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.
The kitchen door will be on the latch. Easy enough to open it — glancing up at the neon sign as he does — the strobing words; PINK ZEBRA, with their phantom smell of gas.
You see? I know his weaknesses. I’m using his gift against him now, that gift he acquired from his brother, and when the real scent assails him, he will simply dismiss the illusion as he has so many times before — at least until he walks inside, and lets the door close after him.
I have made an adjustment to the door. The handle no longer turns from the inside. And the gas will have been on for hours. By five any spark could ignite it: a light switch, a lighter, a mobile phone.
I won’t be there to see it, of course. By then I will be long gone. But my mobile can access the Internet, and I have his number. Of course, he has to choose to go in. The victim selects his own fate. No one forces him inside; no one else is responsible.
Perhaps, when he’s gone, I’ll be free again. Free of these desires of his that mirror desires of mine. Where does the reflection go after the mirror is broken? What happens to the lightning after the storm is over? Real life makes so little sense; only fic has meaning. And I have been fictional for so long; a character in one of his stories. I wonder, do fictional characters ever rebel, and turn on their creators?
I only hope it’s not over too soon. I hope he has time to understand. Walking blind into the trap, I hope he has a moment or two to cry out, to struggle, to try to escape, to beat his fists against the door, and finally to think of me, the golem who turned on its master . . .
5
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy.
Posted at: 04.16 on Friday, February 22
Status: restricted
Mood: optimistic
Listening to: Supertramp: ‘Breakfast In America’
No sleep tonight. Too many dreams. Some people dream in Technicolor. Some only dream in film noir. But I dream in total-immersion: sound, scent, sensation. Some nights I awake half-drowned in sweat; others, I don’t sleep at all. Then, too, the Net is my solace; there’s always someone awake online. Chat rooms, fan sites, fic sites, porn. But tonight I’m lonesome for my f-list, my little squeaking chorus of mice. Tonight, what I need is to hear someone say: You’re the best, blueeyedboy.
And so here I am, back on badguysrock, watching perfidious Albertine. She has come so far — I’m proud of her — and yet she still feels the need to confess, like the good little Catholic girl of old. I’ve known her password for some time. It’s really quite easy to find out, you know. All it takes is a careless gesture: an account left signed in on a desktop while someone pours a cup of tea, and suddenly her private posts are open for that someone to read —
Are you checking your mail, Albertine? My inbox is crammed with messages: plaintive whimperings from Cap; tentative noises from Chryssie. From Toxic, some porn, snagged from a site called Bigjugs.com. From Clair, one of her memes; along with a dull and cretinous post about Angel Blue and his bitchy wife, about my mother’s mental health, and about the wonderful progress she thinks I made in my last public confession.
Then, there’s the usual junk mail, hate mail, spam: badly spelt letters from Nigeria promising to send me millions of pounds in return for my bank details; offers of Viagra; of sex; of intimate videos of teenage celebs. In short, all the flotsam the Net brings in, and this time I welcome even the spam, because this is my lifeline, this is my world, and to cut me off is to leave me to drown in air like a fish out of water.
At four o’clock, I hear Ma get up. She doesn’t sleep well either, these days. Sometimes she sits in the parlour watching satellite TV; sometimes she does housework, or goes for a walk around the block. She likes to be up when I leave for work. She wants to make me breakfast.
I select a clean shirt from my wardrobe — today it’s white, with a blue stripe — and dress myself with some care. I take pride in my appearance. It’s safer that way, I tell myself; especially when Ma’s watching. Of course, I don’t need to wear a shirt — my uniform at the hospital consists of a grubby navy-blue jumpsuit, engineer boots with steel-capped toes and a pair of heavy-duty gloves — but Ma doesn’t need to know that. Ma’s so proud of her blueeyedboy. And if Ma ever found out the truth —
‘B.B.! Is that you?’ she calls.
Who else would it be, Ma?
‘Hurry up! I made breakfast!’
I must be in her good books today. Bacon, eggs, cinnamon toast. I’m not really hungry, but this time I need to humour her. This time tomorrow I’ll be having breakfast in America.
She watches me as I fuel up. ‘There’s my boy. You’ll need your strength.’
There’s something vaguely disquieting about her mood this morning. To start with, she is fully dressed: discarding her usual dressing gown for a tweed skirt-suit and her crocodile shoes. She’s wearing her favourite perfume — L’Heure Bleue, all powdery orange blossom and clove, with that trembling silvery top note that overpowers everything. Most curious of all, she is — what can I say? I can’t quite call it happy. In Ma’s case, you could count those fleeting moments on the fingers of a one-armed man. But there’s a cheeriness in her manner today; something I haven’t seen since Ben died. Quite ironic, really. Still, it’ll soon be over.