Blueeyedboy (20 page)

Brendan, always the cautious one, accepted the natural order of things. Perhaps he was brighter than they’d thought. Perhaps he feared retribution. He was also ridiculously squeamish, and if Nigel or Ben got a hiding from Ma, he would cry just as much as either of them – but at least he wasn’t a threat, and sometimes even shared his sweets with Ben when Nigel was safely out of the way.

Brendan ate a lot of sweets, and now it was really beginning to show. A soft white roll of underbelly hung over the waistband of his donkey-brown cords, and his chest was plump and girly beneath his baggy brown jumpers, and although he and Ben might have had a chance if they’d stood together against Nigel, Brendan never had the nerve. And so Ben learnt to look after himself, and to run when his brother in black was around.

Other things had changed as well.
Blueeyedboy
was growing up. Always prone to headaches, now he began to suffer from migraines, too, which began as strobing lights shot through with lurid colours. After that would come the tastes and smells, stronger than any he’d known before: rotten eggs; creosote; the lurking stink of the vitamin drink; and then, at last, the sickness, the pain, rolling over him like a rock, burying him alive.

He couldn’t sleep; couldn’t think; could hardly concentrate at school. As if that wasn’t bad enough, his speech, which had always been hesitant, had developed into a full-blown stammer.
Blueeyedboy
knew what it was. His gift – his sensitivity – had now become a poison to him. A poison creeping slowly through his body, changing him as it went from healthy, wholesome blood and bone to something with which even Ma found it difficult to sympathize.

She called the doctor in, of course, who at first put down the headaches to growing pains, and then, when they persisted, to stress.

‘Stress? What has he got to be stressed about?’ she cried in exasperation.

His silence annoyed her even more, and finally led to a series of uncomfortable interrogations, which left him feeling even worse. He quickly learnt not to complain; to pretend that there was nothing wrong with him, even when he was sick with pain and almost ready to collapse.

Instead, he evolved his own system of coping. He learnt which medicine to steal from Ma’s cabinet. He learnt how to combat the phantom sensations with magic words and images. He took them from Dr Peacock’s maps; from books; from the dark places of his heart –

Most of all, he dreamed in blue. Blue, the colour of control. He had always associated it with power, power like electricity; now he learnt to visualize himself encased in a shell of burning blue, untouchable, invincible. There, he was safe from everything. There, he could replenish himself. Blue was secure. Blue was serene. Blue, the colour of murder. And he wrote down his dreams in the same Blue Book in which he wrote his stories.

But there are other ways than fic to cope with adolescent stress. All you need is a suitable victim, preferably one who can’t fight back: a scapegoat who will take the blame for everything you’ve suffered.

Benjamin’s earliest victims were wasps, which he’d hated since he’d been stung in the mouth as he swigged from a half-empty can of Coke left unguarded in the summer sun. From then on, all wasps were guilty. His revenge was to catch them using traps made from jars half-filled with sugar water, and later to impale them on the tip of a needle and watch as each creature struggled and died, pumping its pale stinger in and out and writhing its horribly corseted body like the world’s most diminutive pole dancer.

He showed them to Brendan, too, and watched him writhe in discomfort.

‘Ah, don’t, that’s disgusting—’ said Bren, his face contorted with dismay.

‘Why, Bren? It’s only a wasp.’

He shrugged. ‘I know. But please—’

Ben pulled the needle free of the wasp. The insect, almost severed now, began to turn sticky somersaults. Bren flinched.

‘Happy now?’

‘It’s still m-moving,’ Brendan said, his face awry with fear and disgust.

Ben tipped the contents of the jar on to the table in front of Brendan. ‘So kill it,’ he said.

‘Ah, please, Ben—’

‘Go on. Kill it. Put it out of its misery, you fat bastard.’

