by Джоан Харрис
It didn’t help that, thanks to Ma, word of his gift had got around. As a result, even the teachers had come to think of him differently — some of them with resentment. A different child is a difficult child, or so thought the teachers at Abbey Road, and, far from being curious, many were suspicious, some openly sarcastic, as if his Ma’s expectations and his own inability to conform to the mediocrity of the place were somehow an attack on them.
Ma, and her expectations. Grown stronger than ever, of course, now that the gift was official, now that there was a name for it — an official name, a syndrome, that smelt of sickness and sanctity, with its furry dark-grey sibilants and its fruity Catholic undertint.
Not that it mattered, he told himself. Another year and he would be free. Free to attend St Oswald’s, which Ma had painted in such attractive colours for him that he was almost taken in, and of which Dr Peacock spoke with such affection that he had put his fears aside and thrown himself into the task of becoming what Dr Peacock expected of him: to be the son he’d never had, a chip, as he said, off the old block —
Sometimes Benjamin wondered what would happen if he failed the entrance exam. But since Ma had long ago come to believe that the exam was merely a formality, a series of documents to sign before he entered the hallowed gates, he knew that his worries were best left unvoiced.
His brothers were both at Sunnybank Park. Sunnybanker. Rhymes with wanker, as he used to say to them, which made Brendan laugh but infuriated Nigel, who — when he could catch him — would sometimes pin him between his knees and punch him till he cried, shouting — Fuck you, you little freak! — until at last he’d exhausted himself, or Ma heard and came running —
Nigel was fifteen, and hated him. He’d hated him from the very first, but by then his hatred had blossomed. Perhaps he was jealous of the attention his brother received; perhaps it was merely testosterone. In any case, the more he grew, the more he turned his whole being towards making his brother suffer, regardless of the consequences.
Ben was skinny and undersized. Nigel was already big for his age, sheathed in adolescent muscle, and he had all kinds of virtually untraceable ways of inflicting pain — Chinese burns, nips and pinches, sly shin-kicks under the table — though when he got angry, he forgot discretion and, without any fear of retribution, laid into his brother with fists and feet —
Telling tales only made it worse. Nigel seemed oblivious to punishment: it simply fed his resentment. Beatings made him worse. If he was sent to bed hungry, he would force-feed his brothers toothpaste, or dirt, or spiders, carefully harvested in the attic and put aside for just such an eventuality.
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 mes
sy 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: Jenny, 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? Jeans, 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.
It wasn’t his fault, I told myself; I would not have had him otherwise. We completed each other in some strange way: his dark moods and my lack of temperament. I am wide open, as he u
sed to say; there are no hidden places in me, no unpleasant secrets. All the better; because deceit, that essentially female trait, is the thing that Nigel despised most of all. Deceit and lies, so alien to him — so alien, he thought, to me.
‘I have to go out for an hour or so.’ His voice sounded oddly defensive. ‘Will you be OK for a while? I have to go to Ma’s house.’
Gloria Winter, née Gloria Green, sixty-nine years old and still clutching at the remains of her family with the tenacity of a hungry remora. I knew her as a voice on the line; a rimshot Northern accent; an impatient drumming on the receiver; an imperious way of cutting you off like a gardener pruning roses.
Not that we’ve ever been introduced. Not officially, anyway. But I know her from Nigel; I know her ways; I know her voice on the telephone and her ominous range of silences. There are other things, too, that he never told me, but that I know only too well. The jealousy; the rancour; the rage; the hatred mixed with helplessness.
He rarely spoke of her to me. He rarely even mentioned her name. Living with Nigel, I soon understood that some subjects were best left alone, and this included his childhood, his father, his brothers, his past and most especially Gloria, who shared, along with her other son, a talent for bringing out the worst in Nigel.
‘Can’t your brother deal with this?’
I heard him stop on the way to the door. I wondered if he were turning round, fixing me with his dark eyes. Nigel rarely mentioned his brother, and when he did it was all bad. Twisted little bastard was about the best I’d heard so far — Nigel never had much objectivity when it came to discussing his family.
‘My brother? Why? Has he spoken to you?’