Blueeyedboy Page 2

  But bad guys come in a million flavours. Bad guys lie; bad guys cheat; bad guys make the heart beat faster — or sometimes come to a sudden stop. Which is why I created badguysrock: originally a WeJay community devoted to villains throughout the fictional universe; now a forum for bad guys to celebrate beyond the reach of the ethics police; to glory in their crimes; to strut; to wear their villainy with pride.

  Membership is open right now; the price of admission a single post — be it a fic, an essay or just a drabble. Though if there’s something you’d like to confess, this is just the place for it: no names, no rules, no colours — but one.

  No, not black, as you might expect. Black is far too limiting. Black presupposes a lack of depth. But blue is creative, melancholy. Blue is the music of the soul. And blue is the colour of our clan, embracing all shades of villainy, all flavours of unholy desire.

  So far, it’s a small clan, with less than a dozen regulars.

  First comes Captainbunnykiller: Andy Scott of New York. Cap’s blog is a mixture of jackass humour, pornographic fantasy and furious invective — against niggers, queers, fucktards, the fat, Christians and, most recently, the French — but I doubt he’s ever killed anything.

  Next comes chrysalisbaby. Aka Chryssie Bateman, of California. This one’s a typical Body Freak — has been on a diet since she was twelve, and now weighs over three hundred pounds. Has a history of falling for vicious men. Never learns. Never will.

  After that there’s ClairDeLune; Clair Mitchell, to her friends. This one’s a local; she teaches a course on creative self-expression at Malbry College (which explains her slightly superior tone and her addiction to literary psychobabble) and runs an online writers’ group as well as a sizeable fansite devoted to a certain middle-aged character actor — let us call him Angel Blue — with whom she is infatuated. Angel is an irregular choice, an actor specializing in louche individuals, damaged types, serial killers, and other assorted bad-guy roles. Not A-list, but you’d know his face. She often posts pictures of him on here. Curiously enough, he looks something like me.

  Then there’s Toxic69, aka Stuart Dawson, of Leeds. Left crippled in a motorbike crash, he spends his angry life online, where no one needs to pity him; and Purepwnage9, of Fife, who lives for Warcraft and Second Life, oblivious of the fact that his own life is surely but swiftly slipping away; plus any number of lurkers and irregulars — JennyTricks; BombNumber20, Jesusismycopilot, and so on, who exhibit a diverting range of responses to our various entries, from admiration to outrage; from cheeriness to profanity.

  And then, of course, there’s Albertine. Definitely not like the rest, there’s a confessional tone to her entries that I find more than a little promising, a hint of danger, a dark undertone, a style perhaps more akin to my own. And she lives right here in the Village, no more than a dozen streets away —

  Coincidence?

  Not quite. Of course, I have been watching her. Especially so since my brother’s death. Not with malice, but with curiosity, even a measure of envy. She seems so self-possessed. So calm. So safely cocooned in her little world, so unaware of what’s happening. Her online posts are so intimate, so naked and so oddly naïve that you’d never believe she was one of us, a bad guy among bad guys. Her fingers on the piano keys danced like little dervishes. I remember that, and her gentle voice, and her name, which smelt of roses.

  The poet Rilke was killed by a rose. How very Sturm und Drang of him. A scratch with a thorn that got infected; a poison gift that keeps on giving. Personally, I don’t see the appeal. I feel more kinship with the orchid tribe: subversives of the plant world, clinging to life wherever they can, subtle and insidious. Roses are so commonplace, with their whorls of sickening bubblegum pink; their scheming scent; their unwholesome leaves, their sly little thorns that poke at the heart —

  O rose, thou art sick —

  Still, aren’t we all?

  4

  You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy.

  Posted at: 23.30 on Monday, January 28

  Status: restricted

  Mood: contemplative

  Listening to: Radiohead: ‘Creep’

  Call me B.B. Everyone does. No one but the police and the bank ever use my real name. I’m forty-two and five foot eight; I have mousy hair, blue eyes and I’ve lived here in Malbry all my life.

