‘It wasn’t my fault,’ blueeyedboy says. ‘I didn’t know they were going to die.’
‘Everything dies, ‘Gloria snaps, and now his eyes are swollen with tears and he looks as if he is going to faint.
A part of her wants to comfort him, but knows that this is a dangerous indulgence. To give him attention at this stage is to encourage him in his weakness. Her sons all need to be strong, she thinks. How else will they take care of her?
‘Now get rid of that mess,’ she tells him, with a nod in the direction of the blue bucket. ‘Go put it back in the sea, or something.’
He shakes his head. ‘I d-don’t want to. It smells.’
‘You’d better. Or God help me, you’ll pay.’
Blueeyedboy looks at the bucket. Five hours in the sun have brought about a rapid fermentation in the contents. The fishy, salt-water vegetable smell has turned to a suffocating reek. It makes him gag. He begins to whimper helplessly.
‘Please, Ma—-’
‘Don’t give me that!’
At last, now, his brother is crying. A high, fretful, icy wail. Gloria turns on her hapless son. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she says. ‘As if I didn’t have enough to deal with already.’
She shoots out a hand to slap his face. She’s wearing cork-soled sandals. As she snakes forward to hit him again, she kicks over the blue bucket, spilling the contents over her foot.
To Gloria, this is the final straw. She dumps Benjamin on to the ground and grabs hold of blueeyedboy with both hands, the better to take care of business. He tries to escape, but Ma is too strong; Ma is all wire and cables, and she digs her fingers into his hair and forces him down inch by inch, pushing his face into the sand and into that terrible, yeasty mess of dead fish and fake coconut, and there’s ice cream melting over his wrist and dripping on to the brown sand, but he dare not let go of his ice cream, because if he does, she’ll kill him for sure, just as he killed those things on the beach, the crabs, the shrimp, the snail, and the baby flatfish with its mouth pulled down in a crescent, and he tries very hard not to breathe, but there’s sand in his mouth, and sand in his eyes, and he’s crying and puking and Ma screams: ‘Swallow it, you little shit, just like you swallowed your brother!’
Then, suddenly, it’s over. She stops. She wonders what has happened to her. Kids can drive you crazy, she knows, but what on earth was she thinking of?
‘Get up,’ she says to blueeyedboy.
He pushes himself up from the ground, still holding his melted ice-cream cone. His face is smeared with sand and muck. His nose is bleeding a little. He wipes it with his free hand; stares up at Ma with brimming eyes. She says: ‘Don’t be a baby. No one got killed. Now finish your fucking ice cream.’
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Albertine: (post deleted).
blueeyedboy: I know. Most of the time, words fail me, too . . .
2
You are viewing the webjournal of Albertine.
Posted at: 01.45 on Friday, February 22
Status: restricted
Mood: uncertain
At last, a version of the truth. Why bother, at this stage in the game? He must know it’s too late to go back. Both of us have shown our hand. Is he trying to provoke me again? Or is this a plea for compassion?
For the last two days both of us have stayed indoors, suffering from the same imaginary bout of flu. Clair tells me by e-mail that Brendan hasn’t been to work. The Zebra, too, has been closed for two days. I didn’t want him coming here. Not before I was ready.
Tonight I came back for the last time. I couldn’t sleep in my own bed. My house is too exposed. So easy to start a fire there; to set up a gas leak; an accident. He wouldn’t even have to watch. The Zebra is more difficult, built as it is on the main road. Security cameras on the roof. Not that it matters any more. My car is loaded. My things are packed. I could set off immediately.
You thought I’d stay and fight him? I’m afraid I’m not a fighter. I’ve spent all my life running away, and it’s far too late to change that now. But it’s strange, to be leaving the Zebra. Strange and sad, after all this time. I’ll miss it; more than that, I’ll miss the person I was when I worked there. Even Nigel only half-understood the purpose of that persona; he thought the real Bethan was someone else.
The real Bethan? Don’t make me laugh. Inside the nest of Russian dolls, there’s nothing but painted faces. Still, it was a good place. A safe place, while it lasted. I park the car by the side of the church and walk along the deserted street. Most of the houses are dark now, like flowers closing for the night. But the neon sign of the Zebra shines out, spilling its petals of light on the snow; and it feels so good to be coming home, even for a little while —
There was a present waiting for me. An orchid in a pot, with a card that reads: To Albertine. He grows them himself; he told me so. Somehow that seems very like him.
I go inside. I log on at once. Sure enough, he’s still online.
I hope you like the orchid, he writes.
I wasn’t going to answer him. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do that. But what harm could it do now, after all?
It’s beautiful, I type. It’s true. The flower is green and purple-throated, like a toxic species of bird. And the scent is like that of a hyacinth, but sweeter and more powdery.
Now he knows I’m here, of course. I expect that’s why he sent the orchid. But I know he can’t leave until his usual time of a quarter to five, not without alerting his Ma. Leave now, and she would ask questions, and blueeyedboy would do anything to avoid making Ma suspicious. That keeps me safe till four thirty at least. I can indulge myself awhile.
It’s a Zygopetalum ‘Brilliant Blue’. One of the fragrant varieties. Try not to kill it, won’t you? Oh, and what did you think of my fic, by the way?
I think you’re twisted, I type back.
He answers with an emoticon, a little yellow smiley face.
Why do you tell these stories? I ask.
Because I want you to understand. His voice is very clear in my mind, as clear as if he were in the room. There’s no going back from murder, Beth.
You should know, I rattle back.
That emoticon again. I suppose I ought to feel flattered, he says. But you know that’s only fiction. I could never have done those things, any more than I could have thrown that rock — my wrist still hurts, by the way. I guess I’m lucky it wasn’t my head —
What is he trying to make me believe? That it’s all coincidence? Eleanor, Dr Peacock, Nigel — all his enemies wiped from the board by nothing but a lucky chance?
Well, no, not quite, he answers. Someone was working on my behalf.
Who?
For a long time he does not reply. There’s nothing there but the little blue square of the cursor blinking patiently in the message box. I wonder if his connection has failed. I wonder if I should log on again. Then, just as I am preparing to sign out, a message arrives in my inbox.
You really don’t know who I mean?
I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Another of those silences. Then comes an automated message from the server — Someone has posted on badguysrock! — and a note which simply says: