Джоан Харрис: Blueeyedboy

‘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? ’