Echo

scared the poor old biddy out of her wits and she barred the door on him.' He turned to look into the warehouse. 'There's twenty more like him inside. It's us sane ones who're looking after them, and it's a bloody joke, if you ask me.'

Deacon agreed with him. What was society coming to when it was the down-and-outs who offered care in the community to the mentally ill? 'Did Billy ever mention being in a hospital?'

Terry shook his head. 'He never talked much about the past.'

'Okay. How about prison? Do you know which one he did his time in?'

Terry nodded towards the leathery-faced old man. 'Tom and him did a month in Brixton once.'

'Where did they keep him?' Deacon asked Tom. 'On the hospital wing or in a cell?'

'Cell, same as me.'

'Was he given any medication?'

'Not that I remember.'

'So he wasn't diagnosed schizophrenic in prison?'

Tom shook his head. 'The screws ain't got the time or the inclination to worry about a wino doing four weeks in the nick. It'd take 'im that long to dry out so, if 'e screams 'is 'ead off on a regular basis, they just put it down to DTs or anything else they fancy.'

'Did he act as crazy inside as he did on the out?'

Tom made a rocking motion with his hand. 'Bit up and down, got depressed every so often, but otherwise 'e was okay. Went to chapel like a good'un and be'aved 'isself. Reckon it was the drink made 'im mad. 'E was only ever off his 'ead when e'd 'ad a skinful. Sane as you an' me when 'e was sober.'

Deacon offered his cigarettes round a second time, then raised his coat flap against the wind to light one for himself. 'And none of you knows where he came from, or who he might have been, or why he called himself Billy Blake?'

'What makes you think it wasn't his real name?' asked Terry. This time he chose to smoke his cigarette, pulling a brand from the fire to light it.

Deacon shrugged. 'I'm guessing.' He drew heavily on his cigarette in order to keep the tip alight. 'How did he speak? Did he have an accent?'

'Not so's you'd notice. I asked him once if he was an actor because he sounded pretty classy when he was raving. But he said no.'

'What did he do when he was raving?'

'Shouted anything that came into his head. Some of it rhymed, but I don't know if he was making it up himself or if he was quoting someone else. I remember some of it-and one bit more or less because he said it over and over again. It was bloody weird stuff, all about his mother groaning, his father weeping, and demons leaping out of clouds.'

'Can you quote it?'

Terry looked at the others for inspiration. 'Not really,' he said when he didn't find any. 'He always began with 'my mother groaned, my father wept' but I forget what came after.'

Deacon cupped his cigarette in his hands and dredged deep into his memory. ' 'My mother groaned, my father wept,' ' he murmured, ' 'Into the dangerous world I leapt;/ Helpless, naked, piping loud,/ Like a fiend hid in a cloud.'

'Yeah,' said the young man with surprised respect. 'How the hell did you know that?'

'It's a poem entitled Infant Sorrow by a man called William Blake. I wrote a thesis on him years ago. He was an eighteenth century poet and artist who was considered off the wall by his contemporaries because he claimed to see visions.' Deacon gave a faint smile. 'William wrote some wonderful poetry, but lived and died in virtual poverty because no one recognized his genius until after he was dead. I suspect your friend knew William and his work rather well.'

'Yeah,' said Terry with quick intelligence. 'William Blake. Billy Blake. What else did this guy write?'

' 'Tyger! Tyger! burning bright/ In the forests of the night,' ' Deacon paused, inviting the lad to finish it.

' 'What immortal hand or eye/ Could frame thy fearful symmetry?' ' said the youngster in triumph. 'Yeah, Billy were always spouting that one. I told him it didn't rhyme properly, and he said you had to stress thy, which was where the rhyme was.'

Deacon nodded. Had Billy Blake been a teacher? he wondered. 'There's a line in the next verse that goes: 'What the hand dare seize the fire?' Was he thinking of that, do you suppose, when he tried to burn his own hand?'

'I dunno. It depends what it means.'

'The tiger represents power, energy, and cruelty. The poem describes this beautiful but uncontrollable creature being forged in flames and then goes on to question why his creator was brave enough to manufacture anything so dangerous.' Deacon could see he'd lost the others but there was keen interest still in Terry's face. 'It's the creator's hand that dared 'seize the fire,' so perhaps Billy thought he'd started something that he couldn't control.'

'Maybe.' A faraway look came into the young man's eyes as he stared across the river. 'Is the creator God?'

'A god. Blake doesn't specify which one.'

'Billy reckoned there were loads of gods. Gods of war. Gods of love. Gods of rivers. Gods of every bloody thing. He used to swear at them all the time. 'It's your fault, you buggers,' he used to shout, 'so let me alone and let me die.' I said he should just stop believing that the gods were there, then he wouldn't have to hate them. Makes sense, doesn't it?' The pinched face turned back towards the brazier.