by Джоан Харрис
And Chryssie? Once more, she is feeling sick. This time, I almost sympathize. Looking at her f-list this morning, I notice, with diminishing surprise, that azurechild has been deleted. I immediately check for blueeyedboy. There, too, I am absent.
Three strikes? It’s more than coincidence. I scroll quickly through the rest of my f-list, checking accounts and avatars. BombNumber20. Purepwnage9. Toxic69. All my friends. As if they had all decided as one to leave me marooned on badguysrock —
Of course, there’s nothing from Albertine. Her Webmail account is marked as dormant; her WeJay as deleted. I can still look up her old posts — nothing online is ever lost, and every word is hidden away in caches and encrypted files, the ghosts in the machine. But Albertine is gone now. For the first time in over twenty years — perhaps for the first time in his life — blueeyedboy is quite alone.
Alone. A bitter, brown word, like dead leaves caught in a wind trap. It tastes like coffee grounds and dirt, and smells like cigarette ash. Suddenly I feel scared. Not so much of being alone as for the absence of those little voices, the ones that tell me that I’m real, the ones that say they see me —
You understand it was fiction, right? You know I never killed anyone? Yes, some of my fic may have been in bad taste, even a little sick, perhaps, but surely you don’t believe I could ever have acted out those things?
Do you, Chryssie?
Do you, Clair?
Seriously. It wasn’t real. Artistic licence, anyone? If it sounded genuine, if you were nearly convinced, then — surely that’s a compliment, proof that blueeyedboy kicks ass —
Right, guys? Toxic? Cap?
I try to get down the stairs again. I need to call a taxi. I have to get out. I have to escape. I have to be on that plane at midday. But I feel like I’ve been cut in half; my legs can barely hold me. I make it to the bathroom again, where I throw up until there’s nothing left.
But I know from experience that this doesn’t help. Whatever she used is in me now, working its way through my bloodstream, shutting down all systems. Sometimes it lasts for days, sometimes weeks, depending on the dosage. What did she use? I don’t know. I have to call that taxi. If I crawl, I can reach the phone. It’s in the parlour, with the dogs. But the thought of lying there, helpless, with those china dogs looking down at me, is more than my brutalized nerves can take. The snakes are loose in my belly, and now there is no stopping them —
Damn, I feel sick. I feel dizzy. The room is spinning choppily. Black flowers open behind my eyes. If I just lie here, quietly, then maybe things will be OK. Maybe in time I can regain some strength, enough to get to the airport, at least —
Bip! It’s the sound of the mailbox. That bittersweet electronic sound. One of my friends has messaged me. I knew they wouldn’t leave me here. I knew they’d come round eventually.
I crawl back to the keyboard. I click on the symbol for message.
Someone has commented on your post!
I flick back to my most recent entry. A single line has been added there. No avatar. Just the default pic; a blue silhouette inside a square.
Post comment:
JennyTricks: NOT BAD AT ALL FOR AN AMATEUR. NOT TOO REALISTIC, THOUGH.
She ends it with an emoticon: a little winking smiley.
No way. No way! A finger of sweat runs down my spine. My stomach’s filled with broken glass. It has to be a joke, right? Nothing but a bad joke. Right from the moment she first logged on, thinking she was so clever.
Oh, please. As if I could have missed her, with that ridiculous username —
JennyTricks.
Genitrix.
And its colour is sometimes Virgin-blue, and sometimes it’s green, like market-stall baize, and it smells of L’Heure Bleue and Marlboros, and cabbage leaves and salt water —
Post comment:
blueeyedboy: Ma?
No. No. Of course not. I heard the explosion, for God’s sake. Ma isn’t coming back, not today, not ever. And even if she had escaped somehow, then why would she choose this medium, instead of simply driving home and dealing with me face to face?
No, someone’s trying to mess with my mind. My guess is Albertine. Nice try, Albertine. But I’ve been playing these games for much too long to be freaked out by an amateur.
Bip! Someone has commented on your post!
I consider deleting the message unread. But —
Post comment:
JennyTricks: SO HOW ARE YOU FEELING, blueeyedboy?
blueeyedboy: Never felt better, Jenny, thanks.
JennyTricks: YOU NEVER COULD LIE TO SAVE YOUR LIFE.
Well, that’s a debatable point, JennyTricks. In fact I’ve survived for as long as I have by doing precisely that. Like the princess Scheherazade, I’ve consistently lied to save my life for rather more than a thousand and one nights. So, Jenny, whoever you are —
Post comment:
blueeyedboy: Tell me, do I know you?
JennyTricks: NOT AS WELL AS I KNOW YOU.
Seriously, I doubt that. But now I’m beginning to be intrigued, in spite of the pain that comes and goes like the waves under Blackpool pier. In pain. What a phrase. Like a mouse inside a bottle. In any case I’m trapped here, and rather than think about my circumstances — which, let’s face it, don’t look good — it’s easier to stay here, to grab the line that’s being offered, to keep up the dialogue, which at least is preferable to silence.
Post comment:
blueeyedboy: So, you think you know me?
JennyTricks: OH YES. I KNOW YOU.
blueeyedboy: Is that you, Albertine ?
She responds with another smiley. The pixellated yellow face looks like a grinning goblin. It hurts to type, but the silence is worse.
Post comment:
blueeyedboy:Albertine ? Is that you?
JennyTricks: NO, THAT BITCH IS GONE FOR GOOD.
Now I’m convinced it’s Bethan in there. How did she get Ma’s password? Where is she logging on from? It’s good she doesn’t know I’m sick. She may not even know I’m here. For all she knows I’m at the airport, logging on from the business lounge.
