Nasty is my mother’s word for those things over which she has no control. My photographs. My orchids. My fic. In fact, I rather like Bethan’s tattoos, which help to hide the silvery scars that she has had since adolescence, and which criss-cross her arms like spiders’ webs. Is that what Nigel saw in her? That passion for stars that echoed his own? That furtive, perpetual sense of distress?
In spite of her garish appearance, Bethan hates to be stared at. Perhaps that’s why she hides herself beneath so many layers of deception. Tattoos, piercings, identities. As a child, she was docile and shy; mousy; almost invisible. Well, that’s Catholicism for you, I suppose. A perpetual war between repression and excess. No wonder Nigel fell for her. She was that rare individuaclass="underline" someone more damaged than he was.
‘Stop staring at me, Brendan,’ she said.
I wish she wouldn’t call me that. Brendan has a sour smell, like something damp in the cellar. It makes my mouth go fuzzy-felt dry, and its colour is — well, you know what it is. Bethan is no better, with its snuffy scent of church incense. I preferred her as Albertine; colourless, immaculate —
Clair intervened. ‘Now, Bethan, please. You know what we said. I’m sure Bren didn’t mean to stare.’ She gave me one of her syrupy looks. ‘And seeing as you’re here, Bren, why don’t we start with you today? I hear you’ve been going out more. That’s good.’
I gave a shrug.
‘Where have you been going, Bren?’
‘Around. You know. Out. Town.’
She gave a wide, approving smile. ‘That’s really great to hear,’ she said. ‘And I’m so glad you’re writing again. Is there anything you’d like to read for us today?’
I shrugged again.
‘Now, don’t be shy. You know we’re here to help you.’ She turned towards the rest of the group. ‘Everyone, would you please show Bren how special he is to all of us? How much we want to help him?’
Oh no. Not the fucking group hug. Anything but that. Please.
‘I do have a little something—’ I said, more to divert their attention than because of any need to confess.
Clair’s eyes were fixed upon me now, hungry and expectant. It’s the look she gets on her face sometimes when she’s telling us about Angel Blue. And I do look rather like him, of course — that, at least, was not a lie — which means, thanks to the halo effect, that Clair has a soft spot for me, and a tendency to believe what I say.
‘Really? Can we hear it?’ she said.
I looked across at Bethan once more. I used to think she hated me, and yet, perhaps she’s the only one who really understands what it is to live every moment with the dead, to speak with the dead, to sleep with the dead —
‘We’d love to hear it, Bren,’ said Clair.
‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’ I said, still directing my gaze towards Bethan. She was watching intently, her blue eyes narrowed like gas flames.
‘Of course,’ said Clair. ‘Don’t we, everyone?’
Nods all around the circle. I noticed that Bethan stayed perfectly still.
‘It may be a little — edgy,’ I said. ‘Another murder, I’m afraid.’ I smiled at Clair’s expression and at the way the others leaned forward, just like pugs at feeding time. ‘Sorry about that, guys,’ I said. ‘You’re going to think that’s all I do.’
6
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy , posting on:
Posted at: 22.31 on Tuesday, February 19
Status: public
Mood: clean
Listening to: The Four Seasons: ‘Bye Bye Baby’
He calls her Mrs Baby Blue. She thinks she is an artist. Certainly, she looks like one: her dirt-blonde hair is artistically tousled; she wears paint-spattered jumpsuits and long strings of beads and likes to burn scented candles, which help the creative process, she says (plus they get rid of the smell of paint).
Not that she has accomplished much. No, all her creative passion has gone into raising her daughter. A child is like a work of art, and this one is perfect, she tells herself; perfect and talented and good —
He has been watching her from afar. He thinks how beautiful she is, with her neat little bob and her blanched-almond skin and her little red coat with the pointed hood. She looks nothing like her mother. Everything about her is self-contained. Even her name is beautiful. A name that smells of roses.
Her mother, on the other hand, is everything he most dislikes. Inconstant; pretentious; a parasite, feeding off her daughter, living through her, stealing her life with her expectations —
Blueeyedboy despises her. He thinks of all the harm she has done — to him, to both of them — and he wonders: Would anyone really care?
All things considered, he thinks maybe not. The world would be cleaner without her.
Cleaner. What a wonderful word. In blue, it maps out what he does, what he is and what he will achieve, in one. Cleaner.
The perfect crime comes in four stages. Stage One is obvious. Stage Two takes time. Stage Three is a little harder, but by now he is getting used to it. Five murders, counting Diesel Blue, and he wonders if he can call himself a serial killer yet, or if he first needs to refine his style.
Style is important to blueeyedboy. He wants to feel there’s a poetry, a greater purpose in what he does. He would like to do something intricate: a dissection; a beheading; something dramatic, eccentric and strange. Something that will make them shiver; something that will set him apart from the rest. Most importantly, he would like to watch; to see the expression in her eyes; to have her know at last who he is —
He knows from his observation that when she is alone in the house, Mrs Baby Blue likes to take long baths. She stays in the bath for an hour at least, reading magazines — he has seen the telltale watermarks in the bundles of papers she puts out for recycling. He has seen the flicker of candles against the frosted window glass and caught the scent of her bath oil as the water rushes into the drain. Baby Blue bathtime is sacrosanct. She never answers the telephone; never even answers the door. He knows this. He has tried it. She doesn’t even lock herself in —
He waits in the garden. He watches the house. Waits for the glow of candles and the sound of water in the pipes. Waits for Mrs Baby Blue; and then, very quietly, lets himself in.
The house has been redecorated. There are new paintings on the walls — abstracts for the most part — a scarlet and brown Axminster carpet in the hall.
Axminster. Ax. Minster. A red word. What does it mean? Axe-murderer. Axe. Minster. Murder in the Cathedral. The thought distracts him for a moment, makes him feel dizzy and remote, brings that taste into his mouth again, that fruity, rotting sweetness that heralds the worst of his headaches. He concentrates on the colour blue; its soothing properties, its calm. Blue is the blanket he reaches for whenever he feels alone or afraid; he closes his eyes, clenches his fists and thinks to himself —
It’s not my fault.
When he opens them, the taste and the headache are both gone. He looks around the silent house. The layout is as he remembers it; there’s the same lurking scent of turpentine; and those china dollies, not thrown away, but under glass in the parlour, all starey-eyed and sinister among their faded ringlets and lace.