I glanced quickly through my mailbox. Captainbunnykiller is feeling good. BombNumber20 is feeling bored. A meme from Clair entitled: Try this simple test to know – What kind of a psycho are you?
Mmm. Cute. And typical Clair, whose knowledge of human psychology – such as it is – is mostly gleaned from cop shows, shows with names like Blue Murder, in which feisty female profilers hunt down bed-wetting sociopaths by Getting Inside the Criminal Mind –
So what kind of psycho am I, Clair? Let’s look at the results.
Mostly Ds. Congratulations! You are a malignant narcissist. You are glib, charming, manipulative, and have little or no regard for others. You enjoy notoriety, and are willing to commit acts of violence to satisfy your craving for instant gratification, although secretly you may harbour feelings of inadequacy. You may also suffer from paranoia, and you have a tendency to live in a dream world in which you are the perpetual centre of attention. You need to get professional help, as you are a potential danger to yourself and others.
Dear Clair. I’m very fond of her. And it’s really rather touching that she thinks that she can analyse me. But she has a junior social-worker mentality at best, for all her spit and psychobabble, and besides, she’s none too stable herself, as we may discover in due course.
You see, even Clair takes risks online. During what passes for her ‘real’ work – handing out praise to the talentless and platitudinous comfort to the existentially challenged – she secretly spends hours online updating her fansite on Angel Blue, making banners, searching the Net for pictures, comments, interviews, rumours, guest appearances or any information regarding his current whereabouts. She also writes to him regularly, and has posted on her own website a small collection of his handwritten replies, which are courteous but impersonal, and which only someone truly obsessed would ever take as encouragement . . .
Clair, however, is truly obsessed. Thanks to my link to her WeJay, I know that she writes fan fiction about his characters – and sometimes about the man himself – erotic fics that, over the months, are becoming increasingly daring. She also paints portraits of her loved one, and makes cushions on to which she prints his face. Her bedroom at home is filled with these cushions, mostly in pink – her favourite colour – some of them also depicting her face next to his, inside a printed heart.
She follows his wife’s career, too – an actress to whom he has been happily married for the past five or six years – although recently Clair may have begun to indulge in hopeful speculation. An online friend – who logs on under the name sapphiregirl – has informed her of a liaison between Angel’s wife and a co-worker on the set of her new film.
This has led to a spate of attacks on Mrs Angel in some of Clair’s recent journal posts. Her last post makes her feelings more than clear. She does not want to see Angel hurt; and she is slightly bewildered that a man of his intelligence has not yet come to terms with the fact that his wife is – well, unworthy.
The fact that there was no such liaison is surely no fault of sapphire-girl – these rumours are so easily spread, and how could she possibly have known that Clair would respond so impulsively? It will be interesting to see how Clair reacts if – when – Angel’s lawyers write to her.
How can I be so sure, you ask? Well, Internet mail can be ignored, but a letter to Mrs Angel’s address, and the accompanying box of chocolates (in this case containing an unexpected surprise), all traceable to ClairDeLune and posted within five miles of her house – are altogether more sinister.
She will, of course, deny it. But will Angel Blue believe her? And Clair is such a devoted fan: she travels to America to see her idol on the stage; she goes to every convention where she might get a glimpse of him. What might she do on receipt of – let’s say, a court order, or even just a rebuke from her man? I suspect her to be volatile – perhaps even slightly deranged. What would it take to make her flip? And wouldn’t it be fun to find out?
But for now I have other things on my mind. A man should always clean up after himself. And Nigel is, after all, my mess – my mess, if not my murder.
Does murder run in families? I can almost think it does. Who’s next, I wonder? Myself, perhaps, dead of an overdose, maybe, or found beaten to death in an alleyway? A car crash? A hit-and-run? Or will it look like suicide, a bottle of pills by the side of the bath, a bloodstained razor on the tiles?
It could be anything, of course. The killer could be anyone. So play it safe. Don’t take any risks. Remember what happened to the other two –
Watch your back, blueeyedboy.
