And what about blueeyedboy? Well, like the rest of the tribe, of course, he’s not exactly what he seems. He tells them as much; but the more he does, the more they’re prepared to believe the lie.
I never murdered anyone. Of course, he’d never admit the truth. That’s why he parades himself online; strutting and strumming his base desires like a peacock’s courtship ritual. The others admire his purity. They love him for his candour. Blueeyedboy acts out what others barely dare to dream; an avatar, an icon for a lost tribe that even God has turned away –
And what of Chameleon, you ask? She is not one of blueeyedboy’s closest friends, but he sees her, if sporadically. They do have a kind of history, but there’s nothing much here to move him now; nothing to hold his attention. And yet, as he comes to know her again, he finds her more and more interesting. He used to think she was colourless. In fact, she is merely adaptable. She has been a follower all her life, collecting ideologies; although so far she has never had a single idea of her own. But give her a cause, give her a flag, and she’ll give you her devotion.
First she followed Jesus, and prayed to die before she woke. After that, she followed a boy who taught her a different gospel. Then, when she was twelve years old she followed a madman into the snow just for the sake of his blue eyes, and now she follows blueeyedboy, like the rest of his little army of mice, and wants nothing more than to dance to his tune all the way to oblivion.
They meet again at her writing class when she is just fifteen years old. Not so much a writing class as a kind of soft-therapy group, which her counsellor recommended to her as a means of better expressing herself. Blueeyedboy attends this group primarily to improve his style, of which he has always been ashamed, but also because he has learnt to exploit the appeal of the fictional murder.
There’s a woman he knows in the Village. He calls her Mrs Electric Blue. And she’s old enough to be his Ma, which makes it quite disgusting. Not that he knows what’s in her mind. But Mrs Electric is known to have a predilection for nice young men, and blueeyedboy is an innocent – at least, he is in matters of love. A nice young man of twenty or so; working in an electrical shop to pay his way through college. Slim in his denim overalls, no pin-up, but still, a far cry from the fat boy he was only a couple of years ago.
Our heroine, in spite of her youth, is far more adept in the ways of the world. After all, she has had to endure a great many things over the years. The death of her mother; her father’s stroke; that hellish blaze of publicity. She has been taken into care; she is staying with a family in the White City estate. The man is a plumber; his ugly wife has tried and failed many times to conceive. They are both fervent royalists: the house is filled with images of the Princess of Wales, some of them texturized photographs, others paint-by-numbers kits in acrylic on cheap canvas. Chameleon dislikes them, but says very little, as always. She’s found that it pays to keep silent now; to let other people do the talking. This suits the family just fine. Our heroine is a good little girl. Of course, they ought to know by now: it’s the good little girls you need to watch.
The man, whom we shall call Diesel Blue and who will die with his wife in a house fire some five or six years later, likes to be seen as a family man; calls Chameleon Princess and at weekends takes her to work with him, where she carries his big box of tools and waits while he chats with a series of jaded housewives and their vaguely aggressive husbands, who all think that plumbers are rip-off merchants and that they themselves, if they so desired, could easily fix that gasket, that tap, or put in that new storage heater.
It’s only Health and Safety gone mad that does not permit them to do so; and so they are sour and resentful, while the women make tea and bring biscuits and talk to the silent little girl, who rarely answers back, or smiles, but sits with her oversized sweatshirt hiding most of her body, and her little hands poking out of the sleeves like wilted pale-pink rosebuds, and her face as blank as a china doll’s under the curtain of dark hair.
It is on one of these visits – to a house in the Village – that our heroine first experiences the furtive joy of homicide. Of course, it wasn’t her idea; she lifted it from blueeyedboy at their creative-writing class. Chameleon has no style of her own. Her claim to creativity is based on imitation. She only attends class because he is there, in the hope that one day he will see her again, that his eyes will meet hers and stay there, transfixed, with no reflection of anyone else to mar his concentration.
He calls her Mrs Electric Blue . . .
Nice move, blueeyedboy. All names and identities have been changed in the hope of protecting the innocent. But Chameleon recognizes her; knows the house from her visits. And she knows her reputation, too: her taste for young men; her erstwhile disgusting liaison with our subject’s elder brother. She finds her pathetic, pitiable; and when Mrs Electric Blue is found burnt to death in her house a few days later, she cannot find it in herself to grieve, or to even care about it much.
Some people like to play with fire. Other people deserve to die. And how could a tragic accident have anything at all to do with that good little girl who sits so still, and who waits so patiently by the fire while her father fixes the plumbing?
At first, even blueeyedboy doesn’t guess. At first he thinks it’s karma. But, with time, as his enemies falter and fall at every stroke of the typewriter key, he begins to see the pattern emerge, clear as the flowered wallpaper in his mother’s parlour.
Electric Blue. Diesel Blue. Even poor Mrs Chemical Blue, who set the seal on her own demise by wanting things so nice and clean, beginning with that nice, clean boy in her fat niece’s therapy group.
And Dr Peacock, whose only true crime was to find himself in our hero’s care; whose mind was half-gone anyway, and whose chair it was so easy to push off the little home-made ramp, so that next morning they found him there, his eyes jacked open, his mouth awry. And if blueeyedboy feels anything, it’s a dawning sense of hope –
Perhaps it’s my guardian angel, he thinks. Or maybe it’s just coincidence.
Why does she do it, he asks himself? Is it to safeguard his innocence? To take his guilt and make it her own? Or just to attract his attention? Is it because she sees herself as executioner to the world? Is it because of that little girl, whose life she collected so eagerly? Is it because to be someone else is her only means of existing? Or is it because, like blueeyedboy, she has no choice but to mirror those around her?
Still, in the end, it’s not his fault. He’s giving her what she wants, that’s all. And if what she wants is guilt, what then? If what she wants is villainy?
Surely, he’s not responsible. He never told her what to do. And yet, he feels she wants something more. He senses her impatience. It’s always the same: these women, he thinks. These women and their expectations. He knows that it will end in tears, as it always has before –
But blueeyedboy can’t blame her now for what she is considering. He was the one who made her, who shaped her from this murderous clay. For years she has been his golem; and now the slave just wants to be free.
How will she do it? he asks himself. Accidents happen so easily. A poison slipped into his drink? A humdrum gas leak? A car crash? A fire? Or will it be something more esoteric: a needle tipped with the venom of a rare South American orchid; a scorpion slipped into a basket of fruit? Whatever it is, blueeyedboy expects it to be something special.
And will he see it coming, he thinks? Will he have time to see her eyes? And as she stares into the abyss, what will she see staring back?
Post comment:
JennyTricks: THINK YOURE SO CLEVER, DONT YOU?
blueeyedboy: You didn’t like my ficlet? Now why am I not surprised?
JennyTricks: BOYS WHO PLAY WITH FIRE GET BURNT.
blueeyedboy: Thank you, Jenny. I’ll bear it in mind . . .
4
You are viewing the webjournal of Albertine.
Posted at: 02.37 on Friday, February 22
Status: restricted
&nbs
p; Mood: angry
He calls me a golem. How hatefully apt. The golem, according to legend, is a creature made from word and clay; a voiceless slave with no purpose but to do its master’s bidding. But in one of the stories the slave rebels – did you know that, blueeyedboy? It turns against its creator. What then? I don’t remember. But I know it ended badly.
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 cle
an 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.