Each camp had its adherents, be they cynics or believers. The child psychologists saw Emily’s work as a symbolic expression of her fear; the paranormal camp as a harbinger of death; the art experts saw in the change of style a confirmation of what many had already secretly suspected: that Emily’s synaesthesia had been a pretence from the start and that Catherine White, and not Emily, had been the creative influence behind such works as Nocturne in Scarlet Ochre and Starry Moonlight Sonata.
Symphonie fantastique is altogether different. Created in front of an audience on a piece of canvas eight feet square, it almost writhes with energy, so that even a dullard like Jeffrey Stuarts was able to feel its ominous presence. If fear has a colour, then this is it: menacing strings of red, brown and black overlaid with occasional violent patches of light, and that clanging square of blue-grey like the trapdoor to an oubliette —
To me, it smells of Blackpool pier, and my mother, and the vitamin drink. To Emily, it must have been the first step through a looking glass into a world in which nothing was sane, nothing was certain any more.
They tried to hide the truth from her. On compassionate grounds, the experts said. To tell her the truth at such a young age, especially in such circumstances, could prove traumatic in the extreme. But we heard it through the grapevine even before it hit the stands: that Catherine White was in hospital following a failed suicide attempt. And suddenly it seemed that every reporter in the world was heading straight for Malbry, the sleepy little Northern town where everything seemed to be happening, and where the clouds were still gathering for one more cosmic thunderstorm —
11
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy.
Posted at: 20.55 on Monday, February 18
Status: restricted
Mood: drained
Listening to: Johnny Nash: ‘I Can See Clearly Now’
Clair e-mailed me again today. Apparently, she is missing me. And the fic I posted on Valentine’s Day has caused more concern than usual. She urges me to return to the fold, to discuss my feelings of alienation and to face up to my responsibilities. The tone of her e-mail is neutral enough; but I sense her disapproval. Maybe she is feeling sensitive; or maybe she feels that my fiction provokes an inappropriate response in subjects such as Toxic and Cap, whose predilection for violence needs no further encouragement.
You need to come back to Group[she says].Talking online is no substitute. I’d rather see you face to face. Besides, I’m not sure these stories of yours are really very helpful. You need to confront these exhibitionist tendencies of yours and face up to reality —
Bip! Delete message.
Now she’s gone.
That’s the beauty of e-mail, Clair. That’s why I’d rather meet online than in your little drawing-room with its nice, non-threatening prints on the walls and its scent of cheap pot-pourri. And at the writing group, you’re in charge, whereas badguysrock belongs to me. Here, I ask the questions; here I am in complete control.
No, I think I’d rather stay and pursue my interests in the comfort and seclusion of my own room. I like myself so much better online. I can express so much more. It was here, and not at that awful school, that I received my classical education. And from here I can crawl into your mind, scent out your little secrets, expose your petty weaknesses, just as you try to find out mine.
Tell me — how is Angel Blue these days? I’m sure you must have heard from him. And Chryssie? Still sick? Well, that’s too bad. Shouldn’t you be talking to her, Clair, instead of cross-examining me?
The e-mail bips. New message from Clair.
I really think we should talk soon. I know you find our discussions uncomfortable, but I’m getting really worried about you. Please e-mail me back to confirm!
Bip! Delete message.
Whoops, all gone.
If only deleting Clair were as easy.
Still, I have other concerns right now, not least how I stand with Albertine. It’s not that I hope for forgiveness. Both of us have come too far for that. But her silence is disquieting; and it is all I can do to prevent myself from calling by at her house today. Still, I don’t think that would be wise. Too many potential witnesses. Already, I suspect we are being watched. All it would take is a word to Ma, and the house of cards would come tumbling down.
And so half an hour before closing time, I found myself back at the Zebra. My masochistic side so often drives me to that place, that safe little world of which Yours Truly is definitely not a part. In passing I noticed, to my annoyance, that Terri was sitting by the door. She looked up hopefully as I came in; I did my best to ignore her. So much for discretion, I thought. Like her aunt, she is an eager observer; a gossip, in spite of her diffidence; the kind of person who stops at the scene of a car crash, not to help, but to participate in the collective misery.
Saxophone Man with the dreadlocks was sitting close by with a pot of coffee at his elbow; he gave me a look designed to convey his contempt for such as I. Maybe Bethan has mentioned me. From time to time she does, you know, in a vain attempt to prove to herself how much she now detests me. Creepy Dude, she calls me. I’d hoped for something more imaginative.
I sat down in my usual place; ordered Earl Grey, no lemon, no milk. She brought it on a flowered tray. Lingered just long enough for me to suspect her of having something on her mind, then came to a decision; sat down squarely beside me, looked into my eyes and said:
‘What the hell do you want from me?’
I poured out the tea. It was fragrant and good. I said: ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Hanging around here all the time. Posting those stories. Raking things up—’
I had to laugh. ‘Me? Raking things up? I’m sorry, but when the details of Dr Peacock’s will come out, everything you do is going to be news. That isn’t my fault, Albertine.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that.’
‘You chose it yourself,’ I pointed out.
She shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Albertine. I understand it all too well. The heart’s desire to be someone else, to take on a new identity. In a way I’ve done it myself —
‘I don’t want his money,’ she said. ‘I only want to be left alone.’
I grinned. ‘Hope that works out for you.’
‘You talked him into it, didn’t you?’ Her eyes were dark with anger now. ‘Working there, you had the chance. He was old, suggestible. You could have told him anything.’
‘Believe me, Bethan, if I had, don’t you think I’d have done it for myself?’ I let the thought sink in for a while. ‘’Dear old Dr Peacock. Still trying, after all these years, to make amends. Still half-convinced he could raise the dead. With Patrick gone, there was only you left. Nigel must have been over the moon—’
She looked at me. ‘Not that again. I tell you, Nigel didn’t care about that.’
‘Oh, please,’ I said. ‘Love may be blind, but you’d have to be really stupid to think that someone like Nigel wouldn’t have cared that his girlfriend was about to inherit a fortune—’