A Monster Calls Part 16

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 untila"

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 heavy 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 fict.i.tiously.

First published 2011 by Walker Books Ltd, 87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ With thanks to Kate Wheeler.

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