Blueeyedboy (50 page)

Is that what he really thinks of me? He always was conceited. Even when he was a boy, despised by almost everyone, there was always that arrogant side to him; the enduring belief that he was unique, destined some day to be someone. Perhaps his Ma did that to him. Gloria Green and her colours. No, I’m not defending him. But there’s something twisted about the idea that boys can be sorted like laundry; that a colour can make you good or bad; that every crime can be washed away and hung out on the line to dry.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? He hates her, and yet he’s incapable of simply walking away. Instead, he has his own means of escape. He’s been living inside his head for years. And he has a golem to do his work, moulded to specifications.

He’s lying, of course. It’s only fic. He’s trying to breach my defences. He knows my reluctant memory is like a broken projector, incapable of processing more than a single frame at a time.
Blueeyedboy
’s account of events is always so much better than mine, high-resolution imaging to my grainy black and white. Yes, I was full of confusion and hate. But I was never a murderer.

Of course, he knew that all along. This is his way of taunting me. But he can be very convincing. And he has lied to the police before, incriminating others to hide his guilt. I wonder, will he accuse me now? Has he found anything in Nigel’s flat, or at the Fireplace House, that he could present as evidence? Is he trying to play for time by drawing me into a dialogue? Or is he playing the picador, taunting me into making a move?

Boys who play with fire get burnt.

I couldn’t have put it better. If this is his plan to disorient me, then he is treading dangerous ground. I know I ought to ignore him now, just get in the car and drive away, but a feeling of outrage consumes me. I have played his mind games for far too long. We all of us have; we indulge him. He can’t bear the sight of physical pain, but he thrives on mental suffering. Why do we allow it? I ask. Why has no one rebelled before now?

An e-mail arrived a moment ago. I picked it up on my mobile phone.

Re: Everyday care of orchids.

In my absence, I would be grateful if you might agree to care for my orchid collection. Most orchids do better in a warm, humid environment away from direct sunlight. Water sparingly. Do not allow the roots to soak. Thank you. Aloha, blueeyedboy

I don’t know what he means by this. Does he expect me to cut and run? All in all, I don’t think so. More likely he is toying with me, trying to put me off my guard. His orchid is on the back seat of my car, anchored between two boxes. Somehow I don’t want to leave it behind. It looks so inoffensive, with its clump of little flowers.

And then a thought occurs to me. It comes with the scent of the orchid. And it seems to clear, so beautiful, like a beacon in the smoke.

It has to end somewhere, don’t you see? I’ve followed him down this road too long, like the crippled child after the Pied Piper. He made me like this. I danced to his tune. My skin is a map covered with scars and the marks of what he has done to me. But now I can see him as he is, the boy who cried murder so many times that, finally, someone believed him . . .

I know his routine as well as my own. He’ll set off from home at four forty-five, pretending, as always, to go to work. I’m sure that’s when he’ll make his move. He won’t be able to resist the lure of the Pink Zebra, with its warm and welcoming light, and myself, alone and vulnerable, like a moth inside a lantern . . .

He’ll be driving his car, a blue Peugeot. He’ll drive down Mill Road and park at the corner of All Saints’ Church, where the snow has been cleared away. He’ll check the street – deserted now – and then he’ll walk up to the Zebra, keeping to the shadows around the side of the building. Inside, the radio is playing loudly enough to mask the sound of his entry.
Not
the classical station today, though I have no fear of music. That fear belonged to Emily. Now even the
Symphonie fantastique
has no power over me.

The kitchen door will be on the latch. Easy enough to open it – glancing up at the neon sign as he does – the strobing words; PINK ZEBRA, with their phantom smell of gas.

You see? I know his weaknesses. I’m using his gift against him now, that gift he acquired from his brother, and when the
real
scent assails him, he will simply dismiss the illusion as he has so many times before – at least until he walks inside, and lets the door close after him.

I have made an adjustment to the door. The handle no longer turns from the inside. And the gas will have been on for hours. By five any spark could ignite it: a light switch, a lighter, a mobile phone.