  Malbry — pronounced Maw-bry. Even the word smells of shit. But I am unusually sensitive to words, to their sounds and resonances. That’s why I don’t have an accent now, and have lost my childhood stammer. The predominant trend here in Malbry is for exaggerated vowels and clumsy glottals, coating every word in a grimy sheen. You can hear them on the estate all the time: teenage girls with scraped-back hair, shouting hiyaaa in shades of synthetic strawberry. The boys are less articulate, mouthing freak and loser at me as I pass, in half-broken voices that yodel and boom in notes of lager and locker-room sweat. Most of the time I don’t hear them. My life has a permanent soundtrack, provided by my iPod, into which I have downloaded more than twenty thousand tracks and forty-two playlists, one for every year of my life, each with a specific theme —

  Freak. They say it because they think it hurts. In their world, to be labelled a freak is obviously the worst kind of fate. To me, it’s just the opposite. The worst thing is surely to be like them: to have married too young; to have gone on the dole; to have learnt to drink beer and smoke cheap cigarettes; to have had kids doomed to be just like themselves, because if these people are good at anything, it’s reproduction — they don’t live long, but, by God, they populate — and if not wanting any of that has made me into a freak in their eyes —

  In truth, I’m very ordinary. My eyes are my best feature, I’m told, though not everyone appreciates their chilly shade. For the rest, you’d hardly notice me. I’m nicely inconspicuous. I don’t talk much, and when I do, it’s only when strictly necessary. That’s the way to survive in this place; to keep my privacy intact. Because Malbry is one of those places where secrets and gossips and rumours abound, and I have to take exceptional care to avoid the wrong kind of exposure.

  It’s not that the place is so terrible. The old Village is actually very nice, with its crooked York stone cottages and its church and its single row of little shops. There’s rarely any trouble here; except perhaps on Saturday nights, when the kids hang around outside the church while their parents go to the pub down the road, and buy chips from the Chinese takeaway and push the wrappers into the hedge.

  To the west, there’s what Ma calls Millionaires’ Row: an avenue of big stone houses shielded from the road by trees. Tall chimneys; four-by-fours; gates that work by remote control. Beyond that there’s St Oswald’s, the grammar school, with its twelve-foot wall and heraldic gate. To the east, the brick terraces of Red City, where my mother was born, then to the west, White City, all privet and pebble-dash. It’s not as genteel as the Village, though I’ve learnt to avoid the danger zones. This is where you’ll find our house, at the edge of the big estate. A square of grass; a flowerbed; a hedge to keep out the neighbours. This is the house where I was born; hardly anything has changed.

  I do have a few extra privileges. I drive a blue Peugeot 307, registered in my mother’s name. I have a study lined with books, an iPod dock, a computer and a wall of CDs. I have a collection of orchids, most of them just hybrids, but with one or two rare Zygopetala, whose names bear the scent of the South American rainforests from which they were sourced, and whose colours are astonishing: violent shades of priapic green, and mottled, acidic butterfly-blue that no chart could possibly duplicate. I have a darkroom in the basement, where I develop my photographs. I don’t display them here, of course. But I like to think I have a gift.

  At 5 a.m. on weekdays I clock in at Malbry Infirmary — or I did, until very recently — wearing a suit and a blue striped shirt and carrying a briefcase. My mother is very proud of this, of the fact that her son wears a suit to work. What I actually do at work is a matter of far less importance to
her. I am single, straight, well-spoken, and, if this were a TV drama of the type favoured by ClairDeLune, my blameless lifestyle and unsullied reputation would probably make me a prime suspect.

  In the real world, however, only the kids notice me. To them, any man who still lives with his mother is either a paedo or a queer. But even this assumption comes more from habit than real belief. If they thought I was dangerous, they would behave very differently. Even when that schoolboy was killed, a St Oswald’s boy, so close to home, no one thought me remotely worthy of investigation.

  Predictably, I was curious. A murder is always intriguing. Besides, I was already learning my craft, and I knew I could use any information, any hints that came my way. I’ve always appreciated a nice, neat murder. Not that many qualify. Most murderers are predictable, most murders messy and banal. It’s almost a crime in itself, don’t you think, that the splendid act of taking a life should have become so commonplace, so wholly devoid of artistry?

