A Monster Calls Read online

  But then he nodded.

  You could have held on for longer, the monster said, but you let her fall. You loosened your grip and let the nightmare take her.

  Conor nodded again, his face scrunched up with pain and weeping.

  You wanted her to fall.

  “No,” Conor said through thick tears.

  You wanted her to go.

  “No!”

  You must speak the truth and you must speak it now, Conor O’Malley. Say it. You must.

  Conor shook his head again, his mouth clamped shut tight, but he could feel a burning in his chest, like a fire someone had lit there, a miniature sun, blazing away and burning him from the inside.

  “It’ll kill me if I do,” he gasped.

  It will kill you if you do not, the monster said. You must say it.

  “I can’t.”

  You let her go. Why?

  The blackness was wrapping itself around Conor’s eyes now, plugging his nose and overwhelming his mouth. He was gasping for breath and not getting it. It was suffocating him. It was killing him–

  Why, Conor? the monster said fiercely. Tell me WHY! Before it is too late!

  And the fire in Conor’s chest suddenly blazed, suddenly burned like it would eat him alive. It was the truth, he knew it was. A moan started in his throat, a moan that rose into a cry and then a loud wordless yell and he opened his mouth and the fire came blazing out, blazing out to consume everything, bursting over the blackness, over the yew tree, too, setting it ablaze along with the rest of the world, burning it back as Conor yelled and yelled and yelled, in pain and grief–

  And he spoke the words.

  He spoke the truth.

  He told the rest of the fourth tale.

  “I can’t stand it any more!” he cried out as the fire raged around him. “I can’t stand knowing that she’ll go! I just want it to be over! I want it to be finished!”

  And then the fire ate the world, wiping away everything, wiping him away with it.

  He welcomed it with relief, because it was, at last, the punishment he deserved.

  LIFE AFTER DEATH

  Conor opened his eyes. He was lying on the grass on the hill above his house.

  He was still alive.

  Which was the worst thing that could have happened.

  “Why didn’t it kill me?” he groaned, holding his face in his hands. “I deserve the worst.”

  Do you? the monster asked, standing above him.

  “I’ve been thinking it for the longest time,” Conor said slowly, painfully, struggling to get the words out. “I’ve known forever she wasn’t going to make it, almost from the beginning. She said she was getting better because that’s what I wanted to hear. And I believed her. Except I didn’t.”

  No, the monster said.

  Conor swallowed, still struggling. “And I started to think how much I wanted it to be over. How much I just wanted to stop having to think about it. How I couldn’t stand the waiting any more. I couldn’t stand how alone it made me feel.”

  He really began to cry now, more than he thought he’d ever done, more even than when he found out his mum was ill.

  And a part of you wished it would just end, said the monster, even if it meant losing her.

  Conor nodded, barely able to speak.

  And the nightmare began. The nightmare that always ended with–

  “I let her go,” Conor choked out. “I could have held on but I let her go.”

  And that, the monster said, is the truth.

  “I didn’t mean it, though!” Conor said, his voice rising. “I didn’t mean to let her go! And now it’s for real! Now she’s going to die and it’s my fault!”

  And that, the monster said, is not the truth at all.

  Conor’s grief was a physical thing, gripping him like a clamp, clenching him tight as a muscle. He could barely breathe from the sheer effort of it, and he sank to the ground again, wishing it would just take him, once and for all.

  He faintly felt the huge hands of the monster pick him up, forming a little nest to hold him. He was only vaguely aware of the leaves and branches twisting around him, softening and widening to let him lie back.

  “It’s my fault,” Conor said. “I let her go. It’s my fault.”

  It is not your fault, the monster said, its voice floating in the air around him like a breeze.

  “It is.”

  You were merely wishing for the end of pain, the monster said. Your own pain. An end to how it isolated you. It is the most human wish of all.

  “I didn’t mean it,” Conor said.

  You did, the monster said, but you also did not.

  Conor sniffed and looked up to its face, which was as big as a wall in front of him. “How can both be true?”

  Because humans are complicated beasts, the monster said. How can a queen be both a good witch and a bad witch? How can a prince be a murderer and a saviour? How can an apothecary be evil-tempered but right-thinking? How can a parson be wrong-thinking but good-hearted? How can invisible men make themselves more lonely by being seen?

  “I don’t know,” Conor shrugged, exhausted. “Your stories never made any sense to me.”

  The answer is that it does not matter what you think, the monster said, because your mind will contradict itself a hundred times each day. You wanted her to go at the same time you were desperate for me to save her. Your mind will believe comforting lies while also knowing the painful truths that make those lies necessary. And your mind will punish you for believing both.

