Still, he expects to feel something more. Guilt, perhaps; even pity. Instead he feels only scientific curiosity mixed with that childlike sense of wonder at the smallness of it all. Death is no big deal, he thinks. The difference between life and its opposite can be as small as a blood clot, as insignificant as a bubble of air. The body is, after all, a machine. He knows a little about machines. The greater the number of moving parts, the greater the chance of things going wrong. And the body has so many moving parts —
Not for long, he tells himself.
The agonal phase (this being the term used by clinicians to describe the visible part of life’s attempt to detach itself from protoplasm too compromised to sustain it) lasts for slightly less than two minutes according to his Seiko watch. He tries to observe dispassionately, to avoid the twitching hands and feet of the dying woman on the floor and to try to determine the goings-on behind those peculiar jellyfish eyes, the final, barking gasps for breath —
For a moment the sound makes him queasy, as for a fleeting moment (is there any other kind?) a phantom taste accompanies it — a taste of rotten fruit and dead cabbage — but he forces himself to ignore it by concentrating on Mrs Chemical Blue, whose agonal phase is coming to an end, her floating eyes beginning to glaze, her lips now a shade between cyan and mauve.
In the end, he does not know enough about anatomy to be absolutely certain of the true cause of death. But as Hippocrates used to say: Man is an obligate aerobe. Which probably means, he later concludes, that Mrs Chemical Blue died because her aerobically obligated cells failed to receive enough oxygen, thereby resulting in lethal shock.
In other words, therefore, not my fault.
His latex gloves have left no prints on the well-polished surfaces. His boots are new, right out of the box, and leave no telltale traces of mud. A window left open will disperse the smell from the offending canister, which he will toss into a skip as he passes the municipal dump before returning the van — minus its logo — to the firm from which he hired it. Her death will look like an accident — a seizure, a stroke, a heart attack — and even if they suspect foul play, there’s nothing to make them suspect him.
He burns the jumpsuit and the workman’s cap on the bonfire of leaves in his back yard, and the scent of that burning — like Bonfire Night — reminds him of toffee and candyfloss and the turning of fair-ground wheels in the dark; things that his mother always denied him, though his brothers went to the fair, coming home sticky-fingered and stinking of smoke, and queasy from the carnival rides, while he remained safely indoors, where nothing bad could happen to him.
Today, however, he is free. He rakes the heart of the bonfire and feels its heat against his face; and he feels a surge of sudden release —
And he knows he’s going to do it again. He even knows who the next one will be. He breathes in that scent of bonfire smoke, thinks of her face, and smiles to himself —
And all around him, the colours flare like fireworks exploding in the sky.
Post comment:
ClairDeLune: We need to talk about this, blueeyedboy. I think the way in which your fiction is developing sheds interesting insights on your family relationships. Why don’t you message me later today? I’d really like to discuss it with you.
JennyTricks: (post deleted).
blueeyedboy: Hello again. Do I know you?
JennyTricks: (post deleted).
JennyTricks: (post deleted).
JennyTricks: (post deleted).
blueeyedboy: Please, Jenny. Do I know you?
6
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy.
Posted at: 14.38 on Sunday, February 10
Status: restricted
Mood: sleepless
Listening to: Van Morrison: ‘Wild Night’
Lots of love to my journal today. Mostly in response to my fic, which Clair believes is a breakthrough in style, Toxic assures me pwns ass, Cap summarizes as fuckin’ resplendent, man, and Chryssie, who is still sick, thinks is awesome (and really hott!).
Well, sick she may be, but Chryssie is happy. She has lost six pounds this week — which means, according to her online calorie counter, that, assuming she keeps to her present rate, she will achieve her weight loss goal by this August, rather than July of next year — and she sends love and virtual hugs to her friend azurechild, who has always been so supportive.
Clair, however, is upset. She has received an e-mail from Angel Blue. Or rather, from a representative, telling her to cease her correspondence with Angel forthwith, and threatening legal action.
Poor Clair is hurt and indignant. She has never sent any offensive letters or suspicious packages, either to Angel or to his wife. Why would she? She worships Angel. She respects his privacy. She is certain his wife is behind all this. Angel is too nice, she says, to do this to someone who has become, over the months, a friend.
Mrs Angel’s jealousy is proof of what she has long since suspected: that Angel’s marriage is in crisis; or may even have been a sham from the start. Her online pleas to Angel Blue have begun to attract an audience. Some post to tell her to get a life. Some encourage her to pursue her dream. Some have tales of their own to tell of disappointment, love and revenge. One correspondent, Hawaiianblue, urges her to hold fast, to gain her man’s attention by force, to show him some token of her love that no one could possibly mistake —
And Albertine has been posting fic. I take this as a good sign; now that she has in some way recovered from the shock of my brother’s death, she has been online every day.
During their time together, of course, her presence was far less regular. Sometimes several weeks would pass without her even logging on. As webmaster, I can track her movements: how many times she visits the site; what she posts there; what she reads.
I know that she follows everything I write, even the comments. She reads Clair’s entries, too, and Chryssie’s — I know she is concerned about Chryssie’s dieting. She doesn’t talk to Cap much — I sense he makes her uncomfortable — but Toxic69 is a regular correspondent, perhaps because of his handicap. To some, these online friendships can take on a disproportionate significance, especially for those of us for whom the world on screen is more real, more tangible than what lies outside.
Today, she wanted to talk to me. Perhaps it was because of Nigel’s funeral, or my last fic. She may have found it disturbing. In fact, I was rather hoping she would. In any case, she came to me, via our private messaging service. Hesitant, shaken, slightly indignant, a child in need of comforting.
Where do you get these stories you write? Why do you have to tell them here?
Ah. The perennial question. Where do stories come from? Are they like dreams, shaped by our subconscious? Do goblins bring them in the night? Or are they all simply forms of the truth, mirror versions of what could have been, twisted and plaited like corn dollies into a plaything for children?