Fiction

It was all starting to unravel. How, why, had his deception been uncovered - he had racked his brain for hours to  try to remember where the mistake had been made, where the persona he had so painstakingly invented and developed had proved to be flawed. Hours, days, weeks had been devoted to checking and cross-checking every detail, it had become an obsession that had come to dominate most of his waking life.

It had begun as a joke, almost - he'd read a few anguished comments about a blogger in the States who'd been exposed as an adult posing as a gay teen, read the blog, saw it was so full of inconsistencies and nonsequiturs that anyone with half a brain should've been able to see through it, but, he thought, there were obviously a lot of people out there who were either daft enough or desperate enough to want to believe this kind of thing. He thought - no, he knew - that he was far cleverer than that, he could easily pretend to be someone else, and keep up the act indefinitely. After all, he had little else to do. Since that day...his mind shied away from thinking about that day, as always...since that day, he hadn't been able to work, he subsisted on the pittance that the state deigned to give him, and a little money that was left after virtually all of the inheritance from his parents had been spent on the lease for basement flat where he now eked out his existence. His world consisted of the flat, the few hundred yards between his front door and the mini-supermarket which marked the furthest he could walk, with the aid of his sticks, without inducing appalling muscle spasms in his lower back and legs that even the powerful prescription-only painkillers that were delivered every eight weeks could barely contain, and...the internet. On the net, he could go anywhere, see anything, and, he decided, be anyone.

So he came to be 'Alfie', supposedly 14 years old when he first appeared in Blogland as a commenter on various blogs of others of around that age, and on one or two discussion forums that he'd learned about where teenagers who were uncertain about their sexual orientation went to discuss issues in their lives - 'Am I gay?', 'Should I come out?', 'Will my parents kill me?' and the rest, all so stereotypical, he thought, so easy, with his extra life experience, to become the leader of the little pack by imperceptible steps, always having the ready answer to his cyber-friends' problems, and the vocabulary to express his thoughts. 'Why don't you start your own blog?' they asked him, you could help so many people like us, you're so cool. His vanity was massaged by such things, though he played 'hard-to-get' for a while, quite a few months actually, long enough, he thought, to give the impression of genuinely not wanting to put himself 'out there', what if my real-life friends, my family see my blog, I'll be toast, before 'reluctantly' allowing himself to be persuaded. 'Alfie's Den' was born, and soon hoovered up dozens of followers, all wanting to read about the life, adventures and crushes of 'Alfie', the maybe gay, maybe bi, ultra-cool teen who seemed to be able to have everything his followers wanted, loads of friends, a little 'experimentation' on a sleepover or two, parents who loved him and kept him well supplied with the latest fashions and gadgets, even good grades at school. After a few weeks, he decided that he would throw a few more sprats to the assembled shoal, and started posting a photo or two, of 'his school', 'his house', 'his dad's car', all good quality pictures of good quality places and things, all found online, and, in terms of his life, completely fictitious.

Then came the fateful day, although he didn't know it at the time. His followers had been plaguing him, on the blog, and on IM, for a picture of himself. Again, he portrayed himself as reticent, 'if anyone I know finds this, I'm history'. He'd already got a photograph lined up, but he didn't want to post anything that could be found on an online image search, so he scanned a picture into his computer that he knew for certain wasn't in cyberspace - he knew, because he had the only copy of it, taken on his own camera a quarter of a century earlier, a picture of...again, his mind rebelled against any thought which took him back to that darkness that pervaded every minute of every day, consciously or unconsciously. It was a picture of a handsome, shirtless mid-teenage boy, taken against the backdrop of a beautifully sunny day in the Lake District, Wastwater in all its glory in the background. A picture of a happy time, an Outward Bound course where he had shared a tent with...the person in the photo. He didn't post the picture on his blog, though, he e-mailed it to a select group of his most loyal acolytes, who'd followed him from the forum to the blog, and had, by all appearances, hung on every word he had written. 'Dane11', 'Boy In Limbo', 'Cammy', 'Whisper', 'Next Big Star', three or four others, beatified by his munificence - 'I wouldn't do this for anyone, you're special, guys, don't spread it around.'

