Blueeyedboy (5 page)

‘I didn’t sleep too well,’ he says.

‘You need to take your vitamin drink.’

‘Ma, I’m fine.’

‘It’ll do you good. Go on – take it,’ she says. ‘You know what happens when you don’t.’

And take it he does, as he always does, and its taste is a murky, rotten mess, like fruit and shit in equal parts. And she looks at him with that terrible look of tenderness in her dark eyes, and kisses him gently on the cheek. The scent of her perfume – L’Heure Bleue – envelops him like a blanket.

‘Why don’t you go back to bed for a while? Get some sleep before tonight? They work you so
hard
at that hospital, it’s a crime they get away with it—’

And now he’s
really
feeling sick, and he thinks that maybe he will lie down, go back to bed and lie down with the blanket pulled around his head, because nothing could be worse than this; this feeling of drowning in tenderness –

‘See?’ she says. ‘Ma knows best.’

Ma-ternal. Ma-stiff. Ma-stodon
. The words swim around inside his head like piranhas scenting blood. It hurts, but he already knows that it will hurt much more later; already the edges of things are garlanded with rainbows that in the next minutes will blossom and swell, driving a spike into his skull just behind his left eye –

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ his mother says. ‘Shall I sit beside you?’

‘No.’ The pain is bad enough, he thinks, but her presence would be so much worse. He forces a smile. ‘I just need to sleep. I’ll be fine in an hour or two.’

And then he turns and goes upstairs, holding on to the banisters, the filthy taste of the vitamin drink lost in a sudden surge of pain, and he almost falls, but does not, knowing that if he falls, she will come, and she will stay at his bedside for hours or days, for as long as the terrible headache lasts –

He collapses on to his unmade bed. There is no escape, he tells himself. This is the verdict. Guilty as charged. And now he must take his medicine, as he has done every day of his life; medicine to purge him of bad thoughts, a cure for what’s hidden inside him –

Night night. Sleep tight.

Sweet dreams,
blueeyedboy
. 34

Post comment
:

chrysalisbaby
:
wow this is awesome

JennyTricks
: (
post deleted
).

ClairDeLune
:
This is quite intriguing
,
blueeyedboy
.
Would you say it represents your true inner dialogue, or is it a character portrait you’re planning to develop at some later stage? In any case, I’d love to read more!

JennyTricks
: (
post deleted
).

6

You are viewing the webjournal of
blueeyedboy
.

Posted at
:
22.40 on Tuesday, January 29

Status
:
restricted

Mood
:
vitriolic

Listening to
:
Voltaire
: ‘When You’re Evil’

The perfect crime comes in four separate stages. Stage One: identification of the subject. Stage Two: observation of the subject’s daily routine. Stage Three: infiltration. Stage Four: action.

So far there’s no hurry, of course. She is barely a Stage Two. Walking past the house each day, the collar of her bright red coat turned up against the cold.

Red isn’t her colour, of course – but I don’t expect her to know that. She doesn’t know how I like to watch: noting the details of her dress; the way the wind catches her hair; the way she walks with such precision, marking her passage with almost imperceptible touches. A hand against this wall, here; brushing against this yew hedge; pausing to lift her face to the sound of schoolchildren playing in the yard. Winter has stripped the leaves from the trees, and on dry days their percussion underfoot still smells dimly of fireworks. I know she thinks that too; I know how she likes to walk in the park with its alleys and walled gardens and listen to the sound of the naked trees shushing to themselves in the wind. I know how she turns her face to the sky, mouth open to catch the droplets of rain. I know the unguarded look of her; the way her mouth twists when she is upset; the turn of her head when she listens; the way her face tilts towards a scent.

She notices scents especially: lingers in front of the bakery. Eyes closed, she likes to stand by the door and catch the aroma of warm bread. I wish I could talk to her openly, but Ma’s spies are everywhere; watching; reporting; examining . . .

