But now her only surviving son owes her a debt that cannot be repaid. He can never leave her now. He can never belong to anyone else. And if he ever tries to run —
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blueeyedboy: Comments, anyone? Anyone here?
8
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Posted at: 04.47 on Friday, February 22
Status: public
Mood: devious
Listening to: My Chemical Romance: ‘Mama’
She ought to have seen it coming, of course. She ought to have known he would end up this way. But Gloria is no expert on child development. To her, developing is something he does in his darkroom, alone. She doesn’t like to think of it much. It’s like the nasty old Blue Book, she thinks, or the games he likes to play online with those invisible friends of his. She has looked into it once or twice, with the same faint dutiful distaste as when she used to wash his sheets, but only for his protection; because other people don’t understand that blueeyedboy is sensitive; that he is simply incapable of ever standing up for himself —
The thought makes her eyes mist over a little. For all her steely hard-headedness, Gloria can be strangely sentimental at times, and even in her anger, the thought of his helplessness touches her. It’s always been at these moments, she thinks, that she loves him best of alclass="underline" when he’s sick, or in tears, or in pain; when everyone else is against him; when there’s no one to love him but her; when all the world thinks he’s guilty.
Of course, she knows he’s innocent. Well, of murder, anyway. What else he may be guilty of — what crimes of the imagination — is between blueeyedboy and his Ma, who has spent her whole life protecting him, even at her own cost. But that’s her son all over, she thinks: sitting in the nest she has built, like a fat and flightless cuckoo chick with his beak perpetually open.
No, he wasn’t her favourite. But he was always the luckiest of her three unlucky boys: a natural survivor in spite of his gift; a chip, she thinks, off the old block.
And a mother owes it to her son to protect him, no matter what. Sometimes he needs to be punished, she knows; but that’s between blueeyedboy and his Ma. No stranger raises a hand to him. No one — not his school, not the law — has the right to interfere. Hasn’t she always defended him? From bullies and thugs and predators?
Take Tricia Goldblum, the bitch who seduced her elder son — and caused the death of her youngest. It was a pleasure to take care of her. Easy, too: electrical fires are always so reliable.
Then Mrs White’s hippie friend, who thought she was better than they were. And Catherine White herself, of course, so easy to destabilize. And Jeff Jones from the estate, the man who fostered that Irish girl, and who some years later, in the pub, dared to raise a hand to her son. Then there was Eleanor Vine, the sneak, spying on Bren at the Mansion, and Graham Peacock, who cheated them, and for whom the boy had feelings —
He was the most rewarding of all. Tipped over in his wheelchair and left to die alone on the path, like a tortoise half-out of its shell. Afterwards, she went upstairs and relieved him of his T’ang figurine, the one with which he taunted her all those years ago, and which she carefully placed in her cabinet along with the rest of her china dogs. It isn’t stealing, she tells herself. The old man owed her something, after all, for all the trouble he has caused her son.
But in spite of everything she has done for him, what gratitude has blueeyedboy shown? Instead of supporting his mother, he has dared to transfer his affections to that Irish girl from the village, and worse, has tried to make her believe that she could have been his protector —
She’ll make him pay for that, she thinks. But first, to take care of business.
Now, from upstairs, she hears his voice, accompanied by a banging and slapping at the bedroom door. ‘Ma! Please! Open the door!’
‘Don’t be such a baby,’ she says. ‘When I get back, then we can talk.’
‘Ma, please!’
‘Don’t make me come in—’
The sounds from the bedroom cease abruptly.
‘That’s better,’ says Gloria. ‘We’ve got a lot to talk about. Like your job at the hospital. And the way you’ve been lying to me. And what you’ve been up to with that girl. That Irish girl with all the tattoos.’
Behind the door, he stiffens. He can feel every hair stiffening. He knows what’s in the balance here, and in spite of himself he is afraid. Of course he is. Who wouldn’t be? He is caught inside the bottle trap, and the worst of it is, he needs to be caught; he needs this feeling of helplessness. But she’s there on the other side of the door like a trap-door spider poised to bite, and if any part of his plan goes wrong, if he has failed to compensate for any one of those minute variables, then —
If. If.
An ominous sound, tinged with the grey-green scent of trees and the dust that accumulates under his bed. It’s safe under the bed, he thinks; safe and dark and scentless. He listens as she puts on her boots, fumbles with the front-door key; locks the door behind her. The crump of her footsteps in the snow. The sound of the car door opening.
She takes the car, as he knew she would. His begging her not to do so now ensures her cooperation. He closes his eyes. She starts the car. The engine ratchets into life. It would be so ironic, he thinks, if she had an accident. It wouldn’t be his fault if she did. And then, at last, he would be free —
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blueeyedboy: Still no one here? Right, then. I guess that leaves me all on my own for Stage 4 . . .
9
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Posted at: 04.56 on Friday, February 22
Status: public
Mood: cautious
Listening to: The Rubettes: ‘Sugar Baby Love’
I think you must have guessed by now that this is not an ordinary fic. My other fics are all accounts of things that have already happened — though whether they happened quite as I said is up to you to determine. But this little story is more in the way of being a work-in-progress. An ongoing project, if you like. A breakthrough in concept, as Clair might say. And like all conceptual work, it isn’t entirely without risk. In fact, I’m more or less convinced that it’s all about to end in tears.
Five minutes to drive to the Zebra. Five more to see to business. And after that — Whoops! All gone! — here comes the explosive finale.