The Monster

It's been a long time since I last posted anything here. I've been busy with other projects; political blogging on On t'Internet, FM blogging on FM Customer Care Today, and working at my new jobs. Now the Coronavirus crisis is upon us and once more I have a load of free time on my hands. This means I have more time to write, so I'll be going through my old fiction works and will publish them here for your enjoyment. Today's tale is one I submitted for a competition. I won an orange rubber alien and a t-shirt that didn't fit me.

The Monster

The child's scream cut through Helen like a knife. She rushed to his room. "Ted?" She could see his tiny form scrunched up under his duvet. “Ted?” She walked slowly over and put a hand on the trembling lump where she thought his back was. “What's up?”

“Monster,” he snivelled, muffled by the cover. Helen searched her pockets for a clean hankie. She pulled the duvet gently away, revealing his small body. “It's okay, I'm here.” She turned on the bedside lamp. Ted looked up, his cheeks stained with tears. A slimy trail of snot slid down towards his mouth. Helen wiped him clean. “What's all this about?”

“There's a monster under the bed, Helen,” he told her, his voice shaking.

“Don't be silly, Ted,” she replied, a bit too snappily.

“But there is!” he insisted. “It's under the bed.” His elfin face was pale, and beneath him a yellow stain spread.

“Oh, Ted!” said Helen testily. “You've wet the bed. Come on, out of there.” She spent the next half hour putting things to rights. He stood sulkily to one side, helping out when she told him to. “Okay, back you go,” Helen said briskly.

“But the monster!”

“Ted!”

“It's under the bed.”

She nipped smartly into the kitchen and returned with the broom. “Okay, Ted, let's take a look.” She shoved the broom beneath the bed, sweeping towards the end. Then she pulled it out and walked to the bottom of the bed. “There's a toy car and your Action Man, Ted. I don't see any monster.”

Ted sniffed. “It was there.”

“Well it ain't there now. Back to bed, please.”

Ted huffed and returned to bed. “Why is this towel here?”

“In case you have another accident, lad. Go to sleep. I'll leave the hall light on.” She returned to the lounge and sat down. Just as she was getting comfortable, his mother arrived. Helen put the kettle on and made her tea the way she liked it. “Hi Bets,” she said as Betty walked in and sat down at the table.

“How's Ted?” asked Betty, wrapping both hands around the mug as if to warm them.

“He had a nightmare, Bets. He wet the bed,” said Helen. “I cleaned it all up and put him back in. The duvet and sheet are in the washing machine.”

“Thanks, Helen,” said Betty wearily. “I thought he was over it.”

“You're not letting him watch stuff he shouldn't, are you?”

“No,” said Betty. “I've got no idea where he gets it from.” She looked up. “I've got no idea what else to do.”

Helen's eyebrows knitted above her nose. “How long has this been going on?”

“For the last few weeks, on and off.” Betty sighed. “You would think a paediatric nurse would know how to deal with this.”

Helen put a reassuring hand on her friend's arm. “I'm sure you'll think of something, Bets.”


The following week, Betty had a late shift and Helen went to babysit for her again. Ted was quiet. He played with his food and was sullenly compliant when Helen asked if he had any homework. He pulled out his exercise book and went to work in silence. “What's up, Ted?”

“Nuffin',” Ted replied quietly.

“Still having nightmares? Shall I check your bed before you get in this time?”

The boy shrugged.

Helen got up anyway, grabbed the broom, and stomped into Ted's bedroom. She thrust the broom beneath the bed, sweeping from side to side, bumping it into the walls, then returned triumphantly. “If there was a monster under your bed,” she crowed, “it's dead now.”
 
Ted heaved a weary sigh. “It only comes out at night, Helen.”

“Okay,” she replied, “you can stay up till it's dark, at which point I'll sweep beneath the bed again.”

“That doesn't work,” Ted countered.

Helen gave up. She would have to try a different strategy. Pursing her lips to one side of her mouth, she leaned back into her chair, folded her arms, and gave the matter some thought. It occurred to her that the problem was not the existence, if only in the child's head, of a monster, but that he was afraid of it. “Ted,” she asked, “how big is this monster?”

“I dunno,” the boy replied, looking up at her. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” she said in the most reassuring tone she could manage, “it occurs to me that if the monster is under your bed, it can't be that big, right?”

“Okay,” replied Ted, who sounded quite skeptical.

“Did you know I used to do fencing?” said Helen, leaning forward, pointing as if wielding a rapier.

“What's that?” asked Ted, rising from his slump.

“It's like sword fighting,” said Helen, a wicked smile spreading across her face. “I can teach you some of my moves.”

Ted's eyes widened, brightening with hope. “So I can fight it?”

“Well, yeah,” said Helen, pleased to have found a solution. “Next time it pops up you can stab it right in the guts with the carving fork.”

Ted's eyes dropped as his initial excitement waned. “What if it's too strong for me?”

“It won't be expecting you to fight back, Ted,” said Helen, raising her eyebrow. “Now eat up your dinner, then we'll practice with wooden spoons. I don't want you stabbing me in the guts, now, do I?”

After dinner, the lessons began. Helen put a cushion down on the easy chair for the boy to stab. Over and over again, he took his rage out on the cushion, whacking and stabbing it with the wooden spoon handle. Helen encouraged him to turn his terror into anger and use that to fuel his fight. By the time the sun went down, Ted was tired and Helen was almost afraid of the slight little eight-year-old. She worried briefly about how to explain this to Betty but then thought that if she could get Ted to have a full night's sleep, his mother would overlook the misuse of the carving fork. “Ted, it's nearly nine o'clock. Get into your jammies, and I'll get the carving fork.” A few minutes later, she entered the room holding the carving fork. Ted was already under the duvet, reaching out for the fork as she opened the door. “Here you go, kiddo.”

Ted snatched the fork handle and held it tines up, ready for action. “I'm gonna stab it right in the belly!” he said, anger twisting his little face.

“Okay, kiddo,” said Helen, backing away. “I'll leave the hall light on.” She flicked the switch on the wall and closed the door halfway, then went to the living room.

Ted lay quietly in his bed, his eyes wide open, straining to hear the faint scratchy sound of the monster's approach. For a while, nothing happened. The monster always came just as he was about to fall asleep. As the night wore on, his eyelids felt heavier and though he pinched his slender belly several times he could feel himself falling into darkness. He slid the carving fork beneath the duvet, ready to surprise the monster when it came. The warmth of the room and the steady drone of traffic on the distant main road dulled his mind and he blinked slowly. A faint hiss crept into his consciousness. His hand tightened on the fork handle and he slid it upwards as he slowly opened his eyes.

A dark form rose before him, sliding upwards from beneath his bed.

With a yell, Ted stabbed the monster with all of his strength. It screamed, a harsh, grating sound. Swivelling on his bum, Ted braced his legs against the monster's slippery belly, pulled out the fork, then got up and stabbed it again. The monster roared — and Helen came running into the room. She turned on the light. With a pop, the monster vanished, leaving a slimy wet green pool on the carpet. Ted looked up at her, a triumphant grin on his elfin face. He let the fork fall and ran into her arms. “We did it!” he shouted. “We did it! It's dead! The monster is dead!”

Helen stood still, her jaw slack, with arms hung limply by her side. She had nothing to say.