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them that it isn’t his fault –
    That’s why he has to choose his time. There can be no margin of error. He knows that murder is a lot like sex: some people know how to take their time; to enjoy the rituals of seduction, rejection, reconciliation; the joy of suspense; the thrill of the chase. But most of them just need to see it done ; to get the need of it out of themselves as quickly as they possibly can; to distance themselves from the horrors of that intimacy; to know release above all things.
    Great lovers know it’s not about that.
    Great murderers know it, too.
    Not that he is a great murderer. Just an aspiring amateur. With no established modus operandi, he feels like an unknown artist who yet has to find a style of his own. That’s one of the hardest things to do – for an artist or for a murderer. Murder, like all acts of self-affirmation, requires a tremendous self-confidence. And he still feels like a novice: shy; uncertain; protective of his talents and hesitant to make himself known. In spite of it all, he is vulnerable; fearing not just the act itself, but also the reception it may have to endure; those people who will, inevitably, judge, condemn and misunderstand –
    And of course, he hates her. He would never have planned it otherwise; he is no Dostoyevskian killer, acting at random and thoughtlessly. He hates her with a passion that he has never felt for anything else; a passion that blooms within him like blood; that sweeps him away on a bitter blue wave –
    He wonders what it would be like. To be free of her for once and for all; free of the presence that envelops him. To be free of her voice, of her face, of her ways. But he is afraid, and untested; and so he plans the act with care, selecting his subject (he refuses to use the word victim ) according to the rules, preparing it all with the neatness and precision that he extends to all things –
    An accident. That’s all it was.
    A most unfortunate accident.
    To challenge the boundaries, he understands, you first have to learn to follow the rules. To approach such an act, one has to train, to hone one’s art on some baser element, just as a sculptor works in clay – discarding anything that is not perfect, repeating the experiment until the desired result is achieved – before creating the masterpiece. It would be naïve, he tells himself, to expect great things of his first attempt. Like sex, like art, the first time is often inelegant, clumsy and embarrassing. He has prepared himself for this. His aim is merely not to be caught. It has to be an accident – and his relationship with the subject must, though real, be distant enough to defy those who will come looking for him.
    You see, he thinks like a murderer. He feels its glamour in his heart. He would never harm someone who does not already deserve to die. He may be bad, but he is not unfair. Nor is he degenerate. He will not be a commonplace, bludgeoning, thoughtless, messy, remorse-sodden killer. So many people die futile deaths – but in her case, at least, there will be reason, order and – yes, a kind of justice. One less parasite on the world, making it a better place.
    A strident call from downstairs intrudes upon the fantasy. He feels an annoying tremor of guilt. She hardly ever comes into his room. Besides, why should she climb the stairs when she knows that a call will bring him down?
    ‘Who’s there?’ she says.
    ‘No one, Ma.’
    ‘I heard a noise.’
    ‘I’m working online.’
    ‘Talking to your imaginary friends?’
    Imaginary friends . That’s good, Ma.
    Ma . The sound a baby makes, the sound of sickness, of lying in bed; a feeble, milky, helpless sound that makes him feel like screaming.
    ‘Well, come on down. It’s time for your drink.’
    ‘Hang on. I’ll be right there.’
    Murder. Mother . Such similar words. Matriarch. Matricide. Parasite. Parricide , something used to get rid of parasites. All of them coloured in shades of blue, like the blue of the