Everything continued as before for some weeks, 'Alfie's Den' in full flow, almost daily posts of a completely imaginary teenage life, progressing to 'Alfie's' fifteenth birthday. And then the bombshell. A late night post detailing a 'well brilliant' birthday party, the regular commenters saying how much they wished they'd been there, then -

'Anonymous said...
I'd wish you a happy birthday, except it isn't your birthday, is it, Stuart?"

He deleted the comment as soon as he saw it, less than 10 minutes after it had been posted, but the sight of his real name had made his guts dissolve. He felt sick, panicked, empty, nothing had made him feel this way since that day, when his father had come into his hospital room, and said "I'm so sorry, but I've got some bad news."

It was the middle of the school term, there was no way that 'Alfie' could suddenly 'disappear' for no reason, so he carried on with the charade for a few more days, doing his best to make the posts as upbeat as ever, but it all felt hollow, meaningless, especially when the 'Anonymous' comments appeared every time, full of irony and cynicism, and with his name, always in bold type, there to taunt him. He felt he could hardly sleep, eat or leave the flat, in case another comment appeared when he was away from the computer. He didn't want to change to a 'pre-approval' style of comment moderation, because he was afraid it would be obvious that something was amiss with the blog, paranoia was the watchword of the week. Then the comments stopped, as suddenly as they'd started. He maintained his obsessive vigil over the computer for another couple of days, before, very gradually, starting to unwind a little. The school half-term holidays were approaching, he began a thread of the story where 'Alfie' was going to be away on a camping trip for a few days, no internet access or mobile phone coverage, so 'no posts, guys, sorry'.

The first day of the school holiday arrived, and he felt that he could finally relax, and think about how he was going to extricate himself from his predicament. An idea was beginning to form in his head, it would take a few months to come to fruition, 'Dad's been promoted, but we've got to move to the Gulf, I don't know whether I'll be able to keep the blog going, I'll still be around for another few months, though, guys'. Give them enough time, do it gradually, and they'll take it in, they always do. He began to feel rather better with life, give it until the Christmas holidays, and 'Alfie' will be no more.

Then the doorbell rang. He started, he wasn't used to visitors, apart from the prescription deliveries, but he knew that wasn't due for another couple of weeks. Ignore it, they'll soon go away. The bell rang again, longer this time, plangent in the otherwise quiet flat. Then a third time. And a fourth. Confusion filled his mind. It seemed like someone knew he was there, and was willing to wait until he answered the door, but who, why?
Another long, shrill clangour, like tinnitus, speared his auditory nerve and finally broke down his resistance - whoever it was would get a hearty piece of his mind, he thought, as he limped to the front door. He opened the door as brusquely as he could manage, and glared at what he expected to be eye level, only to see the top of a tousled head. He shifted his gaze downwards, and froze. On his doorstep was a boy, five foot nothing, seven stone wringing wet, at a guess, with a look of utter hatred in his eyes and a...large gun in his right hand.

"Get inside, Stuart."

He stepped back instinctively, the boy quickly slipped through the door and pushed it closed behind him.

"Get in the front room."

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Stuart stammered out.

"You've ruined my life, so I'm going to end yours," the boy spat out. "Sit in that chair." He motioned towards the computer chair. Stuart sat, hesitantly, his eyes never leaving the weapon, so obscenely huge in the small hand.

"What are you talking about, ruined your life, I've never even met you..."

"You can call me 'Whisper'...'Alfie'," he sneered.

Stuart's stomach clenched on itself, he'd been talking to this boy on forum, blog and IM for almost a year, almost every day, all the while pretending to be his own age, giving him spurious encouragement and advice, toying with him. Now the boy was here, in his flat, filled with rage and armed with a deadly weapon, and not in any mood for conciliation, apparently.