I won’t be there to see it, of course. By then I will be long gone. But my mobile can access the Internet, and I have his number. Of course, he has to
choose
to go in. The victim selects his own fate. No one forces him inside; no one else is responsible.

Perhaps, when he’s gone, I’ll be free again. Free of these desires of his that mirror desires of mine. Where does the reflection go after the mirror is broken? What happens to the lightning after the storm is over? Real life makes so little sense; only fic has meaning. And I have been fictional for so long; a character in one of his stories. I wonder, do fictional characters ever rebel, and turn on their creators?

I only hope it’s not over too soon. I hope he has time to understand. Walking blind into the trap, I hope he has a moment or two to cry out, to struggle, to try to escape, to beat his fists against the door, and finally to think of me, the golem who turned on its master . . .

5

You are viewing the webjournal of
blueeyedboy
.

Posted at
:
04.16 on Friday, February 22

Status
:
restricted

Mood
:
optimistic

Listening to
:
Supertramp
: ‘Breakfast In America’

No sleep tonight. Too many dreams. Some people dream in Technicolor. Some only dream in film noir. But I dream in total-immersion: sound, scent, sensation. Some nights I awake half-drowned in sweat; others, I don’t sleep at all. Then, too, the Net is my solace; there’s always someone awake online. Chat rooms, fan sites, fic sites, porn. But tonight I’m lonesome for my f-list, my little squeaking chorus of mice. Tonight, what I need is to hear someone say:
You’re the best, blueeyedboy
.

And so here I am, back on
badguysrock
, watching perfidious
Albertine
. She has come so far – I’m proud of her – and yet she still feels the need to confess, like the good little Catholic girl of old. I’ve known her password for some time. It’s really quite easy to find out, you know. All it takes is a careless gesture: an account left signed in on a desktop while someone pours a cup of tea, and suddenly her private posts are open for that someone to read –

Are you checking your mail,
Albertine
? My inbox is crammed with messages: plaintive whimperings from Cap; tentative noises from Chryssie. From Toxic, some porn, snagged from a site called
Bigjugs.com
. From Clair, one of her
memes
; along with a dull and cretinous post about Angel Blue and his bitchy wife, about my mother’s mental health, and about the wonderful progress she thinks I made in my last public confession.

Then, there’s the usual junk mail, hate mail, spam: badly spelt letters from Nigeria promising to send me millions of pounds in return for my bank details; offers of Viagra; of sex; of intimate videos of teenage celebs. In short, all the flotsam the Net brings in, and this time I welcome even the spam, because this is my lifeline, this is my world, and to cut me off is to leave me to drown in air like a fish out of water.

At four o’clock, I hear Ma get up. She doesn’t sleep well either, these days. Sometimes she sits in the parlour watching satellite TV; sometimes she does housework, or goes for a walk around the block. She likes to be up when I leave for work. She wants to make me breakfast.

I select a clean shirt from my wardrobe – today it’s white, with a blue stripe – and dress myself with some care. I take pride in my appearance. It’s safer that way, I tell myself; especially when Ma’s watching. Of course, I don’t
need
to wear a shirt – my uniform at the hospital consists of a grubby navy-blue jumpsuit, engineer boots with steel-capped toes and a pair of heavy-duty gloves – but Ma doesn’t need to know that. Ma’s so proud of her
blueeyedboy
. And if Ma ever found out the truth –

‘B.B.! Is that you?’ she calls.

Who else would it be, Ma?

‘Hurry up! I made breakfast!’

I must be in her good books today. Bacon, eggs, cinnamon toast. I’m not really hungry, but this time I need to humour her. This time tomorrow I’ll be having breakfast in America.

She watches me as I fuel up. ‘There’s my boy. You’ll need your strength.’

