Джоан Харрис: Blueeyedboy

Some people like to play with fire. Other people deserve to die. And how could a tragic accident have anything at all to do with that good little girl who sits so still, and who waits so patiently by the fire while her father fixes the plumbing?

At first, even blueeyedboy doesn’t guess. At first he thinks it’s karma. But, with time, as his enemies falter and fall at every stroke of the typewriter key, he begins to see the pattern emerge, clear as the flowered wallpaper in his mother’s parlour.

Electric Blue. Diesel Blue. Even poor Mrs Chemical Blue, who set the seal on her own demise by wanting things so nice and clean, beginning with that nice, clean boy in her fat niece’s therapy group.

And Dr Peacock, whose only true crime was to find himself in our hero’s care; whose mind was half-gone anyway, and whose chair it was so easy to push off the little home-made ramp, so that next morning they found him there, his eyes jacked open, his mouth awry. And if blueeyedboy feels anything, it’s a dawning sense of hope —

Perhaps it’s my guardian angel , he thinks. Or maybe it’s just coincidence .

Why does she do it, he asks himself? Is it to safeguard his innocence? To take his guilt and make it her own? Or just to attract his attention? Is it because she sees herself as executioner to the world? Is it because of that little girl, whose life she collected so eagerly? Is it because to be someone else is her only means of existing? Or is it because, like blueeyedboy , she has no choice but to mirror those around her?

Still, in the end, it’s not his fault. He’s giving her what she wants, that’s all. And if what she wants is guilt, what then? If what she wants is villainy?

Surely, he’s not responsible. He never told her what to do. And yet, he feels she wants something more. He senses her impatience. It’s always the same: these women , he thinks. These women and their expectations . He knows that it will end in tears, as it always has before —

But blueeyedboy can’t blame her now for what she is considering. He was the one who made her, who shaped her from this murderous clay. For years she has been his golem; and now the slave just wants to be free.

How will she do it? he asks himself. Accidents happen so easily. A poison slipped into his drink? A humdrum gas leak? A car crash? A fire? Or will it be something more esoteric: a needle tipped with the venom of a rare South American orchid; a scorpion slipped into a basket of fruit? Whatever it is, blueeyedboy expects it to be something special.

And will he see it coming, he thinks? Will he have time to see her eyes? And as she stares into the abyss, what will she see staring back?

Post comment:

JennyTricks: THINK YOURE SO CLEVER, DONT YOU?

blueeyedboy: You didn’t like my ficlet? Now why am I not surprised?

JennyTricks: BOYS WHO PLAY WITH FIRE GET BURNT.

blueeyedboy: Thank you, Jenny. I’ll bear it in mind . . .

You are viewing the webjournal ofAlbertine.

Posted at: 02.37 on Friday, February 22

Status: restricted

Mood: angry

He calls me a golem. How hatefully apt. The golem, according to legend, is a creature made from word and clay; a voiceless slave with no purpose but to do its master’s bidding. But in one of the stories the slave rebels — did you know that, blueeyedboy ? It turns against its creator. What then? I don’t remember. But I know it ended badly.

Is that what he really thinks of me? He always was conceited. Even when he was a boy, despised by almost everyone, there was always that arrogant side to him; the enduring belief that he was unique, destined some day to be someone. Perhaps his Ma did that to him. Gloria Green and her colours. No, I’m not defending him. But there’s something twisted about the idea that boys can be sorted like laundry; that a colour can make you good or bad; that every crime can be washed away and hung out on the line to dry.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? He hates her, and yet he’s incapable of simply walking away. Instead, he has his own means of escape. He’s been living inside his head for years. And he has a golem to do his work, moulded to specifications.

He’s lying, of course. It’s only fic. He’s trying to breach my defences. He knows my reluctant memory is like a broken projector, incapable of processing more than a single frame at a time. Blueeyedboy ’s account of events is always so much better than mine, high-resolution imaging to my grainy black and white. Yes, I was full of confusion and hate. But I was never a murderer.

Of course, he knew that all along. This is his way of taunting me. But he can be very convincing. And he has lied to the police before, incriminating others to hide his guilt. I wonder, will he accuse me now? Has he found anything in Nigel’s flat, or at the Fireplace House, that he could present as evidence? Is he trying to play for time by drawing me into a dialogue? Or is he playing the picador, taunting me into making a move?

Boys who play with fire get burnt.

I couldn’t have put it better. If this is his plan to disorient me, then he is treading dangerous ground. I know I ought to ignore him now, just get in the car and drive away, but a feeling of outrage consumes me. I have played his mind games for far too long. We all of us have; we indulge him. He can’t bear the sight of physical pain, but he thrives on mental suffering. Why do we allow it? I ask. Why has no one rebelled before now?

An e-mail arrived a moment ago. I picked it up on my mobile phone.

Re: Everyday care of orchids.

In my absence, I would be grateful if you might agree to care for my orchid collection. Most orchids do better in a warm, humid environment away from direct sunlight. Water sparingly. Do not allow the roots to soak. Thank you. Aloha,

blueeyedboy

I don’t know what he means by this. Does he expect me to cut and run? All in all, I don’t think so. More likely he is toying with me, trying to put me off my guard. His orchid is on the back seat of my car, anchored between two boxes. Somehow I don’t want to leave it behind. It looks so inoffensive, with its clump of little flowers.

And then a thought occurs to me. It comes with the scent of the orchid. And it seems to clear, so beautiful, like a beacon in the smoke.

It has to end somewhere, don’t you see? I’ve followed him down this road too long, like the crippled child after the Pied Piper. He made me like this. I danced to his tune. My skin is a map covered with scars and the marks of what he has done to me. But now I can see him as he is, the boy who cried murder so many times that, finally, someone believed him . . .

I know his routine as well as my own. He’ll set off from home at four forty-five, pretending, as always, to go to work. I’m sure that’s when he’ll make his move. He won’t be able to resist the lure of the Pink Zebra, with its warm and welcoming light, and myself, alone and vulnerable, like a moth inside a lantern . . .

He’ll be driving his car, a blue Peugeot. He’ll drive down Mill Road and park at the corner of All Saints’ Church, where the snow has been cleared away. He’ll check the street — deserted now — and then he’ll walk up to the Zebra, keeping to the shadows around the side of the building. Inside, the radio is playing loudly enough to mask the sound of his entry. Not the classical station today, though I have no fear of music. That fear belonged to Emily. Now even the Symphonie fantastique has no power over me.