  In fiction, there is no such thing as the perfect crime. In movies, the bad guy — who is invariably brilliant and charismatic — always makes a fatal mistake. He overlooks the minutiae. He succumbs to vainglory; loses his nerve; falls victim to some ironic flaw. However dark the frosting, in film, the vanilla centre always shows through; with a happy ending for all who deserve it, and imprisonment, a shot through the heart, or better still, a dramatically pleasing — though statistically improbable — drop from a high building for the bad guy, thereby removing the burden to the State, and leaving the hero free of the guilt of having to shoot the bastard himself.

  Well, I happen to know that isn’t true, just as I know that most murderers are neither brilliant nor charismatic, but often subnormal and rather dull, and that the police force is so buried under its paperwork that the simplest murders can slip through the net — the stabbings, the shootings, the fist-fights gone wrong, crimes in which the perpetrator, if he has left the scene at all, can often be found in the nearest pub.

  Call me romantic, if you like. But I do believe in the perfect crime. Like true love, it’s just a matter of timing and patience; of keeping the faith; of not losing hope; of carping the diem, of seizing the day —

  That’s how my interests led me here, to my lonesome refuge on badguysrock. Harmless interests, to begin with at least, though soon I grew to appreciate the other possibilities. And at the beginning it was just curiosity: a means of observing others unseen; of exploring a world beyond my own, that narrow triangle between Malbry town, the Village and Nether Edge moors, beyond which I have never dared to aspire. The Internet, with its million maps, was as alien to me as Jupiter — and yet, one day, I was simply there, almost by chance, a cast-away, watching the changing scenery with the slowly dawning awareness that this was where I truly belonged; that this would be my great escape, from Malbry, my life, and my mother.

  My mother. How it resonates. Mother is a difficult word; so dense with complex associations that I can barely see it at all. Sometimes its colour is Virgin-blue, like the statues of Mary; or grey like the dust-bunnies under the bed where I used to hide away as a child; or green like the baize of the market stalls; and it smells of uncertainty and loss, and of black bananas gone to mush, and of salt, and of blood, and of memory —

  My mother. Gloria Winter. She’s the reason I’m still here: stuck in Malbry all these years, like a plant too pot-bound ever to thrive. I have stayed with her. Like everything else. Apart from the neighbours, nothing has changed. The three-bedroomed house; the Axminster; the queasy flowered wallpaper; the gilt-edged mirror in the kitchen that hides a hole in the plaster; the faded print of the Chinese Girl; the lacquer vase on the mantel; the dogs.

  Those dogs. Those hideous china dogs.

  An affectation to start with, that since has got totally out of hand. There are dogs on every surface now: spaniels, Alsatians, chihuahuas, basset hounds, Yorkshire terriers (her favourites). There are musical dogs, portraits of dogs, dogs dressed up as people; dogs eager-tongued and lolloping, sitting to attention, paws lifted in silent appeal, heads topped with little pink bows.

  I broke one once, when I was a boy, and she beat me — though I denied the crime — with a piece of electrical cord. Even now, I still hate those dogs. She knows it, too — but they are her babies, she explains (with a terrible, girlish coyness), and besides, she tells me, she never complains about all my nasty stuff upstairs.

  Not that she even knows what I do. I have my privacy: rooms of my own, all of them with locks on the doors, from which she is excluded. The converted loft and study room, the bathroom, the bedroom; and the darkroom in the cellar. I’ve made a home for myself here, with my books, my playlists, my online friends, while she spends her days in the parlour, smoking, doing crosswords, dusting and watching daytime TV —

  Parlour. I always hated that word, with all its fake middle-class resonances, and its stink of citrus potpourri. Now I hate it even more, with her faded chintz and her china dogs and her reek of desperation. Of course, I couldn’t leave her. She knew that from the very first; knew that her decision to stay kept me here, chained to her, a prisoner, a slave. And I am a dutiful son to her. I make sure her garden is always neat. I see to her medication. I drive her to her salsa class (Ma drives, but prefers to be driven). And sometimes, when she’s not there, I dream . . .

