Bethan — the manager — glares at me. Perhaps it’s my choice of beverage, or the fact that I’m wearing a suit and tie and therefore qualify as The Man — or maybe today it’s just my face — the ladder of suture-strips across one cheekbone, the cuts bisecting eyebrow and lip.
I can tell what she’s thinking. I shouldn’t be here. She’s thinking I look like trouble, though it’s nothing she can quantify. I’m clean, I’m quiet, I always tip. And yet there’s something about me that unsettles her; that makes her think I don’t belong.
‘Earl Grey, please — no lemon, no milk.’
‘Be with you in five minutes, OK?’
Bethan knows all her customers. The regulars all have nicknames, much the same as my friends online, like Chocolate Girl, Vegan Guy, Saxophone Man and so on. I, however, am just OK. I can tell that she would be happier if she could fit me into a category — perhaps Yuppie Guy, or Earl Grey Dude — and knew what to expect of me.
But I prefer to wrong-foot her sometimes: to turn up in jeans occasionally; to order coffee (which I hate), or, as I did a couple of weeks ago, half a dozen pieces of pie, eating them one by one as she watched, clearly itching to say something, but not quite daring to comment. In any case, she is suspicious of me. A man who will eat six pieces of pie is capable of anything.
But you shouldn’t judge by appearances. Bethan herself is an irregular choice, with the emerald stud in her eyebrow and the stars tattooed down her skinny arms. A shy, resentful little girl, who compensates now by being vaguely aggressive with anyone who looks at her askance.
Still, it is to Bethan that I owe much of my information. From the café she notices everything. She seldom speaks to me, of course, but I overhear her conversations. With people like me she is cautious, but with her regulars she is cheery, approachable. Thanks to Bethan I can collect all kinds of information. For instance, I know that the girl in the red duffel coat would rather drink hot chocolate than tea; prefers treacle tart to carrot cake; favours the Beatles over the Stones, and plans to attend the funeral at Malbry Crematorium at 11.30 on Saturday.
Saturday. Yes, I’ll be there. At least I’ll get to see her away from that wretched café. Maybe — just maybe — she owes me that. Closure, as the Americans say. An end to this parade of lies.
Lies? Yes, everyone lies. I’ve lied ever since I could remember. It’s the only thing I do well, and I think we should play to our strengths, don’t you? After all, what is a writer of fiction but a liar with a licence? You’d never guess from my writing that I’m as plain-vanilla as they come. Vanilla, at least, on the outside; the heart is something different. But aren’t we, all of us, killers at heart, tapping out in Morse code the secrets of the confessional?
Clair thinks I should talk to her.
Have you tried telling her how you feel? she suggests in her latest e-mail. Of course, Clair only knows what I want her to know: that for an indeterminate time I have been obsessed with a girl to whom I have hardly spoken a word. But maybe Clair identifies with me rather more than she is aware — or rather, with blueeyedboy, whose platonic love for an unnamed girl echoes her own unrequited passion for Angel Blue.
Cap’s advice is rather more crude. Just fuck her and get it over with, he advises, in the world-weary tone of one trying vainly to hide his own inexperience. When the novelty wears off, you’ll see she’s just like all those other bitches, and you’ll be able to get back to what matters . . .
Toxic agrees, and pleads for me to write up the intimate details in my WeJay. The dirtier the better, he says. And by the way, what’s her cup size?
Albertine rarely comments. I sense her disapproval. But chrysalisbaby responds to what she sees as my hopeless romance. Even a bad guy needs someone to love, she says with awkward sincerity. You deserve it, blueeyedboy, really you do. She does not offer herself, not yet, but I sense the longing in her words. Any girl would be lucky, she hints, to earn the love of one such as I.
Poor Chryssie. Yes, she’s fat. But she has good hair and a pretty face, and I have led her to believe that I prefer the chubby ones.
The problem is that I play it too well. She now wants to see me on webcam. For the past couple of weeks she has been talking to me through WebJournal, sending me personal messages, including photos of herself.
Y can’t i C U? she messages.
Out of the question, I reply.
Y? U ugly?
Yeah. I’m a mess. Broken nose, black eye, cuts and bruises all over me. I look like I went twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. Trust me, Chryssie. You’d run a mile.
4 real?? What happened?
Someone took exception to me.?
O!!! U mugged?
I guess you could call it that.
!!! Oh, fuck, oh, babe,
i just wanna give U a great big hug.
Thanks, Chryssie. You’re very sweet.
Does it hurt??
Dear Chryssie. I can feel the sympathy coming from her. Chryssie loves to nurture, and I like to feed her fantasy. She’s not quite in love with me — no, not yet. But it wouldn’t take much to draw her in. It’s a little cruel, I know. But isn’t that what bad guys do? Besides, she brings these things on herself. All I do is enable them. She’s an accident waiting to happen, for which no one could possibly hold me to blame.
Babe, tell me what happened, she says, and today I think maybe I’ll humour her. Give a little, take a lot. Isn’t that the better deal?
All right then — babe. Whatever you say. See what you make of this little tale.
10
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy posting on:
Posted at: 14:35 on Thursday, January 31
Status: public
Mood: amorous
Listening to: Green Day: ‘Letterbomb’
Blueeyedboy in love. What? You don’t think a killer can fall in love? He has known her for ever, and yet she has never really seen him, not once. He might have been invisible as far as the woman he loves is concerned. But he sees her: her hair; her mouth; her small pale face with its straight dark brows; her bright-red coat in the morning mist like something out of a fairy tale.
Red is not her colour, of course — but he doesn’t expect her to know that. She doesn’t know how he likes to watch through his telephoto lens; noting the details of her dress; the way the wind catches her hair; the way she walks with such precision, marking her passage with near-imperceptible touches. A hand against this wall, here; brushing against this yew hedge, turning her face to catch the scent as she passes the village bakery.