12
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy posting on :
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Posted at: 01.22 on Tuesday, February 5
Status: public
Mood: cautious
Listening to: Altered Images: ‘Happy Birthday’
He has always been good at watching his back. Over the years, he has had to learn. Accidents happen so easily, and the men in his family have always been particularly prone to them. It turns out that even his dad, whom blueeyedboy had always assumed had simply gone out to buy cigarettes and never bothered to come back, had met with a fatal accident: in his case, a car crash, no one’s fault – the kind that the folks at Malbry Infirmary call a Saturday Night Special. Too much alcohol; too little patience, maybe a marital crisis and –
– Wham!
And so it should come as no surprise that blueeyedboy should have turned out this way. No guiding paternal influence; a controlling, ambitious mother; an elder brother who tended to solve all problems with his fists. It’s hardly rocket science, is it? And he is more than familiar with the rudiments of psychoanalysis.
Congratulations! You are an Oedipal. Your unusually close relationship with your mother has stifled your ability to grow into an emotionally balanced human being. Your ambivalence towards her emerges in violent fantasies, often sexual in nature.
Well – duh, as Cap might say.
Nigel may have missed his dad, but the man meant nothing to blueeyedboy. He wasn’t even blueeyedboy’s real father – certainly, from his photographs, he sees no resemblance to himself. To Nigel, perhaps: the big, square hands; the black hair falling across the face; the slightly over-pretty mouth, with its hidden threat of violence. Ma often hinted that Peter Winter was possessed of a nasty streak; and if one of them misbehaved, she’d say – whilst wielding that piece of electrical cord – It’s a good thing for you your father’s not here. He’d soon sort you out.
And so the word father came to have – shall we say – negative connotations. A loose-lipped, greenish, bilious sound, like the murky water under Blackpool pier, where they used to go on his birthday. Blueeyedboy always liked the beach, but the pier itself frightened him, looking as it did like a fossilized animal – a dinosaur maybe – all bones, but still quite dangerous with its muddy feet and broken teeth.
Pier. Peter. Pierre, in French. Sticks and stones may break my bones –
After seeing Mr White with his ma, our hero’s curiosity regarding Patrick White had increased. He found himself watching Mr White whenever he saw him in the Village – walking to St Oswald’s with his satchel in one hand and a pile of exercise books in the other; in the park on Sundays with Mrs White and Emily – now two years old and learning to walk – playing games, making her laugh –
It occurred to him that if Mr White were his father, then Emily must be his sister. He imagined himself with a little sister: helping his Ma look after her; reading her stories at bedtime. He began to follow them; to sit in the park where they liked to go, pretending to read a book while he watched –
He hadn’t dared ask Ma for the truth. Besides, he didn’t need to. He could feel it in his heart. Patrick White was his father. Sometimes our hero liked to dream that one day his father would come and take him somewhere far away –
He would have shared, he tells himself. He would have shared him with Emily. But Mr White went out of his way to avoid even hav
ing to look at him. A man who, until then, had always greeted him genially in the street; had always called him young man and asked how he was doing at school.
It wasn’t just because Emily was so much more appealing. There was something in Mr White’s face, in his voice whenever our hero approached him; a look of wariness, almost of fear –
But what could Mr White possibly fear from a boy of only nine years old? Our hero had no way of knowing. Was he afraid that blueeyedboy might want to harm Emily? Or was he afraid that Mrs White would one day discover his secret?
He started skipping classes at school to hang around St Oswald’s. He would hide behind the utility shed and watch the yard as lessons changed: the stream of boys in blue uniforms; the Masters in their flapping black gowns. On Tuesdays it was Mr White who supervised the schoolyard, and blueeyedboy would watch him avidly from his hiding-place as he moved across the asphalt, stopping every now and again to exchange a few words with a pupil –
‘String quartet tonight, Jones. Don’t forget your music.’
‘No, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘Tuck your shirt in, Hudson, please. You’re not on the beach at Brighton, you know.’