  My mother is a peculiar blend of conflicts and contradictions. Marlboros have ruined her sense of smell, but she always wears Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue. She despises novels, but loves to read dictionaries and encyclopaedias. She buys ready meals from Marks & Spencer, but fruit and veg from the market in town — and always the cheapest fruit and veg, bruised and damaged and past their prime.

  Twice a week, without fail (even the week of Nigel’s death), she puts on a dress and her high-heeled shoes and I drive her to her salsa class at Malbry College, after which she meets up with her friends in town, and has a cup of fancy tea, or maybe a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and speaks to them in her half-bred voice about me and my job at the hospital, where I am indispensable (according to her) and save lives on a daily basis. Then at eight I pick her up, although it’s only a five-minute walk from the bus stop. Those hoodies from the estates, she says. They’d stab you soon as look at you.

  Maybe she’s right to be cautious. The members of our family seem unusually prone to accidents. Still, I pity the hoodie who tries to mess with my mother. She knows how to look after herself. Even now, at sixty-nine, she’s sharp enough to draw blood. What’s more, she knows how to strike back at anyone who threatens us. She is a little more subtle, perhaps, than in the days of the electrical cord, but even so, it isn’t wise to antagonize Gloria Winter. I learnt that lesson very young. In that, if nothing else, I was a precocious pupil. Not as smart as Emily White, the little blind girl whose story has coloured so much of my life, but smart enough to have survived when neither of my brothers did.

  Still, isn’t that all over now? Emily White is long dead; her plaintive voice silenced, her letters burnt, the blurry flashgun photographs curled away in secret drawers and on bookshelves in the Mansion. And even if she were not, somehow, the Press have almost forgotten her. There are other things to squawk about; newer scandals over which to obsess. The disappearance of one little girl, over twenty years ago, is no longer cause for public concern. Folk have moved on. Forgotten her. Time for me to do the same.

  The problem is this. Nothing ends. If ever Ma taught me anything, it is that nothing is ever truly over. It just works its way slyly into the centre, like yarn in a ball. Round and round and round it goes, crossing and re-crossing, until eventually it is almost hidden beneath the tangle of years. But just to be hidden is not enough. Someone will always find you out. Someone is always lying in wait. Drop your guard for even a second and — wham! That’s when it all blows up in your face.

  Take that girl in the duffel coat. The one who looks like Red Riding Hood, with her rosy cheeks and her blameless air. Would you believe that she is not what she seems? Th
at beneath that cloak of innocence beats the heart of a predator? Looking at her, would you ever think that she could take a person’s life?

  You wouldn’t, would you? Well, think again.

  But nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ve thought this out too carefully. And when it does go up — as we know it must — blueeyedboy will be half a world away, sitting in the shade by a beach, listening to the sound of the surf and watching the seagulls overhead —

  Still, that’s for tomorrow, isn’t it? Right now I have other things on my mind. Time for another fic, I think. I like myself better as a fictional character. The third-person voice adds distance, says Clair; gives me the power to say what I like. And it’s nice to have an audience. Even a murderer loves praise. Maybe that’s why I write these things. It certainly isn’t a need to confess. But I do admit to a leap of the heart every time someone posts a comment, even someone like Chryssie or Cap, who wouldn’t know genius if it poked them in the eye.

  I sometimes feel like a king of cats, presiding over an army of mice — half-predatory, half in need of those worshipful voices. It’s all about approval, you see, and when I log on in the morning and see the list of messages waiting for me I feel absurdly comforted —

  Losers, victims, parasites — and yet I can’t stop myself from collecting them, as I do my orchids; as I once collected scuttling things in my blue bucket on the beach; as I was once collected.

  Yes, it’s time for another murder. A public post on my WeJay, to balance these private reflections of mine. Better still, a murderer. Because, although I say he —

  You and I know this is all about me.

  5

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