  “But how do you fight it?” Conor asked, his voice rough. “How do you fight all the different stuff inside?”

  By speaking the truth, the monster said. As you spoke it just now.

  Conor thought again of his mother’s hands, of the grip as he let go–

  Stop this, Conor O’Malley, the monster said, gently. This is why I came walking, to tell you this so that you may heal. You must listen.

  Conor swallowed again. “I’m listening.”

  You do not write your life with words, the monster said. You write it with actions. What you think is not important. It is only important what you do.

  There was a long silence as Conor re-caught his breath.

  “So what do I do?” he finally asked.

  You do what you did just now, the monster said. You speak the truth.

  “That’s it?”

  You think it is easy? The monster raised two enormous eyebrows. You were willing to die rather than speak it.

  Conor looked down at his hands, finally unclenching them. “Because what I thought was so wrong.”

  It was not wrong, the monster said, It was only a thought, one of a million. It was not an action.

  Conor let out a long, long breath, still thick.

  But he wasn’t choking. The nightmare wasn’t filling him up, squeezing his chest, dragging him down.

  In fact, he didn’t feel the nightmare there at all.

  “I’m so tired,” Conor said, putting his head in his hands. “I’m so tired of all this.”

  Then sleep, said the monster. There is time.

  “Is there?” Conor mumbled, suddenly unable to keep his eyes open.

  The monster changed the shape of its hands even further, making the nest of leaves Conor was lying on even more comfortable.

  “I need to see my mum,” he protested.

  You will, the monster said. I promise.

  Conor opened his eyes. “Will you be there?”

  Yes, the monster said. It will be the final steps of my walking.

  Conor felt himself drifting off, the tide of sleep pulling against him so hard he couldn’t resist it.

  But before he went, he could feel one last question bubbling up.

  “Why do you always come at 12.07?” he asked.

  He was asleep before the monster could answer.

  SOMETHING IN COMMON

  “Oh, thank God!”

  The words filtered in before Conor was even properly
awake.

  “Conor!” he heard, and then stronger. “Conor!”

  His grandma’s voice.

  He opened his eyes, sitting up slowly. Night had fallen. How long had he been asleep? He looked around. He was still on the hill behind his house, nestled in the roots of the yew tree towering over him. He looked up. It was just a tree.

  But he could swear that it also wasn’t.

  “CONOR!”

  His grandma was running from the direction of the church, and he could see her car parked on the road beyond, its lights on, its engine running. He stood as she ran to him, her face filled with annoyance and relief and something he recognized with a sinking stomach.

  “Oh, thank God, thank GOD!” she shouted as she reached him.

  And then she did a surprising thing.

  She grabbed him in a hug so hard they both nearly fell over. Only Conor catching them on the tree trunk stopped them. Then she let him go and really started shouting.

  “Where have you BEEN?!” she practically screamed. “I’ve been searching for HOURS! I’ve been FRANTIC, Conor! WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?”

  “There was something I needed to do,” Conor said, but she was already pulling on his arm.

  “No time,” she said. “We have to go! We have to go now!”

  She let go of him and actually sprinted back to her car, which was such a troubling thing to see, Conor ran after her almost automatically, jumping in the passenger side and not even getting the door closed before she drove off with a screech of tyres.

  He didn’t dare ask why they were hurrying.

  “Conor,” his grandma said as the car raced down the road at alarming speed. It was only when he looked at her that he saw how much she was crying. Shaking, too. “Conor, you just can’t…” She shook some more, then he saw her grip the steering wheel even harder.

  “Grandma–” he started to say.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Just don’t.”

  They drove in silence for a while, sailing through give way signs with barely a look. Conor re-checked his seatbelt.

  “Grandma?” Conor asked, bracing himself as they flew over a bump.

  She kept speeding on.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, quietly.

  She laughed at this, a sad, thick laugh. She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “Of course it doesn’t,” she said, and she started to cry again. But she wasn’t the kind of grandma who was going to let crying get in the way of her talking. “You know, Conor?” she said. “You and me? Not the most natural fit, are we?”

  “No,” Conor said. “I guess not.”

  “I guess not either.” She tore around a corner so fast, Conor had to grab onto the door handle to stay upright.

  “But we’re going to have to learn, you know,” she said.

  Conor swallowed. “I know.”

  His grandma made a little sobbing noise. “You do know, don’t you?” she said. “Of course you do.”

  She coughed to clear her throat as she quickly looked both ways at an approaching cross-roads before driving right through the red light. Conor wondered how late it was. There was hardly any traffic around.

  “But you know what, grandson?” his grandma said. “We have something in common.”

  “We do?” Conor asked, as the hospital lurched into view down the road.

