?

What is it that Im serchin for in the erth of these payjes in the scratching of these words?

No anser.

I no what is to come and ther can be no chanjes.

So why keep warkin ritin telling warkin ritin telling?

No anser, Billy. Never eny anser.

Crunch crunch I wark.

Crunch crunch I rite.

Crunch crunch a word crunch crunch a word crunch crunch another & another & another.

We hav 1 leg of Jesus & just abowt 2 fete. We hav a bigish bit of nek, a hand & a harf, an elbow a nee & a secshon of chest. Thers a bit of a brown skirt thing with elegant folds in it. Thers lots of pink wich must be flesh & meny wite powdery bits wich must of cum from depe insyd.

The aynjel has nerly harf of both its wings 2 shattad legs a fase that looks to Hevan with a streme of golden hair behind & much of its lovely smooth body tho its not so smooth as wons it must hav been.

We move the bits abowt on the kitchen taybl. We try to match 1 bit with another bit & try to mayk the bodys like they wer bak in the past.

The harf resurected statews lie ther on the kitchen taybl.

1 afternoon wer diggin in the dirt & 1 of the treshur seekers is watchin from close by. He holds his detecta abuv the erth befor him. His fase is the color of the dust & his hands ar all blak & scraypd.

“What you 2 lookin for?” he says.

“Nothin” says Mam.

“Just as well cos thats exacty wat yell get. This seme was workd owt long long bak.”

I find a toe & lift it up & hold it up to the sun. He laffs.

“Very very valubl!” he says.

He laffs & snarls agen.

“Its silva and gold ye want,” he says. “Its chalises & crosses & coyns from the old collecshuns & they wer discovered & dug owt way way bak.”

I keep my fase turnd from him. I kepe on pickin at the erth. I fele Mam so nervus at my syd.

“Whos this lad enyway?” says the treshur hunter. “I no who you ar, pet. Yor that hair lady but whos the lad?”

“Nobody,” says Mam.

“Nobody?”

“A visita,” says Mam.

“A visita to byutiful Blinkbonny?”

Mam says nothing nor do I.

“Look this way lad,” says the treshur hunter. “Let me hav a propa look at you.”

He steps closer.

“A fine lad” he says. “Looks like youll make a fine yung soljer 1 day.”

He steps closer.

“Thers sumthin sumhow rather straynjely familyar abowt you,” he says.

“Ignor him,” wispers Mam, “& hell go away.”

I don’t moov.

“I dont see the lykness of sumbody in you do I?” says the treshur seeker. “Do I?”

“Keep still,” hisses Mam.

Then we hear crunch tap tap & we arl turn rownd. Missus Malone. The sun is fallin down behynd her & shes a silowet. She stands on the rubbl restin on her stik ded stil just lyk shes mayd of stoan.

“What you after?” she snaps at the treshur hunter.

“Nothin” he ansers.

“Yeve got what ye want then. Now its tym to bugga off.”

He mutters sumthin soft & low. He trys to stand ther & to glare bak at her but soon he looks away.

“I said bluddy bugga off!” says Missus Malone.

“OK. OK.”

“Bugga off or Ill bring the butcher to you.”

He gives a last isy stare at me & then heds off across the rubbl scraypin his detacta befor him.

“Good ridince” says Missus Malone. “Take no notis of wons lyk him William. Ther the scum of the bluddy erth.”

“I wont Missus Malone.”

“Good.”

She points to the grownd.

“A fether William” she says.

I pik it up & put it in the bag. Missus Malone laffs & shayks her hed.

“Iyv always bene astonishd by the things folk do to fil ther lives. What do you think wud happen if we didnt do it?”

“Do what?” says Mam.

“Eny of it. If we didnt pik things owt of the dirt & didnt wark on it & ther was no treshur hunters scraypin it. How do ye think it wud turn owt?”

“I dont know, Missus Malone.”

“You dont do you? Some folk dont think abowt things lyk that do they? It wud turn to a wildanes wudnt it?”

“Yes, Missus Malone.”

“Yes, Missus Malone. You havent got a cluw have you? But Im telling you it wud. A bluddy massiv wild bluddy wildaness with bluddy massiv grate big plants growin wild & bluddy grate big beests roamin arownd in freedom. Wudnt it?”

“Yes, Missus Malone.”

“Yes, Missus Malone! Exacly. And itd be even bluddy massiver & wilder if ther wer non of us here at arl. If we wer all dead & gon & turnd to gosts. Gosts don’t do no damaj do they? So mebbe the world wud be beter off withowt us. What de ye think, Veronica? De ye think we shud arl just bluddy get it over with & leev it to the creepy crarlies & the plants & beests? Mebbe thats the long term plan thats at the heart of it arl. Mebbe thats how it was always intended to turn owt. Mebbe thats wat all the bluddy wars ar for. To get us blasted off the fase of the world for eva bluddy mor. Bang bang bluddy bang kabluddybangbangboom! Arl gon. Arl floatin arownd in the bluddy afterlife. Ha! Look, William! Thers a bit of Jesus brain slitherin abowt! Catch it qwik!”

I look down & thers a long thin worm rigglin over a stoan. It slips into a little hole.

“Too late!” she says. “And another bit!”

A shiny blak beetl scrabbls acros the plase it left. And arownd the beetl thers ants & ants & ants. And arownd the ants thers tinyer creepy crarly things & tiny plants & plants & plants.

“A wilderness” says Missus Malone. “With things that crarl & slither & slyd on it. And driftin gosts that never do harm to nothing & to nobody. It wud reely be qite lovely & qite byutiful & wonderful & all the mor wonderful for the fact that therd be non of us arownd to bluddy wark on it.”

She kicks a stoan.

“Ah well” she says. “Won can but dreame. Id like you to come with me now William.”

I just stare at her & so dos Mam.

“It is time to introduce you to my parlor & to the planshet & to show you the doreways to the afterlife.”

She taps her stik on the erth.

“Come along,” she says. “And Veronica stop looking so bluddy trubld. You wil be able to carry that dust & rubbl & rubbish bak home wont you.”

“Yes Missus Malone,” says Mam.

“Exelent. I will bring him home tonite. Off you go.”

And Im led away crunch crunch tap tap.

Missus Malones dore. Thers wooden bords nayld at the windos. Thers a blak dore & a silva nocka & a wite sine with thees words printed on it.

She opens a number of locks with a number of keys. She leads me in. Its dark in ther. She switches littl lamps on as she gose deeper. She takes me throu a narro hallway. Tap tap gose her stik tap tap.

She takes me to a littl room. Thers curtans arl arownd it & just darknes past the curtans. Thers a smarl round tabl at the center shiny & polishd with a numba of chares rownd it.

She sits down with a siy & rubs her hip & flinches.

“Oooo” she goes. “Aaaaah.”

She stryks a match & lites a lamp that hangs down from the seelin ova the senter of the taybl. It hisses as it starts to burn. I see that arl arownd the edjes of the taybl thers letters writ in gold.

“Sit down William” she says. “Make yorself at home.”

I perch on a chare at the taybls edj.