One of these is Eleanor Vine, who called round early this evening. Ostensibly to check on Ma, but really to enquire after me, to search for signs of grief or guilt in the wake of my brother’s death; to sniff out what was happening at home, and to collect any news that was going.

Every village has one. The local do-gooder. The busybody. The one to whom everyone applies when in need of information. Eleanor Vine is Malbry’s: a poisonous toady who currently forms part of the toxic triumvirate that makes up my mother’s retinue. I suppose I ought to feel privileged. Mrs Vine rarely leaves her house, viewing the world through net curtains, occasionally condescending to welcome others into her immaculate sanctum for biscuits, tea and vitriol. She has a niece called Terri, who goes to my writing-as-therapy class. Mrs Vine thinks that Terri and I would make a charming couple. I think that Mrs Vine would make an even more charming corpse.

Today she was all sweetness. ‘You look exhausted, B.B.,’ she said, greeting me in the hushed voice of one addressing an invalid. ‘I hope you’re taking care of yourself.’

It is common knowledge in the Village that Eleanor Vine is something of a hypochondriac, taking twenty kinds of pills and disinfecting incessantly. Over twenty years ago, Ma used to clean her house, though now Eleanor reserves that privilege for herself, and can often be seen through her kitchen window, Marigolds on standby, polishing the fruit in the cut-glass dish that stands on the kitchen table, a mixture of joy and anxiety on her thin, discoloured face.

My iPod was playing a song from one of my current playlists. Through the earpiece, Voltaire’s darkly satirical voice expounded the various virtues of vice to the melancholy counterpoint of a gypsy violin.

And it’s so easy when you’re evil.
This is the life, you see,
The Devil tips his hat to me –

‘I’m quite all right, Mrs Vine,’ I said.

‘Not sickening for anything?’

I shook my head. ‘Not even a cold.’

‘Because bereavement can do that, you know,’ she said. ‘Old Mr Marshall got pneumonia four weeks after his poor wife passed on. Dead before the headstone went up. The
Examiner
called it a double tragedy.’

I had to smile at the thought of myself pining away for Nigel.

‘I hear they’re missing you at your class.’

That killed the smile. ‘Oh yes? Who says?’

‘People talk,’ said Eleanor.

I’ll bet they do
. Toxic old cow. Spying on me for Ma, I don’t doubt. And now, thanks to Terri, a spy for my writing-as-therapy class, that little circle of parasites and headcases with whom I share – in supposed confidence – the details of my troubled life.

‘I’ve been preoccupied,’ I said.

She gave me a look of sympathy. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It must be hard. And what about Gloria? Is she all right?’ She glanced around the parlour, alert for any telltale sign – a smear of dust on the mantelpiece, a speck on any one of Ma’s collection of china dogs – to suggest that Ma might be cracking up.

‘Oh, you know. She manages.’

‘I brought her a little something,’ she said, handing me a paper bag. ‘It’s a supplement I sometimes use when I’m feeling under the weather.’ She gave her vinegary smile. ‘Looks like you could do with some yourself. Have you been in a fight, or something?’

‘Who, me?’ I shook my head.

‘No. Of course,’ said Eleanor.

No, of course
. As if I would. As if Gloria Winter’s boy could ever be involved in a fight. Everyone thinks they know me. Everyone’s an authority. And it always irks me a little to think that she, like Ma, would never believe the tenth of what I am capable –

‘Oh, Eleanor, love, you should have come through!’ That was Ma, emerging from the kitchen with a tea-towel in one hand and a vegetable peeler in the other. ‘I was just making him his vitamin drink. D’you want some tea while you’re here?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘I just popped in to see how you were.’

‘Holding up all right,’ said Ma. ‘B.B.’s looking after me.’