Post comment:
blueeyedboy: Well, it’s been fun, but I have to go.
JennyTricks: YOURE NOT GOING ANYWHERE.
blueeyedboy: Oh, but I am. I’m flying south.
JennyTricks: NOT IN THIS LIFETIME, YOU LITTLE SHIT. WE HAVE THINGS TO TALK ABOUT.
Bitch, I’m not afraid of you. In fact, I’m feeling better. I’m going to get up in a minute, pick up my bag, call a taxi and then I’ll be off to the airport. Who knows, I may even find the time to deal with those dogs before I go. Still, for the moment I think I’ll stay here, crunched up like a contortionist, keeping the pain at bay with words as it opens its jaws to swallow me —
Post comment:J
ennyTricks: YOU WAIT HERE. I’M COMING HOME. I’M COMING TO TAKE CARE OF YOU.
She’s bluffing, of course. She has no idea. But if I didn’t know better right now, I might even feel a little afraid. She has Ma’s voice down so accurately that I can feel my hackles trying to rise, and the back of my shirt is clammy with sweat. But all the same, it’s just a bluff, based on what she knows of me. She knows it’s a weakness of mine, that’s all. She’s shooting in the dark. I’ve won, and there’s nothing she can do about it —
Post comment:
JennyTricks: THINK YOU’RE SO SMART, DON’T YOU? YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TRIED TO CHEAT ON ME. AND IF I FIND THAT YOU’VE LAID AS MUCH AS A FINGER ON ANY OF MY CERAMICS I’LL BREAK YOUR FUCKING NECK, OK?
OK, game over, JennyTricks. I think I’ve exhausted my tolerance. Places to go, people to see, crimes to commit, and all that jazz. There are plenty of opportunities for a man of my skills in Hawaii. Plenty of places to explore. Perhaps I’ll message you from there. Till then, Jenny, whoever you are —
11
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy
Posted at : 05.32 on Friday, February 22
Status: restr
icted
Mood: scared
Listening to: Abba: ‘The Winner Takes It All’
OK. Joke over, thinks blueeyedboy. This isn’t funny any more. She knows too much about him, of course; it’s almost beginning to get to him. He stands up, though it hurts terribly. The room does one of those choppy swoops. He holds on to his desktop to keep from falling over.
Bip! That mailbox sound again. This time he ignores it. He slings his bag across his shoulder, still leaning on to the desk for support.
Bip! Another message. Someone has posted on badguysrock!
But he’s halfway across the landing now, leaning on the banister. Badguysrock is an island from which he is suddenly desperate to escape. Each step he takes is an effort, but he’ll walk out if it kills him. No crawling for blueeyedboy. He’s going to make that fucking plane —
He’s concentrating so hard that the sound of the car hardly registers, and when it stops on the driveway it takes him some seconds to react.
Police, here already? thinks blueeyedboy.
A car door slams. He hears the crunch of footsteps approaching in the snow. A door key ratchets and turns in the lock. The front door opens quietly. He hears the sound of boots on the mat. A double thud. Then the sound of bare feet across the parquet hall floor.
They found the keys. That’s all, he thinks. They let themselves in. Two detectives. He can see them in his mind’s eye: a man and a woman (there’s always one). He will be plain and businesslike; she will be kinder, more sensitive. But — why did they take their boots off, he thinks? And why on earth didn’t they ring the bell?
‘Hey!’ His voice is rusty. ‘Up here!’
No one replies. Instead, a scent of cigarette smoke winds its way up the stairwell. Then comes a small and slithery sound, like a snake — or a long piece of electrical cord sliding across a polished floor.
Panic wrenches at him now. He falls against the banister. He tries to get up, but his legs are on strike. Cursing, he crawls back into his room. Not that that will protect him now; the door is off its hinges. But there’s always his computer, he thinks; his refuge; his island; his sanctuary.
He logs back on to badguysrock. Two messages await him.
He reads them as the room spins dizzily around him. His eyes are streaming; his head sore; his stomach filled with razor blades.
From the stairs, relentlessly, comes the sound of footsteps.
‘Who’s there?’ His voice is raw.
‘Ma, please? Is that you?’
No reply but those feet on the stairs, coming up so steadily. With shaking hands, he begins to type. The footsteps reach the landing. A slithery sound on the carpet. Blueeyedboy types faster. He cannot, dare not, stop typing. Because if he stops, he’ll have to turn round, and then he’ll have to look at her —
But of course, this is only fic. Blueeyedboy doesn’t believe in ghosts. Even as he types the words he knows that this is Albertine. She couldn’t leave him after all; she stopped to read her mail, then turned back, knowing that he needed her help. And the phantom reek of Marlboros is only in his mind, he thinks, and the scent of L’Heure Bleue is so powerful that it cannot possibly be real. No, it’s only Albertine, who has come to save him —
‘I knew you wouldn’t leave me, Beth.’ His voice is weak and grateful.
Albertine makes no reply.
‘You gave me a hell of a scare, though. I thought you were my mother.’ He tries a laugh, which sounds more like a scream. That slithering sound comes closer.
‘I guess that makes us even now. I’ll even admit I deserved it.’
Still no reaction from Albertine. Behind him the footsteps come to a stop. He can smell her now, a rose in the smoke.
She says: ‘I brought your medicine.’
‘Ma?’ he whispers.
‘Ma? Ma?’
FB2 document info
Document ID: 53d8f119-9d1d-496d-88dc-d77a8614c9e1
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 04 April 2011
Created using: FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
frenky_m
Document history:
1.0 — создание файла
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