There’s something vaguely disquieting about her mood this morning. To start with, she is fully dressed: discarding her usual dressing gown for a tweed skirt-suit and her crocodile shoes. She’s wearing her favourite perfume – L’Heure Bleue, all powdery orange blossom and clove, with that trembling silvery top note that overpowers everything. Most curious of all, she is – what can I say? I can’t quite call it
happy
. In Ma’s case, you could count those fleeting moments on the fingers of a one-armed man. But there’s a cheeriness in her manner today; something I haven’t seen since Ben died. Quite ironic, really. Still, it’ll soon be over.

‘Don’t forget your drink,’ she says.

This time it’s almost a pleasure. The taste is a little better today, perhaps because the fruit is fresh; and there’s a different ingredient – blueberries, blackcurrant, perhaps – that gives it a tannic quality.

‘I changed the recipe,’ she says.

‘Mmmm. Nice,’ I tell her.

‘Feeling better this morning?’

‘Fine, Ma.’

Better than fine. I don’t even have a headache.

‘Good of them to give you time off.’

‘Well, Ma, it’s a hospital. Can’t be bringing germs to work.’

Ma conceded I had a point. For the past few days I’ve been sick with flu. Well, that’s the official story. In fact, I’ve been otherwise engaged, as I’m sure you can appreciate.

‘Sure you’re all right? You look a bit pale.’

‘Everyone’s pale in winter, Ma.’

6

You are viewing the webjournal of
blueeyedboy
.

Posted at
:
04.33 on Friday, February 22

Status
:
restricted

Mood
:
excited

Listening to
:
The Beatles
: ‘Here Comes The Sun’

I bought the tickets on the Net. You get a discount for booking online. You can choose where to sit; order a meal; you can even print out your own boarding card. I chose a seat by the window, where I can watch the ground fall away. I’ve never been in an aeroplane. I’ve never even caught a train. The tickets were rather expensive, I thought; but
Albertine
’s credit can stand it. I snagged her details a year ago, when she bought some books from Amazon. Of course, at that time she had fewer funds; but now, with Dr Peacock’s legacy, she should be good for a few months, at least. By the time she finds out – if ever she does – I’ll be nicely untraceable.

I haven’t packed much. Just a satchel with my papers, some cash, my iPod, a change of clothes, a shirt. No, not a blue one this time, Ma. It’s orange and pink, with palm trees. Not much in the way of camouflage; but wait till I get there. I’ll blend right in.

I log on for the last time, just for luck, before I set off. Simply to read my messages; to see who hasn’t slept tonight; to check for any surprises; to find out who loves me and who wants me dead.

No surprises there, then.

‘What are you doing up there?’ she calls.

‘Hang on, Ma. I’ll be down in a sec.’

And now there’s time for one more mail – to
[email protected]
– before I’m ready to go at last; by noon today I’ll be on that flight, watching TV and drinking champagne –

Champagne. Sham pain.
As if sensation of any kind could ever be anything other than real. My guts are afizz with excitement. It almost hurts for me to breathe. I take a moment to relax and concentrate on the colour blue. Moon-blue, lagoon-blue, ocean, island, Hawaiian blue. Blue, the colour of innocence; blue, the colour of my dreams –

7

You are viewing the webjournal of
blueeyedboy
posting on
:
[email protected]

Posted at
:
04.45 on Friday, February 22

Status
:
public

Mood
:
anxious

Listening to
:
Queen
: ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’

She must have taken off her shoes. He never even heard her. The first he heard was the door as it shut, and the sound of the key as she locked it.

Click
.

‘Ma?’

No answer. He goes to the door. The keys were in his coat pocket. She must have taken them, thinks
blueeyedboy
, when he went back upstairs. The door is pitch pine; the lock, a Yale. He has always valued his privacy.

‘Ma? Please. Talk to me.’

Just that heavy silence, like something buried under snow. Then, the sound of her footsteps receding softly down the carpeted stairs.

Has she guessed? What does she know? A finger of ice slips down his back. A tremor creeps into his voice; the ghost of the stutter he thought was lost.