Brendan was almost crying now. ‘I c-can’t,’ he said. ‘I just—’

‘Do it!’ Ben punched him in the arm. ‘Do it, kill it, kill it
now
—’ Some people are born to be killers. Brendan was not one of them. And Benjamin revelled sourly in Brendan’s stupid helplessness, his whimpering cries as Ben punched him again, his retreat into the corner, arms wrapped around his head. Brendan never tried to fight back. Ben was three years younger, thirty pounds lighter, and still he beat Brendan easily. It wasn’t that he hated him; but his weakness was infuriating, making Ben want to hurt him more, to see him squirm like a wasp in a jar –

It
was
a little cruel, perhaps. Brendan had done nothing wrong. But it gave Ben the sense of control that he lacked, and it helped him to manage his growing stress. It was as if by tormenting his brother he could relocate his own suffering; evade the thing that imprisoned him in its cage of scents and colours.

Not that he thought about it much. His actions were purely instinctive, a self-defence against the world. Later,
blueeyedboy
was to learn that this process was called
transference
. An interesting word, coloured a muddy blue-green, that reminds him of the transfers his brothers used to stick on their arms: cheap and messy fake tattoos that stained the sleeves of their school shirts and got them into trouble in class. But somehow, at last, he learnt to cope. First, with the wasp traps, then with the mice, and finally, with his brothers.

And look at your
blueeyedboy
now, Ma. He has exceeded all expectations. He wears a suit to go to work – or at least, to maintain the pretence. He carries a leather briefcase. The word
technician
is in his job title, as is the word
operator
, and if no one knows quite what he does, it is merely because most ordinary people have no idea how complicated these operations can be.

Doctors rely on machines nowadays
, Gloria says to Adèle and Maureen, when she meets them on Friday night.
There are millions of pounds invested there in scanners and MRI machines, and
someone
has to operate them –

Never mind that the closest he has ever come to any one of those clever machines is vacuuming the dust underneath. You see, words
do
have power, Ma: power to camouflage the truth, to colour it in peacock shades.

Oh, if she knew, she’d make him pay. But she won’t find out. He’s too careful for that. She may have her suspicions, of course – but he thinks he can get away with it. It’s just a question of nerve, that’s all. Nerve and timing and self-control. That’s all a murderer needs, in the end.

Besides, as you know, I’ve done it before.

Post comment
:

JennyTricks
: (
post deleted
).

ClairDeLune
: J
enny, don’t you ever get tired of coming here to criticize? This is intriguing
,
blueeyedboy
.
Did you look at the reading-list I sent you? I’d love to know what you thought of it . . .

14

You are viewing the webjournal of
Albertine
.

Posted at
:
01.55 on Tuesday, February 5

Status
:
restricted

Mood
:
awake

Nothing in my mailbox tonight. Just a
meme
from
blueeyedboy
, tempting me to come out and play. I’m almost certain he’s waiting for me; he often logs on at about this time and stays online into the early hours of the morning. I wonder what he wants from me. Love? Hate? Confessions? Lies? Or is it simply the contact he craves, the need to know I’m still listening? In the small hours of the night, when God seems like a cosmic joke and no one seems to be listening, don’t we all need someone to touch? Even you,
blueeyedboy
. Watching me, watching you, through a glass darkly, tapping out on this ouija board my letters to the dead.

Is this why he writes these stories of his, posting them here for me to read? Is it an invitation to play? Does he expect me to answer him with a confession of my own?

Tagged by
blueeyedboy
posting on
[email protected]

Posted at
:
01.05 on Tuesday, February 5

If you were an animal, what would you be?
An eagle soaring over the mountains.

Favourite smell?
The Pink Zebra café, on a Thursday lunchtime
.

Tea or coffee?
Why have either, when you can have hot chocolate with cream?

Favourite flavour of ice cream?
Green apple
.

What are you wearing right now? J
eans, trainers and my favourite old cashmere sweater.

What are you afraid of?
Ghosts
.

What’s the last thing you bought?
Mimosa. It’s my favourite flower.

What’s the last thing you ate?
Toast
.

Favourite sound?
Yo-Yo Ma playing Saint-Saëns.

What do you wear in bed?
An old shirt that belonged to my boyfriend.

What’s your pet hate?
Being patronized.

