The Delphi Room by The Delphi Room (v5.0) (epub)

Author:The Delphi Room (v5.0) (epub)
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781771481861
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2013-11-23T16:00:00+00:00

Jesus. Someone’s a little sensitive about his mother. How dare he lecture me about sensitivity, or my fate—if I still had one. Sanctimonious little shit. (I had written “Dear Brinkley, Fuck you” at the top of a page, but then decided that if I did indeed have a case to plead, writing such a letter would not be a point for the defence. The Devil made me do it! I could probably plead that I didn’t know the rules of social etiquette still applied in Hell. I thought honesty and bluntness were requirements in the pursuit of “Truth.” Were we pursuing “Truth”? What for? Well, we had nothing better to do. When in doubt, a little existentialist philosophizing never hurt anyone.) Seriously, if you can’t tell it like it is to your next-door neighbour in Hell, who can you be honest with? So he thinks “crazy” is an abominable word. (And speaking of abominable words, who uses a word like “abominable?”) This from a man who I’d just watched carry on a conversation with—and sing a lullaby to—a long-dead movie star. (So Clara Bow was some sort of time traveller? Or Brinkley needed a pharmaceutical adjustment? And why was she so interested in him, anyway?) And Harlequin romance novels? A guy who writes Harlequin romance novels? Of course, it’s not that he was claiming to be composing any great masterpiece, and I have always maintained a love for the “beauty school dropouts of life,” so to speak, but . . . A reverse George Eliot? Well, there was, I had to admit, something faintly daring about a man writing a romance novel. And why did he think I would be great at writing that kind of stuff? Was that supposed to be a compliment? (I hoped he wasn’t expecting me to become his romance-writing-partner. Hell’s Harlequin duo. The Ellery Queen of bodice-rippers.) Anyway, he’d seen me carve up my wrist in Davie’s bathroom. I could use the word “crazy” if I wanted to. (I was terrified about what else the mirror might show him. Funny, the desire to keep up appearances never goes away. Well, he knew about the Shadowman. It was a little late for image maintenance. But I had not been, as he so wrongly put it, having a dalliance with the Shadowman—he was a stalker, not a lover.) And yes, he was right, my mother was bonks, too. So what? We’re all a bunch of crazies. You can love someone and still call a spade a spade.

The scene of Brinkley (one who apparently took celebrity worship a bit too far) in my mirror, and the electronic snow that followed it, had vanished. I approached the glass; my eyes were blue. Not blue running helter-skelter over blackish, but pure brilliant aquamarine. They were glowing and free of bruising or blood vessels; they were larger than I remembered and so limpid as to be almost watery, like you could touch them and rings would shudder out to the edges.

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