At which point in the story this punter — shall we call him Diesel Blue? — a family man, a respected member of the community, twenty years older than blueeyedboy and outweighing him by a hundred pounds — raised one of his loyal fists and smacked our hero right in the mouth, while the ugly wife, who smelled of cigarettes and cheap antiperspirant, laughed as blueeyedboy spat out blood, and said: She’s worth more dead than you’ll ever be —
Six months later, Diesel’s van is traced through security camera footage to a hit-and-run incident in which a middle-aged woman is killed crossing the road to get to her car. The van, which since has been set on fire, still bears traces of fibre and hair, and although Diesel Blue is adamant that he is not responsible, that the van was stolen the night before, he fails to convince the magistrate, especially in the light of a previous history of drunkenness and violence. The case goes to the criminal court, where, after a four-day trial, Diesel Blue is acquitted, mostly for lack of evidence. The camera footage proves disappointing, failing as it does to confirm the identity of the driver of the van — a figure in a hoodie and baseball cap, whose bulk may be due to an oversized coat and whose face is never visible.
But to be acquitted in court is not everything. Graffiti on the walls of the house; hostile murmurs in the pub; letters to the local Press; all suggest that Diesel Blue got away with it on a technicality, and when, a few weeks later, his house catches fire (with Diesel and his wife inside), no one grieves especially.
Verdict — accidental death, possibly caused by a cigarette.
Blueeyedboy is unsurprised. He’d had the guy down as a smoker.
Post comment:
Captainbunnykiller: You are totally sick, dude. I love it!
chrysalisbaby:woot woot yay for blueeyedboy
ClairDeLune : Very interesting. I sense your mistrust of authority. I’d love to hear the story behind this story. Is it also based on real life events? You know I’d love to know more!
JennyTricks: (post deleted).
9
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy posting on :
Posted at: 21.06 on Monday, February 4
Status: public
Mood: prickly
Listening to: Poison: ‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn’
The birth of little Emily White saw a change in blueeyedboy’s Ma. She’d always been quick-tempered, but by the end of the summer she seemed perpetually on the brink of some kind of violent eruption. Part of the cause was financial stress: growing boys are expensive, and by unfortunate coincidence, fewer and fewer people in the Village seemed to need any household help. Mrs French Blue had joined the ranks of her ex-employers, and Mrs Chemical Blue, claiming poverty, had reduced her hours to two per week. Perhaps, now Ben was back at school, people felt less charitably inclined to offer work to the fatherless family. Or perhaps they’d simply had enough of listening to tales of how talented and special Ben was.
And then, just before Christmas, they ran across Mrs Electric Blue near Tandy’s in the covered market, but she didn’t seem to notice them, even when Ma spoke to her.
Perhaps Mrs Electric Blue didn’t like being seen so close to the market, where there were always people shouting, and torn-off cabbage leaves on the floor, and everything peppered with brown grease, and where people always called you luv. Perhaps all that was too common for her. Perhaps she was ashamed of knowing Ma, with her old coat on and her hair scraped back and her three scruffy boys, and her bags full of shopping that she had to carry home on the bus, and her hands with palms all tattooed with dirt from other people’s housework.
‘Morning,’ said Ma, and Mrs Electric Blue just stared, looking weirdly like one of Mrs White’s dolls, half-surprised and half-not-quite alive, with her pink mouth pursed and her eyebrows raised and her long white coat with the fur collar making her look like the Snow Queen, even though there wasn’t any snow.
It seemed at first as if she hadn’t heard. Ben shot her the smile that had once earned him treats. Mrs Electric didn’t smile back, but turned away and pretended to look at some clothes that were hanging on a stall near by, although even blueeyedboy could see that they weren’t at all the kind of clothes she’d wear, all baggy blouses and cheap, shiny shoes. He wondered if he should call her name —
But Ma went red and said: Come on, and started to drag him away by the arm. He tried to explain, which was when Nigel punched him, just above the elbow, where it hurts most, and he hid his face in his cry-baby sleeve, and Ma slapped Nigel across the head. And he saw Mrs Electric Blue walk away towards the shops, where a young man — a very young man — dressed in a navy pea coat and jeans, was awaiting her impatiently, and would perhaps have kissed her, he thought, had it not been for the presence of the cleaner and her three kids, one of whom was still watching her with that look of reproach, as if he knew something he shouldn’t. And that made her walk a little faster, clipping the ground with her high heels, a sound that smells of cigarettes and cabbage leaves and cheap perfume at knock-off prices.
Then, a week later, she let Ma go — making it sound like a generous gesture, saying that she’d imposed too long — which left just two of her ladies, plus a couple of shifts at St Oswald’s per week; hardly enough to pay the rent, let alone feed three boys.
So Ma took another job, working on a market stall, from which she would return frozen and exhausted, but carrying a plastic bag filled with half-rotten fruit and other stuff they couldn’t sell, which she would serve up in various guises over the course of the week, or worse still, put in the blender to make what she called ‘the vitamin drink’, which might be made up of such diverse ingredients as cabbage, apple, beetroot, carrot, tomato, peach or celery, but which always tasted to blueeyedboy like a sweet-rotten slurry of sludge-green. The tube of paint might be labelled Nut Brown, but shit smells like shit all the same, and it always made him think of the market, so that in time even the word made him retch — mark-et — with its barking twin syllables, like an engine that won’t start, and all that was because they happened to see Mrs Electric Blue with her fancy-boy in the market that day.
That was why, when they saw her again, six weeks later, in the street, that sickly taste rushed into his mouth, a sharp pain stabbed at his temple, objects around him began to acquire a bevelled, prismic quality —
‘Why, Gloria,’ said Mrs Electric Blue in that sweetly venomous manner of hers. ‘How lovely to see you. You’re looking well. How’s Ben doing at school?’
Ma gave her a sharp look. ‘Oh, he’s doing very well. His tutor says he’s gifted—’
It was common knowledge in Malbry that Mrs Electric Blue’s son was not gifted; that he had tried for St Oswald’s, but hadn’t got in, then had failed to get into Oxford, in spite of private tutoring. A big disappointment, so they said. Mrs Electric’s hopes had been high.