Blueeyedboy

by Joanne Harris

  But Ma went red and said: Come on, and started to drag him away by the arm. He tried to explain, which was when Nigel punched him, just above the elbow, where it hurts most, and he hid his face in his cry-baby sleeve, and Ma slapped Nigel across the head. And he saw Mrs Electric Blue walk away towards the shops, where a young man – a very young man – dressed in a navy pea coat and jeans, was awaiting her impatiently, and would perhaps have kissed her, he thought, had it not been for the presence of the cleaner and her three kids, one of whom was still watching her with that look of reproach, as if he knew something he shouldn’t. And that made her walk a little faster, clipping the ground with her high heels, a sound that smells of cigarettes and cabbage leaves and cheap perfume at knock-off prices.

  Then, a week later, she let Ma go – making it sound like a generous gesture, saying that she’d imposed too long – which left just two of her ladies, plus a couple of shifts at St Oswald’s per week; hardly enough to pay the rent, let alone feed three boys.

  So Ma took another job, working on a market stall, from which she would return frozen and exhausted, but carrying a plastic bag filled with half-rotten fruit and other stuff they couldn’t sell, which she would serve up in various guises over the course of the week, or worse still, put in the blender to make what she called ‘the vitamin drink’, which might be made up of such diverse ingredients as cabbage, apple, beetroot, carrot, tomato, peach or celery, but which always tasted to blueeyedboy like a sweet-rotten slurry of sludge-green. The tube of paint might be labelled Nut Brown, but shit smells like shit all the same, and it always made him think of the market, so that in time even the word made him retch – mark-et – with its barking twin syllables, like an engine that won’t start, and all that was because they happened to see Mrs Electric Blue with her fancy-boy in the market that day.

  That was why, when they saw her again, six weeks later, in the street, that sickly taste rushed into his mouth, a sharp pain stabbed at his temple, objects around him began to acquire a bevelled, prismic quality –

  ‘Why, Gloria,’ said Mrs Electric Blue in that sweetly venomous manner of hers. ‘How lovely to see you. You’re looking well. How’s Ben doing at school?’

  Ma gave her a sharp look. ‘Oh, he’s doing very well. His tutor says he’s gifted—’

  It was common knowledge in Malbry that Mrs Electric Blue’s son was not gifted; that he had tried for St Oswald’s, but hadn’t got in, then had failed to get into Oxford, in spite of private tutoring. A big disappointment, so they said. Mrs Electric’s hopes had been high.

  ‘Really?’ said Mrs Electric Blue. She made the word sound like some new and frosty brand of toothpaste.

  ‘Yes. My son’s got a tutor. He’s trying for St Oswald’s.’

  Blueeyedboy hid a grimace behind his hand, but not before Ma had noticed.

  ‘He’s going to be a scholarship boy.’ That was bending the truth a little. Dr Peacock’s offer to tutor Ben was payment for his cooperation in his research. His ability remained, as yet, a matter for conjecture.

  Still, Mrs Electric Blue was impressed, which was probably Ma’s intention.

  But now blueeyedboy was trying not to be sick as waves of nausea washed over him, flooding him with that market smell, that sludgy-brown stink of the vitamin drink; of split tomatoes gone to white-lipped mush, and half-gone apples (The brown’s the sweetest part, she’d say), and black bananas and cabbage leaves. It wasn’t just the memory, or the sound of her heels on the cobbled street, or even her voice with its high-bred yarking syllables –

  It’s not my fault, he told himself. I’m not a bad person. Really, I’m not.

  But that didn’t stop the sick smell, or the colours, or the pain in his head. Instead it made it weirdly worse, like driving past something dead in the road and wishing you’d looked at it properly –

  Blue is the colour of murder, he thought, and the sick, panicky feeling abated – a little. He thought of Mrs Electric Blue lying dead on a mortuary slab with a tag on her toe, like a nicely labelled Christmas present; and every time he thought of it, the sludgy stink receded again, and the headache dimmed to a dull throb, and the colours around him brightened a little, all merging together to make one blue – oxygen blue, gas-jet blue, circuit-board blue, autopsy blue –

  He tried a smile. It felt OK. The rotten-fruit smell had disappeared, although it did come back at regular intervals throughout the whole of blueeyedboy’s childhood, as did the phrases his mother spoke that day to Mrs Electric Blue –

  Benjamin’s a good boy.

