Джоан Харрис: Blueeyedboy

She has no time to understand. I never really intended her to. Gloria Green is no wasp in a jar, to be caught and disposed of at leisure. Nor is she a seaside crab, left to die in the simmering sun. Her passing is instantaneous, and the hot draught sweeps her away like a moth — Pfff! — into oblivion, so that nothing, not even a finger, remains for blueeyedboy to identify, not even a measure of dust large enough to rattle inside a china dog.

From my room I can almost hear the dull cr-crumpf of the explosion, and it’s like crunching a stick of Blackpool rock, all sharp edges and toothache, and although there’s no way I can know for sure, I am suddenly certain, in a surge of wonder and indescribable relief, that I’ve done it at last. I’m free of her. I’m finally rid of my mother —

Don’t tell me you’re surprised, Albertine . Didn’t I tell you I knew how to wait? Did you believe, after all this time, that this could have been an accident ? And did you really believe, Ma, that I didn’t know you were watching me, that I hadn’t clocked you from the first time you logged on to badguysrock ?

She appeared on the scene some months ago in response to one of my public posts. Ma isn’t what you’d call computer-literate; but she accessed the Net through her mobile phone. After that, it can’t have been long before someone, somewhere, steered her towards badguysrock . My guess is Maureen, via Clair; or maybe even Eleanor. In any case, I’d expected it; and I’d expected to pay for it, too, though I knew she would never make any direct reference to my online activities. Ma can be strangely prudish at times, and some things are never mentioned. All your nasty stuff upstairs is about the closest we ever got to discussing the porn, or the photographs, or the fics that were posted on my site.

I have to admit I enjoyed the game: playing with fire; taking risks; taunting her to reveal herself. Sometimes I went a little too far. Sometimes I got my fingers burnt. But I had to know the boundaries; to see how hard I could push them both; to calculate the precise amount of pressure I could exert over the mechanism before it began to break down. An artist needs to understand the medium in which he works. After that, it was easy.

Don’t feel guilty, Albertine . You had no way of knowing. Besides, in the end she’d have gone after you, just as she did with those others. Call it self-defence, if you like. Or maybe an act of redemption. Anyway, it’s over now. You’re free. Goodbye, and thank you. If you’re ever in Hawaii, call. And please, look after my orchid.

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Posted at: 05.17 on Friday, February 22

Status: restricted

Mood: sick

Listening to: Voltaire : ‘Snakes’

At last. The door pulls away from the hinge. I’m free to leave. I pick up my bag. But the ache in my guts has worsened; it feels like a piece of bramble scoring my stomach lining. I go to the bathroom; I wash my face; I drink a glass of water.

God, it hurts. What’s happening? I’m sweating. I look terrible. In the mirror I look like a corpse: deep shadows around my eyes; mouth bracketed with nausea. What the hell is wrong with me? I felt so good at breakfast.

Breakfast . Ah. I should have known. Too late, I remember the look on her face; that look of almost-happiness. She wanted to make me breakfast today. Cooked me all my favourites. Stood over me while I ate it. The vitamin drink tasted different — and she said she’d changed the recipe.

For God’s sake, it was obvious. How could I have missed what was happening? Ma up to her old tricks again — how could I have been so careless ?

And now it feels like shards of glass are grinding away at my insides. I try to stand up, but the pain is too bad; it doubles me up like a penknife. I check the status of my f-list. There has to be someone awake by now. Someone who can help me.

A message through WeJay should bring help. Ma has taken my mobile phone. I type out my SOS and wait. Is there nobody online?

Captainbunnykiller is feeling OK .

Yeah, right. The fucktard. Too scared to leave his house now in case he runs into the boys from the estate. In passing, I notice that kidcobalt has been removed from Cap’s f-list. Oh, well. Colour me surprised.

ClairDeLune is feeling rejected . Well, yes, probably. Angel has finally had enough, and has written to her personally. His tone, which is cool and professional, leaves Clair with no illusions. Rejection hurts at any age; but to Clair the humiliation is even more of a blow. sapphiregirl is gone from her f-list. So, I see, is blueeyedboy .

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 —