"I came out because of you, and ever since, my life has been misery, my mum and dad hardly speak to me, my so-called friends won't have anything to do with me, I've been beaten up at school, I might as well be dead. So I'm going to be, and so are you." He waved the gun menacingly. Stuart's eyes followed, like a rabbit hypnotised by a cobra.

"Whisper...Whisper, please be careful with that gun, please let me explain."

"EXPLAIN," the boy yelled, making Stuart flinch back into the chair, as though he was trying to percolate into  its structure. "Explain, you've got to be joking. All you can do is beg, and even then I'll ignore you."

"I can explain, not excuse, but explain. No-one knows this story, and if you're serious about killing us both, no-one will. But I want to tell the story anyway, if you're willing to listen." The boy said nothing, but didn't give any sign that he wouldn't hear Stuart out. "The picture I sent you, and the others, you know it's not a picture of me, but it's a real picture of someone I..." He almost said 'know', "knew. It's a picture of the only person I've ever loved, and the only person who ever loved me back. And he's not here anymore, because of me. That picture was taken when we were both 15, 25 years ago, and we were happy together, we were going to spend our whole lives together. We got all the bad things that have happened to you, and more, but it was all going to be worth it, once we left school, left home, we were going to come to London and live happily ever after. But I..." Stuart's voice cracked with emotion, "I killed him, it was all my fault. I'd just passed my driving test, I thought I was the best driver in the world, I was going much too fast on this country road, I....I crashed into a tree. I woke up in hospital, my dad came in to my room a few hours later, he told me...told me...Ash was dead, he never regained consciousness. I've never been able to walk properly since, never been able...to do anything much, except spend my time on computers, and dream of escaping from being me, from the pain in my body, and the pain in my mind. I just thought I was so clever, when I invented 'Alfie', I'd found a way of being someone else, someone who a few people liked - people like you, Whisper. I know my apologies are not going to fix anything, it's too late for that, but I really am sorry you've been hurt, and all the more sorry you've been hurt by me trying to blot out my pain - I see now how selfish I've been. I deserve to die."

There was a thud which once again made Stuart shudder, but after a split second, he realised that the sound was the gun dropping from the boy's hand to the floor. Their eyes met, both glittering with unshed tears, before Stuart glanced nervously to where the firearm had fallen.

"It's OK, it's a fake, my dad collects them. I just wanted to frighten you. And my name's Craig."

Stuart gasped. "You succeeded. I really thought you were going to kill me."

"I felt like I wanted to. I spent all that time thinking you were like a cooler version of me, only to find that you were a fat bloke, as old as my dad."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want, but how did you find out? I spent hours and hours trying to make sure I kept the story consistent. I didn't think I'd made any mistakes, but I must've done."

Craig smiled a brief, wan smile. "I should leave you wondering, so you're not tempted to do it again, but I won't - you didn't make any mistakes in the blog, not that I noticed, anyway, your only mistake was to have your postman's son as one of your followers. I sometimes walk with my dad, we walk the dog while he's doing his round, and I deliver some of the letters for him. I delivered one to you, and saw your computer on through a crack in the curtains - I could see that you were on Blogger, that's what I use, so I looked again, closer, and saw that you were writing 'Alfie's Den'. I remembered your name from the letter I'd delivered, so I set up a new ID and started leaving those 'Anonymous' comments. I was really angry, I really thought you were a kid like me, then I told a couple of the others on IM, they knew my dad collected the replica guns, so we came up with this plan to scare you. But it looks to me like you've just done it because you're sad and lonely, so I'll forgive you. I don't know if the others will, though."

"Craig...I know there's not much I can say, but I will tell everyone the truth now, and make my apologies. Like you say, it's up to the individuals whether they can forgive me. Would you be willing to shake my hand?"

The boy looked intently at Stuart for a moment, then slowly raised his right hand, the one that had clasped that horrifying weapon so recently. They shook hands, briefly.

"Thank you, Craig. I've got a lot of amends to make, I'd better start soon."

****

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B