  We’re so proud of Benjamin.

  And always with the same, sick knowledge that he was not a good boy; that he was crooked in every cell – that, worse still, he liked it that way –

  And even then, he must have known –

  That one day he would kill her.

  Post comment:

  ClairDeLune: Very good, blueeyedboy!

  chrysalisbaby: awesome U R so cool

  JennyTricks: (post deleted).

  JennyTricks: (post deleted).

  10

  You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy posting on :

  badguysrock@webjournal.com

  Posted at: 21.43 on Monday, February 4

  Status: public

  Mood: deluded

  Listening to: Murray Head: ‘So Strong’

  That year, things went from bad to worse. Ma was mean, money was tight and no one, not even Benjamin, seemed to be able to please her. She no longer worked for Mrs White, and if Mrs White ever came to her stall at the market, Ma made sure someone else served her instead, and pretended not to notice.

  Then there were the rumours that had begun to circulate. Blueeyedboy was never sure what exactly was being said, but he was aware of the whispers and of the sudden silences that sometimes fell whenever Mrs White approached, and of the way the neighbours looked at him when he was at the market. He thought it might have something to do with Feather Dunne, a gossip and a busybody who had moved into the Village last spring, who had befriended Mrs White and who often helped out with Emily, although why she should scorn blueeyedboy’s ma was still a mystery to him. But whatever it was, the poison spread. Soon, everyone seemed to be whispering.

  Blueeyedboy wondered if he should try to talk to Mrs White, to ask her what had happened. He’d always liked her best of Ma’s ladies, and she had always been nice to him. Surely, if he approached her, she’d change her mind about letting Ma go, and they could be friends again –

  One day he came home from school early and saw Mrs White’s car parked outside. A surge of relief came over him. They were talking again, he told himself. Whatever their quarrel had been, it was over.

  But when he looked through the window he saw, instead of Mrs White, Mr White standing there beside the china cabinet.

  Blueeyedboy had never had much to do with Mr White. He’d seen him in the Village, of course, and at St Oswald’s, where he worked, but never like this, never at home, and never without his wife, of course –

  He must have come straight from St Oswald’s. He was wearing a long coat and carrying a satchel. A man of middle height and build; darkish hair turning to grey; small, neat hands; blue eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses. A mild, soft-spoken, diffident man, never taking centre stage. But now Mr White was different. Blueeyedboy could feel it. Living with Ma had given him a special sensitivity to any sign of tension or rage. And Mr White was angry; blueeyedboy could see it in the way he stood, tensed, immobile, under control.

  Blueeyedboy edged closer, making sure to keep well out of sight under the line of the privet hedge. Through a gap in the branches he could see Ma, her profile slightly averted, standing next to Mr White. She was wearing her high-heeled shoes – he could tell, they always made her look taller. Even so, her head only reached the curve of Mr White’s shoulder. She raised her eyes to his, and for a moment they stood without moving, Ma smiling, Mr White holding her gaze.

  And then Mr White reached into his coat and
pulled out something that blueeyedboy thought at first was a paperback. Ma took it, split the spine, and then blueeyedboy realized that it was a wad of banknotes, snappy and fresh and unmarked –

  But why was Mr White paying Ma? And why did it make him so angry?

  It was then that a thought came to blueeyedboy; one of curiously adult clarity. What if the father he had never known – Mr Blue Eyes – was Mr White? What if Mrs White had found out? It would explain her hostility as well as the talk in the Village. It would explain so many things – Ma’s job at St Oswald’s, where he taught; her open resentment of his wife; and now this gift of money –

  Shielded from view by the privet hedge, blueeyedboy craned his neck to see; to detect in this man’s features the faintest reflection of his own –

  The movement must have alerted him. For a moment their eyes met. Mr White’s eyes widened suddenly, and blueeyedboy saw him flinch – which was when our hero turned and fled. The question of whether Mr White could have been his father or not was entirely secondary to the fact that Ma would certainly flay him alive if she caught him spying on her.

