Meanwhile, on the bright side —
Eleanor Vine is most unwell. Taken ill last Saturday, she remains in hospital, on a respirator. Toxic shock, so Terri says, or maybe some kind of allergy. I can’t say I’m particularly surprised — with the number of pills Eleanor takes, apparently at random, something like this had to happen some day. Still, it’s an odd coincidence that a fic posted in my WeJay should have taken on such a life of its own. It’s not the first time this has happened, either; it’s almost as if, by some voodoo, I have acquired the ability to delete from the world all those who hurt or threaten me. A stroke of the keys — and pfft! Delete.
If only it were as easy as that. If this were simply a matter of wishful thinking, then my troubles would have been over more than twenty years ago. It began with the Blue Book — that catalogue of my hopes and dreams — and followed on into cyberspace, on to my WeJay, and badguysrock. But of course it’s only fiction. And although it may have been Catherine White in my fic — or Eleanor Vine, or Graham Peacock, or any of those parasites — there was only ever one face in my mind: battered and bleeding, bludgeoned to death, strangled with piano wire; electrocuted in the bath; poisoned; drowned; decapitated, dead in a hundred different ways.
One face. One name.
I know. It’s unforgivable. To wish for my mother’s death in this way — to long for it, as one might long for a cool drink on a hot day, to wait with racing heart for the sound of her key in the front door, to hope that today might be the one —
Accidents happen so easily. A hit-and-run; a fall down the stairs; a random act of violence. Then there are the health issues. At sixty-nine, she is already old. Her hands are thick with arthritis; her blood pressure is sky-high. Cancer runs in the family: her own mother died at fifty-five. And the house itself is filled with potential hazards: overloaded electrical sockets; loose carpet runners; plant pots balanced precariously on bedroom window-ledges. Accidents happen all the time; but never, it seems, to Gloria Green. It’s enough to drive a boy to despair.
And yet I continue to live in hope. Hope, the most spiteful of all the demons in Pandora’s little box of tricks —
3
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy.
Posted at: 09.55 on Thursday, February 14
Status: restricted
Mood: romantic
Listening to: Boomtown Rats: ‘I Never Loved Eva Braun’
It’s February the 14th, Valentine’s Day, and love, true love, is in the air. That’s why I’ve left that envelope on the corner of the china cabinet next to the chocolates and flowers. Not roses, thank God, nor even orchids, but a nice arrangement nonetheless, lavish enough to be expensive, though not enough to be vulgar.
The card itself is selected with care: no jokey cartoons, no sexual innuendo, no promises of undying affection. Ma knows me better than that. It’s the gesture that matters; the triumph that she will feel on her next outing with — for instance — Maureen, Eleanor, or Adèle, whose son lives in London and who rarely even telephones.
We do not fool ourselves, Ma and I. But still the game goes on. We’ve played the game a long, long time; this game of stealth and strategy. Each of us has had our share of victories and defeats. But now comes the chance to own the field — which is why right now I can’t afford to take unnecessary risks. She’s suspicious enough of me as it is. Unstable, too, and growing worse. It was bad enough when my brothers were here, but now I am the only one, the last, and she keeps me like one of her china dogs, on display from all angles —
She expresses surprise at the gifts and the card. This, too, is part of the game. If there had been no Valentine, she would have made no comment, but in a few days there would have been consequences. And so it pays to observe the conventions, to play along, to remember the stakes. That’s why I’ve made it this far, of course. By always giving the devil his due.
Online, my friends remember me, too. There are six virtual Valentine’s cards, innumerable pictures and banners, including one from Clair, hoping to see me soon, she says, and hoping I find love this year —
Why, how sweet of you, ClairDeLune. As it happens I hope so, too. But you have other concerns today — not least, the e-mail you sent from your hotmail account to Angel Blue, bearing a message of undying love, as well as the extra little surprise delivered to his New York address.
I knew that password would come in useful. And, as it happens, I’ve changed it now, from clairlovesangel to clairhatesangie, Angie being Mrs Angel Blue. It’s cruel, I know. It may cause grief. But as we enter this new phase together, I have become increasingly impatient of time spent away from my main focus. I no longer need my army of mice. Their squeaking has become tiresome. They were a pleasant diversion once. And I needed them to build up this place, to bait my virtual bottle trap, my own private pitcher plant.
But now that Albertine and I are entering the final phase of the game, the last thing I want is her wasting her time. Time to concentrate on what really matters; to move in for the tête-à-tête —
And so, of today, all of badguysrock has become our private battleground. Site under construction, it says, which ought to keep most of our visitors out, while I send out my personal Valentines to deal with the more persistent ones.
Clair’s you already know about. Chryssie’s takes a different form; that of a dieting challenge — lose 10lbs in only 3 days! — a drop in the ocean for Chryssie, of course, but it should keep her out of my hair for a while.
As for Cap, a careless word dropped in his name on a gang message board, followed up by an e-mail inviting him to meet a friend at a certain place, at a certain time, in one of Manhattan’s less pleasant districts —
Meanwhile, what of Albertine? I hope I haven’t upset her. She’s very sensitive, of course; recent events must have shaken her. She isn’t answering her phone, which implies that she is screening calls. And maybe she lacks the energy, today of all days, when the nation honours a festival, which, though riddled with the pox of merchandising, purports to celebrate true love —
Somehow I don’t see Nigel as the type. Then again, I wouldn’t. It’s hard to visualize one’s childhood tormentor as the kind of person who would buy a bunch of red roses, make up a playlist of love songs, or send a Valentine’s card to a girl.
Maybe he was, though. Who can say? He may have had hidden depths. He was certainly moody enough as a boy — spending hours alone in his room, looking at his maps of the sky, writing his verses, and listening to rock music that ranted and railed.
Nigel Winter, the poet. Well — you wouldn’t have thought it to look at him. But I found some of his poetry, in a book at the bottom of his wardrobe, among the clothes in charcoal and black. A Moleskine notebook — slightly worn — in my brother’s colour.
I couldn’t help it. I stole the book. Removed myself from the scene of the crime to scrutinize it at leisure. Nigel didn’t notice at first; and later, when he discovered the loss, he must have known that there could have been any number of places in which he might have mislaid a small, unobtrusive black notebook. Under his mattress; under the bed; under a fold of carpet. I played the innocent as I watched him search the house in stealth; but I’d hidden the notebook safely away in a box at the back of the garage. Nigel never mentioned to either of us what it was he was looking for, though his face was dark with suspicion as he questioned us — obliquely, and with uncommon restraint.