Your worst trait?
Evasiveness
.

Any scars or tattoos?
More than I want to remember
.

Any recurring dreams?
No
.

There’s a fire in your house. What would you save?
My computer.

When did you last cry?

Well – I’d
like
to say it was when Nigel died. But both of us know that isn’t true. And how could I explain to him that sly, irrational surge of joy that overshadows the bulk of my grief, this knowledge that something is missing in me, some sense that has nothing to do with my eyes?

You see, I
am
a bad person. I don’t know how to cope with loss. Death is a heady cocktail of one part sorrow to three parts relief – I felt it with Daddy, with Mother, with Nigel – even with poor Dr Peacock . . .

Blueeyedboy
knew – we both knew – that I was just deluding myself. Nigel never stood a chance. Even our love was a lie from the start, sending out its green shoots like those of a cut branch in a vase; shoots, not of recovery, but of desperation.

Yes, I was selfish. Yes, I was wrong. Even from the start I knew that Nigel belonged to someone else. Someone who never existed. But after years of running away, part of me
wanted
to be that girl; to sink into her like a child into a feather pillow; to forget myself – and everything – in the circle of Nigel’s arms. Online friendships were no longer enough. All of a sudden I wanted more. I wanted to be normal: to encounter the world, not through a glass, but through my lips and my fingers. I wanted more than the world online; more than a name at my fingertips. I wanted to be understood, not by someone at a keyboard far away, but by someone I could
touch
. . .

But sometimes a touch can be fatal. I should know; it’s happened before. Less than a year later, Nigel was dead, poisoned by proximity. Nigel’s girl has proved herself just as toxic as Emily White, sending out death with a single word.

Or, in this case, a letter.

15

You are viewing the webjournal of
Albertine
.

Posted at
:
15.44 on Tuesday, February 5

Status
:
restricted

Mood
:
apprehensive

The letter arrived on a Saturday, as we were having breakfast. By then Nigel was more or less living here, though he still kept his flat in Malbry, and we had established a kind of routine that almost suited both of us. He and I were nocturnal creatures, happiest at night. Thus Nigel came over at ten o’clock; shared a bottle, talked, made love, slept over and left by nine in the morning. At weekends he stayed longer, sometimes till ten or eleven o’clock, which was why he was there in the first place, and why the letter came to him. On a weekday he wouldn’t have opened it, and I could have dealt with it privately. I suppose that, too, was part of the plan. But right then I had no idea of the letter bomb about to explode in our unsuspecting faces –

That morning I was eating cereal, which ticked and popped as the milk sank in. Nigel wasn’t eating, or even speaking to me much. Nigel hardly ever ate breakfast, and his silences were ominous, especially in the mornings. Sounds orbiting a central silence like satellites around a baleful planet; the creak of the pantry door; the clatter of spoon against coffee jar; the chink of mugs. A second later, the fridge door opened; rattled; slammed. The kettle boiled; a brief eruption followed by a click of military finality. Then, the clack of the letter box and the stolid double-thump of the post.

Most of my mail is junk mail, though I rarely get mail of any kind. My bills are paid by direct debit. Letters? Why bother. Greetings cards? Forget it.

‘Anything interesting?’ I said.

For a moment Nigel said nothing at all. I heard the unfolding of paper. A single sheet, unfurled with a dry rasp, like the unsheathing of a sharpened knife.

‘Nigel?’

‘What?’

He jiggled his foot when he was annoyed; I could hear it against the table leg. And now there was something in his voice; something flat and hard, like an obstacle. He tore the used envelope into halves, then he fingered the single sheet. Stropped it on his thumb, like a blade –

‘It isn’t bad news, or anything?’ I did not speak of what I dreaded most, though I could feel it hanging over me.

‘For fuck’s sake. Let me read,’ he said. Now the obstacle was within my reach; like a sharp-edged table-top in an unexpected place. Those sharp edges never miss; they have a gravity all of their own, pulling me every time into their orbit. And there were so many sharp edges in Nigel; so many zones of restricted access.