Blueeyedboy remembers one Tuesday, which happened to be his tenth birthday. Not that he expected much in the way of celebration. That year had been especially grim, except for his trips to the Mansion; money was tight; Ma was stressed, and a trip to Blackpool was out of the question – there was too much work to do. Even a birthday cake, he thought, was probably too much to hope for. Even so, that morning, there seemed to be something special in the air. He was ten years old. The big one-oh. His life was in double digits. Perhaps it was time, he told himself, as he headed towards St Oswald’s, to find out the truth about Patrick White –
He found him in the schoolyard, a couple of minutes before the end of School Assembly. Mr White was standing by the entrance to the Middle School Quad, his faded gown slung over his arm, a mug of coffee in one hand. In a minute or two the yard would be filled with boys; now it was deserted, except, of course, for blueeyedboy, made instantly conspicuous by dint of his lack of uniform, standing beneath the entrance gate with the school’s motto emblazoned on it in Latin – Audere, agere, auferre – which, thanks to Dr Peacock, he knows means: to dare, to strive, to conquer.
Suddenly, our blueeyedboy did not feel very daring. He was desperately sure he would stutter; that the words he so badly wanted to speak would break and crumble in his mouth. And even without the black robe, Mr White looked forbidding: taller and sterner than usual, watching our hero’s determined approach, listening to the sound of his shoes on the cobbled courtyard –
‘What are you doing here, boy?’ he said, and his voice, though soft, was glacial. ‘Why have you been following me?’
Blueeyedboy looked at him. Mr White’s blue eyes seemed a very long way up. ‘M-Mr White—’ he began. ‘I – I—’
Stuttering begins in the mind. It’s the curse of expectation. That’s why he was able to speak perfectly normally at certain times, while at others his words turned to Silly String, tangling him uselessly in a web of his own making.
‘I — I—’ Our hero could feel his face turning red.
Mr White regarded him. ‘Look, I don’t have time for this. The bell’s going to ring any moment now—’
Blueeyedboy made a final effort. He had to know the truth, he thought. After all, today was his birthday. He tried to see himself in blue: St Oswald’s blue, or butterfly blue. He saw the words like butterflies coming out of his open mouth, and said, with barely a stutter at all –
‘Mr White, are you my dad?’
For a moment the silence bound them. Then, just as the morning bell sounded through St Oswald’s, blueeyedboy saw Patrick White’s face change from shock to astonishment, and then to a kind of stunned pity.
‘Is that what you thought?’ he said at last.
Blueeyedboy just looked at him. Around them, the courtyard was filling up with blue St Oswald’s blazers. Chirping voices all around, circling like birds. Some of the boys gaped at him, a single sparrow in a flock of budgerigars.
After a moment, Mr White seemed to come out of his stupor. ‘Listen,’ he said in a firm voice. ‘I don’t know where you got this idea. But it isn’t true. Really, it’s not. And if I catch you spreading these rumours—’
‘You’re n-not my f-father?’ said blueeyedboy, his voice beginning to tremble.
‘No,’ said Mr White. ‘I’m not.’
For a moment the words seemed to make no sense. Blueeyedboy had been so sure. But Mr White was telling the truth; he could see it in his blue eyes. But then – why had he given money to Ma? And why had he done it in secret?
And then it fell into place in his mind like the moving parts of a Mouse Trap game. He supposed it had been obvious. Ma was blackmailing Mr White – blackmail, a sinister word; the Black and White Minstrels under their paint. Mr White had transgressed, and Ma had somehow found out about it. That would explain the whisperings; the way Mrs White looked at Ma; Mr White’s anger, and now his contempt. This man was not his father, he thought. This man had never cared for him.
And now blueeyedboy could feel the tears beginning to prick at his eyelids. Terrible, helpless, childish tears of disappointment and of shame. Please, not in front of Mr White, he begged of the Almighty, but God, like Ma, was implacable. Like Ma, Our Father sometimes needs that gesture of contrition.
‘Are you OK?’ said Mr White, reluctantly putting a hand on his arm.