  But as far as he could tell, Mr White said nothing to Ma about seeing a boy at the window. Instead Ma seemed in good spirits, and ceased to complain about money, and as the weeks and months passed without any further disruption, blueeyedboy’s suspicions increased, at last becoming a certainty –

  Patrick White was his father. 124

  Post comment:

  ClairDeLune: I like the way your stories combine ‘real-life’ events with fiction. Perhaps you’d like to come back to Group and discuss the process of writing this? I’m sure the others would appreciate an insight into your emotional journey.

  JennyTricks: (post deleted).

  blueeyedboy: Jenny, do I know you?

  JennyTricks: (post deleted).

  blueeyedboy: Seriously. Do I know you?

  11

  You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy.

  Posted at: 22.35 on Monday, February 4

  Status: restricted

  Mood: amused

  Listening to: Black Sabbath: ‘Paranoid’

  Well, if you won’t answer me, I’ll simply delete your entries. You’re on my turf now, JennyTricks, and my rules apply. But it feels as if I know you. Could it be that we’ve met before? Could it be that you’re stalking me?

  Stalking. Now there’s a sinister word. Like part of a plant, a bitter-green stalk that will one day bloom into something sickening. But online, things are different. Online, as fictional characters, we can sometimes allow ourselves the luxury of antisocial behaviour. I’m sick of hearing about how so-and-so felt so violated at such-and-such’s comments, or how somebody else felt sexually besmirched at some harmless innuendo. Oh, these people with their sensitivities. Excuse me, but writing a comment in capitals isn’t the same as shouting. Venting a little vitriol isn’t the same as a physical blow. So vent away, JennyTricks. Nothing you say can touch me. Although I’ll admit, I’m curious. Tell me, have we met before?

  The rest of my online audience shows a pleasing level of appreciation – especially ClairDeLune, who sends me a critique (her word) of every single fic I write, with comments on style and imagery. My last attempt, she tells me, is both psychologically intuitive and a breakthrough into a new and more mature style.

  Cap, less subtle, as always, pleads for more drama, more anguish, more blood. Toxic, who thinks about sex all the time, urges me to write more explicitly. Or, as he puts it: Whatever gets your rocks off, dude. Just try to think about mine some time . . .

  As for Chryssie, she just sends me love – adoring, uncritical, slavish love – with a message that says: Ur made of awesome! on a banner made up of little pink hearts –

  Albertine does not comment. She rarely does on my stories. Perhaps they make her uncomfortable. I hope so. Why post them otherwise?

  I saw her again this afternoon. Red coat, black hair, basket over her arm, walking down the hill into Malbry town. I had my camera with me this time, the one with the telephoto lens, and I managed to get a few clear shots from the little piece of waste ground at the top of Mill Road before a man walking his dog forced me to curtail my investigation.

  He gave me a suspicious look. He was short, bow-legged, muscular; the type of man who always seems to hate and distrust me on sight. His dog was the same; bandy, off-white; big teeth and no eyes. It growled when it saw me. I took a step back.

  ‘Birds,’ I said, by means of explanation. ‘I like to come here and photograph birds.’

  The man eyed me with open contempt. ‘Aye, I’ll bet.’

  He watched me go with no further comment, but I could feel his eyes in the small of my back. I’ll have to be more careful, I thought. People already think I’m a freak – and the last thing I want is for someone to remember later how Gloria Winter’s boy was seen lurking around Mill Road with a camera –

  And yet, I can’t stop watching her. It’s almost a compulsion. God knows what Ma would do if she knew. Still, Ma has other fish to fry in the wake (ha!) of Nigel’s funeral, though the task of clearing out his flat has fallen to Yours Truly.

  Not that there is much to find. His telescope; a few clothes; his computer; half a shelf of old books. Some papers from the hospital in a shoebox under the bed. I’d expected more – a journal, at least – but maybe experience had made him more cautious. If Nigel kept a journal at all, it was probably at Emily’s house, where he’d been staying most of the time, and where he could almost certainly rely on its safety from prying eyes.