Ouch. That was below the belt. But Ma
is
very proud of me. A taste like that of rotten fruit slowly crept into my mouth. Rotten fruit mixed with salt, like a cocktail of juice and sea water. From my iPod, Voltaire declaimed with murderous exuberance:

I do it all because I’m evil.
And I do it all for free –

Eleanor gave me a sidelong glance. ‘He must be such a comfort, love.’ She turned once more to look at me. ‘I don’t know how you can hear a word we’re saying with that thing in your ear. Don’t you ever take it out?’

If I could have killed her then, right then, without risk, I would have snapped her neck like a stick of Blackpool rock without so much as a tremor of guilt – but as it was I had to smile so hard it made my fillings ache, and to take out one of my iPod plugs, and to promise to go back to my class next week, where everyone is missing me –

‘What did she mean, go back to your class? Have you been skipping sessions again?’

‘No, Ma. Just the one.’ I did not quite dare meet her eyes.

‘Those classes are for your own good. I don’t want to hear you’re skipping them.’

Of course, I should have known that sooner or later she would find out. With friends like Eleanor Vine, her net covers all of Malbry. Besides, I quite enjoy my class, which gives me the chance to disseminate all kinds of misinformation –

‘Besides, it helps you cope with stress.’

If only you knew, Ma.

‘OK, I’ll go.’

7

You are viewing the WebJournal of
blueeyedboy
.

Posted at
:
01.44 on Wednesday, January 30

Status
:
restricted

Mood
:
creative

Listening to
:
Breaking Benjamin:
‘Breath’

Most accidents occur in the home. I’m guessing that’s how I came about; one of three boys, all born within five years. Nigel, then Brendan, then Benjamin, though by then she’d stopped using our real names, and I was always B.B.

Benjamin
. It’s a Hebrew name. It means
Son Of My Right Hand
. Not so very flattering, really, when you consider what guys actually
do
with their right hand. But then, the man we knew as Dad was hardly a dutiful father. Only Nigel remembered him, and then only as a series of vague impressions: a big voice; a rough face; a scent of beer and cigarettes. Or maybe that’s memory doing what it does sometimes, filling in the gaps with plausible detail while the rest turns over in darkness, like a spindle laden with black sheep’s wool.

Not that Nigel
was
the black sheep – all of that came later. But he
was
destined to always wear black, and with time, it affected his character. Ma worked as a cleaner in those days: dusting and vacuuming rich people’s homes, doing their laundry, ironing their clothes, washing their dishes and polishing their floors. Time spent on our own house was unpaid work, and so of course it took second place. Not that she was slovenly. But time was always an issue with her, and had to be saved at every turn.

And so, with three sons so close to each other in age and so much laundry to do every week, she hit upon an ingenious system. To ensure that items could be easily identified, she allocated to each of her sons a colour, and bought our clothes accordingly from the local Oxfam shop. Thus Nigel wore shades of charcoal, even down to his underwear; Brendan always wore brown and Benjamin –

Well, I’m sure you can guess.

Of course, it never crossed her mind what such a decision might do to us. Colours make a difference; any hospital worker can tell you that. That’s why the cancer unit in the hospital where I work is painted in cheery shades of pink; the waiting rooms in soothing green; the maternity wards in Easter-chick yellow –

But Ma never really understood the secret power of colours. To Ma, it was just a practical means of sorting laundry. Ma never asked herself what it might be like to have to wear the same colour day in, day out: boring brown or gloomy black or beautiful, wide-eyed, fairy-tale blue –

But then, Ma always was different. Some boy’s mothers are sugar and spice. Mine was – well – she was something else.

Born Gloria Beverley Green, the third child of a factory girl and a steelworker, Ma spent her childhood in Malbry town, in the maze of little brick terraces known locally as Red City. Washing strung across the streets; soot on every surface; cobbled alleyways leading to nothing but blind and litter-lined spray-painted walls.

Ambitious even then, she dreamed of far pavilions, distant shores and working girls rescued by millionaires. Even now, Ma believes in true love, in the lottery, in self-help books, in boosting your word power, in magazine columns and agony aunts and TV advertisements in which the floors are always clean and women always
worth it
–