‘Fine, thanks,’ said blueeyedboy, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
‘I don’t know how you got the idea that—-’
‘Forget it. Really. I’m fine,’ he said, and very calmly walked away, keeping his spine as straight as he could, although he was a mess inside, although it felt like dying.
It’s my birthday, he told himself. Today, I deserve to be special. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs, whatever punishment God or Ma can possibly inflict on me –
And that’s how, fifteen minutes later, he found himself, not back at school, but at the end of Millionaires’ Row, looking towards the Mansion.
*
It was the first time that blueeyedboy had been to the Mansion unsupervised. His visits with his brothers and Ma were always strictly controlled, and he knew that if Ma found out what he’d done, she’d make him sorry he’d ever been born. But today he wasn’t afraid of Ma. Today, a breath of rebellion seemed to have taken hold of him. Today, for once, blueeyedboy was in the mood for a spot of trespass.
The garden was shielded from the road by a set of cast-iron railings. At the far end there was a stone wall, and all around, a blackthorn hedge. On the whole, it didn’t look promising. But blueeyedboy was determined. He found a space through which to crawl, mindful of the twigs and thorns that snagged at his hair and stuck through his T-shirt, and emerged on the other side of the hedge into the grounds of the Mansion.
Ma always called it ‘the grounds’. Dr Peacock called it ‘the garden’, although there was over four acres of it, orchard and kitchen garden and lawns, plus the walled rose garden in which Dr Peacock took so much pride, the pond and the old conservatory, where pots and gardening tools were kept. Most of it was trees, though, which suited blueeyedboy just fine, with alleys of rhododendrons that flared brief glory in springtime and in late summer grew skeletal, encroaching darkly across the path, the perfect cover for anyone wishing to visit the garden unseen –
Blueeyedboy did not question the impulse that had driven him to the Mansion. He couldn’t go back to St Oswald’s, though, not now, after what had happened. He dared not go back home, of course, and at school he’d be punished for being late. But the Mansion was quiet, and secret, and safe. Simply to be there was enough; to dive into the undergrowth; to hear the summery sounds of the bees high up in the leafy canopy, and to feel the beating of his heart slow down to its natural cadence. He was still so immersed in his agitated thoughts that, walking along an alle
y of trees, he almost ran into Dr Peacock, who was standing, secateurs in hand, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, at the entrance to the rose garden.
‘And what brings you here this morning?’
For a moment blueeyedboy was quite unable to answer. Then he looked past Dr Peacock and saw: the newly dug grave; the mound of earth, the rolled square of turf laid aside on the ground –
Dr Peacock smiled at him. It was a rather complex smile; sad and complicit at the same time. ‘I’m afraid you’ve caught me in the act,’ he said, indicating the fresh grave. ‘I know how this may look to you, but as we grow older our capacity for sentiment expands to an exponential degree. To you it may look like senility—’
Blueeyedboy stared at him with a perfect lack of comprehension.
‘What I mean is,’ Dr Peacock said, ‘I was just bidding a last goodbye to a very loyal old friend.’
For a moment blueeyedboy was still unsure of what he’d meant. Then he remembered Dr Peacock’s Jack Russell, over which the old man always made such a fuss. Blueeyedboy didn’t like dogs. Too eager; too unpredictable.
He shivered, feeling vaguely sick. He tried to remember the name of the dog, but all he could think of was Malcolm, the name of his would-have-been-sibling, and his eyes filled with tears for no reason, and his head began to ache –
Dr Peacock put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t be upset, son. He had a good life. Are you all right? You’re shivering.’
‘I don’t feel so w-well,’ said blueeyedboy.
‘Really? Well, then, we’d better get you in the house, hadn’t we? I’ll get you something cool to drink. And then perhaps I should call your mother—’
‘No! Please!’ said blueeyedboy.
Dr Peacock gave him a look. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I understand. You don’t want to alarm her. A fine woman in many ways, but somewhat over-protective. And besides—’ His eyes creased in a mischievous smile. ‘Am I correct in assuming that on this bright summer morning, the delights of the school curriculum were not enough to keep you indoors when all of Nature’s syllabus demanded your urgent attention?’
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