  There is no sign of Nigel’s girl here. Not a trace, not a hair, not a photograph. The narrow bed is still unmade, the quilt pulled roughly over the dubious sheet, but she has never slept here. There is no fleeting scent of her, no toothbrush of hers in the bathroom, no coffee cup in the sink bearing the imprint of her mouth. The flat smells of unaired bed, of stale water, of damp, and it will take me less than half a day to clear the contents into the back of a van and to drive it to the refuse site, where anything of value will be sorted and recycled, and the rest consigned to landfill, to the misery of future generations.

  It’s funny, isn’t it, how little a life amounts to? A few old clothes, a box of papers, some dirty plates in the sink? A half-smoked packet of cigarettes, tucked away in a bedside drawer – she doesn’t smoke, so he kept them here, for those nights when, unable to sleep, he would look out through the skylight with his telescope, trying to see, through the light pollution, the crystal webwork of the stars.

  Yes, my brother liked stars. That was pretty much all he liked. Certainly, he never liked me. Well, neither of them did, of course, but it was Nigel I feared; Nigel, who had suffered most in the face of Ma’s expectations –

  Oh, those expectations. I wonder what Nigel made of them. Watching from the sidelines, pallid in his black shirts, bony fists perpetually clenched, so that when he opened up his hands you’d see the little crescents of red that his fingernails had left in his palm, marks he transferred on to my skin whenever he and I were alone –

  Nigel’s flat is monochrome. Grey sheets under a black-and-white quilt; a wardrobe in shades of charcoal and black. You’d have thought he might have quit that by now, but time has made no difference to my brother’s colour scheme. Socks, jackets, sweaters, jeans. Not a shirt, not a T-shirt, not even a pair of underpants that is not the official black or grey –

  Nigel was five when Dad left home. I’ve often wondered about that. Did he remember wearing colours, when he was still the only child? Did he sometimes go to the beach and play on the salty yellow sand? Or did he lie there with Dad at night and point out the constellations? What was he really looking for, scanning the skies with his Junior Telescope (paid for with money from his newspaper round)? Where did his anger come from? Most of all, why was it decreed that he should be black, or Ben should be blue? And if our roles had been reversed, would things have turned out differently?

  I guess I’ll never know now. Maybe I should have aske
d him. But Nigel and I never really talked, not even back when we were kids. We coexisted side by side, waging a kind of guerrilla war in defiance of Ma’s disapproval, each one inflicting as much damage as he could on to the hated enemy.

  My brother never knew me, except as the focus of his rage. And the only time I ever found out anything intimate about him, I kept the knowledge to myself, fearing the possible consequences. But if each man kills the thing he loves, must not the opposite also be true? Does each man love the thing he kills? And is love the ingredient that I lack?

  I turned on his computer. Skimmed briefly through his favourites. The result was as I’d suspected: links to the Hubble telescope; to images of galaxies; to webcams at the North Pole; to chat rooms in which photographers discussed the latest solar eclipse. Some porn, all of it plain-vanilla; some legally downloaded music. I went into his e-mail – he’d left the password open – but found nothing of interest there. Not a word from Albertine; no e-mails, no photographs, no sign that he’d ever known her.

  No sign of anyone else, either; no official correspondence, except for the monthly line or two from his therapist; no proof of some clandestine affair; not even a quick note from a friend. My brother had fewer friends than I, and the thought is strangely touching. But now isn’t the time to feel sympathy. My brother knew the risks from the start. He shouldn’t have got in the way, that’s all. It wasn’t my fault that he did.

  I found the cleanest mug he had and made a cup of tea. It wasn’t Earl Grey, but it would do. Then I logged on to badguysrock.

  Albertine wasn’t online. But Chryssie, as always, was waiting for me, her avatar blinking forlornly. Beneath it, an emoticon, coupled with the plaintive message: chrysalisbaby is feeling sick.

  Well, I’m not entirely surprised. Syrup of ipecac can have some unpleasant side effects. Still, that’s hardly my fault, and today I have more pressing concerns.