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“Yes, boss.”
“That’s really you? You’re not an illusion? He hasn’t created an image of you, to torment me?”
“Don’t be stupid. Not even Michelangelo could create a face this perfect.”
Dervish smiles. The last of the nightmare passes. He sits on the floor and looks at me through watery globes. “How you doing, big guy?”
“Coolio.”
“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly.
“You couldn’t if you tried,” I smirk, not telling him about the hit to the head, the hand on my throat, the foot at my face.
I sit beside him. Drape an arm around his shoulders. He hugs me tight. Murmurs, “It was so real. I thought I was back there. I ...”
And then he weeps, sobbing like a child. And I hold him, talking softly as the moon descends, telling him it’s OK, he’s home, he’s safe — he’s no longer in the universe of demons.
Never trust fairy tales. Any story that ends with “They all lived happily ever after” is a crock. There are no happy endings. No endings — full stop. Life sweeps you forward, swings you round, bruises and batters you, drops some new drama or tragedy in your lap, never lets go until you get to the one true end — death. As long as you’re breathing, your story’s still going.
If the rules of fairy tales did work, my story would have ended on a high four months ago. That’s when Dervish regained his senses and everything seemed set to return to normal. But that was a false ending. A misleading happy pause.
I had to write a short biography for an English assignment recently. A snappy, zappy summing-up of my life. I had to discard my first effort — it was too close to the bone, and would have only led to trouble if I’d handed it in. I wrote an edited, watered-down version and submitted that instead. (I got a B-minus.) But I kept the original. It’s hidden under a pile of clothes in my wardrobe. I drag it out now to read, to pass some time. I’ve read through it a lot of times these past few weeks, usually early in the morning, after an interrupted night, when I can’t sleep.
I was born Grubitsch Grady. One sister, Gretelda. Grubbs and Gret for short. Normal, boring lives for a long time. Then Gret turned into a werewolf.
“What are you reading?”
It’s Dervish, standing in the doorway of my room, mug of coffee in his left hand, eyes still wide and freaky from his nightmare.
“My biography,” I tell him.
He frowns. “What?” “
I’m going to publish my memoirs. I’m thinking of ‘Life with Demons’ as a title. Or maybe ‘Hairy Boys and Girls of the Grady Clan.’ What do you think?”
Dervish stares at me uneasily. “You’re weird,” he mutters, then trudges away.
“Wonder where I got that from?” I retort, then shake my head and return to the biography.
I have a younger half-brother, Bill-E Spleen. He doesn’t know we’re brothers. Thinks Dervish is his father. I met him when I came to live with Dervish, after my parents died trying to save Gret.
“Are you coming down for breakfast?” Dervish yells from the bottom of the giant staircase that links the floors of the mansion where we live.
“In a minute,” I yell back. “I’ve just come to the bit when you zombied out on me.”
“Stop messing about!” he roars. “I’m scrambling eggs, and if you’re not down in sixty seconds, too bad!”
Damn! He knows all my weaknesses!
“Coming!” I shout, getting up and reaching for my clothes, tossing the bio aside for later.
Dervish does a mean scrambled egg. Best I’ve ever tasted. I finish off a plateful without stopping for breath, then eagerly go for seconds. I’m built on the big size — a mammoth compared to most of my schoolmates — with an appetite to match.
Dervish is wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. No shoes or socks. His grey hair is frizzled, except on top, where he's bald as a billiard ball. Hasn’t shaved (he used to have a beard, but got rid of it recently). Doesn’t smell good — sweaty and stale. He’s this way most days. Has been ever since he came back.
“You eating that or not?” I ask. He looks over blankly from where he’s standing, close to the hob. He’s been staring out the window at the grey autumn sky, not touching his food.
“Huh?” he says.
