Blueeyedboy Read Online Free

type favoured by ClairDeLune , my blameless lifestyle and unsullied reputation would probably make me a prime suspect.
    In the real world, however, only the kids notice me. To them, any man who still lives with his mother is either a paedo or a queer. But even this assumption comes more from habit than real belief. If they thought I was dangerous, they would behave very differently. Even when that schoolboy was killed, a St Oswald’s boy, so close to home, no one thought me remotely worthy of investigation.
    Predictably, I was curious. A murder is always intriguing. Besides, I was already learning my craft, and I knew I could use any information, any hints that came my way. I’ve always appreciated a nice, neat murder. Not that many qualify. Most murderers are predictable, most murders messy and banal. It’s almost a crime in itself, don’t you think, that the splendid act of taking a life should have become so commonplace, so wholly devoid of artistry?
    In fiction, there is no such thing as the perfect crime. In movies, the bad guy – who is invariably brilliant and charismatic – always makes a fatal mistake. He overlooks the minutiae. He succumbs to vainglory; loses his nerve; falls victim to some ironic flaw. However dark the frosting, in film, the vanilla centre always shows through; with a happy ending for all who deserve it, and imprisonment, a shot through the heart, or better still, a dramatically pleasing – though statistically improbable – drop from a high building for the bad guy, thereby removing the burden to the State, and leaving the hero free of the guilt of having to shoot the bastard himself.
    Well, I happen to know that isn’t true, just as I know that most murderers are neither brilliant nor charismatic, but often subnormal and rather dull, and that the police force is so buried under its paperwork that the simplest murders can slip through the net – the stabbings, the shootings, the fist-fights gone wrong, crimes in which the perpetrator, if he has left the scene at all, can often be found in the nearest pub.
    Call me romantic, if you like. But I do believe in the perfect crime. Like true love, it’s just a matter of timing and patience; of keeping the faith; of not losing hope; of carping the diem , of seizing the day –
    That’s how my interests led me here, to my lonesome refuge on badguysrock . Harmless interests, to begin with at least, though soon I grew to appreciate the other possibilities. And at the beginning it was just curiosity: a means of observing others unseen; of exploring a world beyond my own, that narrow triangle between Malbry town, the Village and Nether Edge moors, beyond which I have never dared to aspire. The Internet, with its million maps, was as alien to me as Jupiter – and yet, one day, I was simply there , almost by chance, a cast-away, watching the changing scenery with the slowly dawning awareness that this was where I truly belonged; that this would be my great escape, from Malbry, my life, and my mother.
    My mother . How it resonates. Mother is a difficult word; so dense with complex associations that I can barely see it at all. Sometimes its colour is Virgin-blue, like the statues of Mary; or grey like the dust-bunnies under the bed where I used to hide away as a child; or green like the baize of the market stalls; and it smells of uncertainty and loss, and of black bananas gone to mush, and of salt, and of blood, and of memory –
    My mother. Gloria Winter. She’s the reason I’m still here: stuck in Malbry all these years, like a plant too pot-bound ever to thrive. I have stayed with her. Like everything else. Apart from the neighbours, nothing has changed. The three-bedroomed house; the Axminster; the queasy flowered wallpaper; the gilt-edged mirror in the kitchen that hides a hole in the plaster; the faded print of the Chinese Girl ; the lacquer vase on the mantel; the dogs.
    Those dogs. Those hideous china dogs.
    An affectation to start with,