  “Oh, yes,” his grandma said, pressing even harder on the accelerator, and he saw that her tears were still coming.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  She pulled into the first empty spot she saw on the road near the hospital, running her car up onto the kerb with a thudding stop.

  “Your mum,” she said, looking at him full on. “That’s what we have in common.”

  Conor didn’t say anything.

  But he knew what she meant. His mum was her daughter. And she was the most important person either of them knew. That was a lot to have in common.

  It was certainly a place to start.

  His grandma turned off the engine and opened her door. “We have to hurry,” she said.

  THE TRUTH

  His grandma burst into his mum’s hospital room ahead of him with a terrible question on her face. But there was a nurse inside who answered immediately. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re in time.”

  His grandma put her hands to her mouth and let out a cry of relief.

  “I see you found him,” the nurse said, looking at Conor.

  “Yes,” was all his grandma said.

  Both she and Conor were looking at his mum. The room was mostly dark, just a light on over her bed where she lay. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing sounded like there was a weight on her chest. The nurse left them with her, and his grandma sat down in the chair on the other side of his mum’s bed, leaning forward to pick up one of his mum’s hands. She held it in her own, kissing it and rocking back and forth.

  “Ma?” he heard. It was his own mum talking, her voice so thick and low it was almost impossible to understand.

  “I’m here, darling,” his grandma said, still holding his mum’s hand. “Conor’s here, too.”

  “Is he?” his mum slurred, not opening her eyes.

  His grandma looked at him in a way that told him to say something.

  “I’m here, Mum,” he said.

  His mum didn’t say anything, just reached out the hand closest to him.

  Asking for him to take it.

  Take it and not let go.

  Here is the end of the tale, the monster said behind him.

  “What do I do?” Conor whispered.

  He felt the monster place its hands on his shoulders. Somehow they were small enough to feel like they were holding him up.

  All you have to do is tell the truth, the monster said.

  “I’m afraid to,” Conor said. He could see his grandma there in the dim light, leaning over her daughter. He could see his mum’s hand, still outstretched, her eyes still closed.

  Of course you are afraid, the monster said, pushing him slowly forward. And yet you will still do it.

  As the monster’s hands gently but firmly guided him towards his mum, Conor saw the clock on the wall above her bed. Somehow, it was already 11.46 p.m.

  Twenty-one minutes before 12.07.

  He wanted to ask the monster what was going to happen then, but he didn’t dare.

  Because it felt like he knew.

  If you speak the truth, the monster whispered in his ear, you will be able to face whatever comes.

  And so Conor looked back down at his mum, at her outstretched hand. He could feel his throat choking again and his eyes watering.

  It wasn’t the drowning of the nightmare, though. It was simpler, clearer.

  Still just as hard.

  He took his mother’s hand.

  She opened her eyes, briefly, catching him there. Then she closed them again.

  But she’d seen him.

  And he knew it was here. He knew there really was no going back. That it was going to happen, whatever he wanted, whatever he felt.

  And he also knew he was going to get through it.

  It would be terrible. It would be beyond terrible.

  But he’d survive.

  And it was for this that the monster came. It must have been. Conor had needed it and his need had somehow called it. And it had come walking. Just for this moment.

  “You’ll stay?” Conor whispered to the monster, barely able to speak. “You’ll stay until…”

  I will stay, the monster said, its hands still on Conor’s shoulders. Now all you have to do is speak the truth.

  And so Conor did.

  He took in a breath.

  And, at last, he spoke the final and total truth.

  “I don’t want you to go,” he said, the tears dropping from his eyes, slowly at first, then spilling like a river.

  “I know, my love,” his mother said, in her he
avy voice. “I know.”

  He could feel the monster, holding him up and letting him stand there.

  “I don’t want you to go,” he said again.

  And that was all he needed to say.

  He leaned forward onto her bed and put his arm around her.

  Holding her.

  He knew it would come, and soon, maybe even this 12.07. The moment she would slip from his grasp, no matter how tightly he held on.

  But not this moment, the monster whispered, still close. Not just yet.

  Conor held tightly onto his mother.

  And by doing so, he could finally let her go.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  First published 2011 by Walker Books Ltd, 87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ

  With thanks to Kate Wheeler

  Text © 2011 Patrick Ness

  From an original idea by Siobhan Dowd

  Cover illustration © 2011 Jim Kay

  Quote from An Experiment in Love by Hilary Mantel © 1995 Hilary Mantel. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

  The right of Patrick Ness and Jim Kay to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data: a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-4063-3546-0 (ePub)

  ISBN 978-1-4063-3547-7 (e-PDF)

  www.walker.co.uk