Джоан Харрис: Blueeyedboy

Night night. Sleep tight.

Sweet dreams, blueeyedboy . 34

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chrysalisbaby: wow this is awesome

JennyTricks: ( post deleted ).

ClairDeLune: This is quite intriguing , blueeyedboy. Would you say it represents your true inner dialogue, or is it a character portrait you’re planning to develop at some later stage? In any case, I’d love to read more!

JennyTricks: ( post deleted ).

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Posted at: 22.40 on Tuesday, January 29

Status: restricted

Mood: vitriolic

Listening to: Voltaire : ‘When You’re Evil’

The perfect crime comes in four separate stages. Stage One: identification of the subject. Stage Two: observation of the subject’s daily routine. Stage Three: infiltration. Stage Four: action.

So far there’s no hurry, of course. She is barely a Stage Two. Walking past the house each day, the collar of her bright red coat turned up against the cold.

Red isn’t her colour, of course — but I don’t expect her to know that. She doesn’t know how I like to watch: noting the details of her dress; the way the wind catches her hair; the way she walks with such precision, marking her passage with almost imperceptible touches. A hand against this wall, here; brushing against this yew hedge; pausing to lift her face to the sound of schoolchildren playing in the yard. Winter has stripped the leaves from the trees, and on dry days their percussion underfoot still smells dimly of fireworks. I know she thinks that too; I know how she likes to walk in the park with its alleys and walled gardens and listen to the sound of the naked trees shushing to themselves in the wind. I know how she turns her face to the sky, mouth open to catch the droplets of rain. I know the unguarded look of her; the way her mouth twists when she is upset; the turn of her head when she listens; the way her face tilts towards a scent.

She notices scents especially: lingers in front of the bakery. Eyes closed, she likes to stand by the door and catch the aroma of warm bread. I wish I could talk to her openly, but Ma’s spies are everywhere; watching; reporting; examining . . .

One of these is Eleanor Vine, who called round early this evening. Ostensibly to check on Ma, but really to enquire after me, to search for signs of grief or guilt in the wake of my brother’s death; to sniff out what was happening at home, and to collect any news that was going.

Every village has one. The local do-gooder. The busybody. The one to whom everyone applies when in need of information. Eleanor Vine is Malbry’s: a poisonous toady who currently forms part of the toxic triumvirate that makes up my mother’s retinue. I suppose I ought to feel privileged. Mrs Vine rarely leaves her house, viewing the world through net curtains, occasionally condescending to welcome others into her immaculate sanctum for biscuits, tea and vitriol. She has a niece called Terri, who goes to my writing-as-therapy class. Mrs Vine thinks that Terri and I would make a charming couple. I think that Mrs Vine would make an even more charming corpse.

Today she was all sweetness. ‘You look exhausted, B.B.,’ she said, greeting me in the hushed voice of one addressing an invalid. ‘I hope you’re taking care of yourself.’

It is common knowledge in the Village that Eleanor Vine is something of a hypochondriac, taking twenty kinds of pills and disinfecting incessantly. Over twenty years ago, Ma used to clean her house, though now Eleanor reserves that privilege for herself, and can often be seen through her kitchen window, Marigolds on standby, polishing the fruit in the cut-glass dish that stands on the kitchen table, a mixture of joy and anxiety on her thin, discoloured face.

My iPod was playing a song from one of my current playlists. Through the earpiece, Voltaire’s darkly satirical voice expounded the various virtues of vice to the melancholy counterpoint of a gypsy violin.

‘I’m quite all right, Mrs Vine,’ I said.

‘Not sickening for anything?’

I shook my head. ‘Not even a cold.’

‘Because bereavement can do that, you know,’ she said. ‘Old Mr Marshall got pneumonia four weeks after his poor wife passed on. Dead before the headstone went up. The Examiner called it a double tragedy.’

I had to smile at the thought of myself pining away for Nigel.

‘I hear they’re missing you at your class.’

That killed the smile. ‘Oh yes? Who says?’

‘People talk,’ said Eleanor.

I’ll bet they do . Toxic old cow. Spying on me for Ma, I don’t doubt. And now, thanks to Terri, a spy for my writing-as-therapy class, that little circle of parasites and headcases with whom I share — in supposed confidence — the details of my troubled life.

‘I’ve been preoccupied,’ I said.

She gave me a look of sympathy. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It must be hard. And what about Gloria? Is she all right?’ She glanced around the parlour, alert for any telltale sign — a smear of dust on the mantelpiece, a speck on any one of Ma’s collection of china dogs — to suggest that Ma might be cracking up.

‘Oh, you know. She manages.’

‘I brought her a little something,’ she said, handing me a paper bag. ‘It’s a supplement I sometimes use when I’m feeling under the weather.’ She gave her vinegary smile. ‘Looks like you could do with some yourself. Have you been in a fight, or something?’

‘Who, me?’ I shook my head.

‘No. Of course,’ said Eleanor.

No, of course . As if I would. As if Gloria Winter’s boy could ever be involved in a fight. Everyone thinks they know me. Everyone’s an authority. And it always irks me a little to think that she, like Ma, would never believe the tenth of what I am capable —

‘Oh, Eleanor, love, you should have come through!’ That was Ma, emerging from the kitchen with a tea-towel in one hand and a vegetable peeler in the other. ‘I was just making him his vitamin drink. D’you want some tea while you’re here?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘I just popped in to see how you were.’

‘Holding up all right,’ said Ma. ‘B.B.’s looking after me.’

Ouch. That was below the belt. But Ma is very proud of me. A taste like that of rotten fruit slowly crept into my mouth. Rotten fruit mixed with salt, like a cocktail of juice and sea water. From my iPod, Voltaire declaimed with murderous exuberance:

Eleanor gave me a sidelong glance. ‘He must be such a comfort, love.’ She turned once more to look at me. ‘I don’t know how you can hear a word we’re saying with that thing in your ear. Don’t you ever take it out?’

If I could have killed her then, right then, without risk, I would have snapped her neck like a stick of Blackpool rock without so much as a tremor of guilt — but as it was I had to smile so hard it made my fillings ache, and to take out one of my iPod plugs, and to promise to go back to my class next week, where everyone is missing me —

‘What did she mean, go back to your class? Have you been skipping sessions again?’

‘No, Ma. Just the one.’ I did not quite dare meet her eyes.

‘Those classes are for your own good. I don’t want to hear you’re skipping them.’