Steven Dunne - Deity

‘That bad, eh?’ she joked and plucked a second glass from a cardboard box of four then poured herself a large glass of wine.

‘You brought wine glasses?’

‘Housewarming present. I prefer not to drink out of jam jars.’ She looked at him with a hint of a tease. ‘I’ll put them in the glasses cupboard later.’

He spoke ruefully back at her through a mouthful of pasta. ‘You’re not going to go easy on me, are you?’

‘Dad, you’ve got a pint glass, a whisky tumbler and two jam jars to drink from. And one of them still has a label on. How easy should I make it?’

Brook laughed. ‘In my defence, I’ve only been in the house for four years and there haven’t been many,’ he looked away, ‘well. .’

‘They’re called women, Dad. I’m told they make good companions.’ She fumbled in her handbag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, unable to meet his eye.

Brook sensed she was ready for him so said nothing, but his face gave the game away.

‘I’m twenty years old now. I can make my own mistakes.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘You didn’t have to.’

‘But you can’t smoke in the house, Terri. That’s a rule.’ He finished his last forkful of pasta and gathered up his wine glass. ‘Bring your glass and a coat. I’ll show you why I bought this place.’

A minute later, father and daughter sat on the garden bench pulling lovingly on their cigarettes and looking up at the soft cottonwool of the Milky Way. For two people who hadn’t conversed in five years, it was odd that no words were needed.

‘It’s great here, Dad,’ she finally said, putting a hand on his arm. ‘I wish I’d come sooner.’

Brook smiled in the darkness. ‘You’re here now. That’s all that counts.’ Then a thought occurred. ‘You were a teenager.’ Brook felt the rise in tension within her and realised she might be expecting a conversation about their last meeting. But it was worse than that. After missing her entire childhood and most of her teenage years, he was thinking about the case. He shook his head. What kind of father was he?

‘Apparently,’ she finally said.

Time to change the subject. ‘Whose picture did you have on your wall?’ he said before he could stop himself. He felt her looking at him. ‘You know, actors, rock stars.’

‘Why?’

Why — because you’re interested in me, because you want to make up for lost time? ‘Never mind.’

‘No, tell me.’

Brook hesitated. ‘A girl disappeared — two, actually. But I’m trying to get a feeling for this particular girl. Adele. She reminds me of you. Smart and beautiful.’

Brook heard the breath of her grin leave her mouth.

A moment’s thought later. ‘Leonardo Di Caprio. Brad Pitt. Johnny Depp.’

‘Are any of those dead?’

‘No, but I had a Jimi Hendrix poster. He OD-ed in 1970.’

‘Twenty years before you were born.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘I don’t know. I’m asking you.’

‘Who was this girl into?’

‘James Dean, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain.’

‘Jim Morrison was a poet as well as a singer.’

‘She writes poetry,’ said Brook.

‘What’s that like?’

‘We can’t find any. We think she has it with her. But what does it mean, having all these dead guys on your wall?’

‘Ah well,’ said Terri. ‘There’s love and then there’s perfect love.’

‘Perfect love?’

‘Sure. Perfect love is pure, immortal. It’s wonderful — but to have it, one of you has to be dead.’ The shadow of remembrance passed over her expression for a moment.

‘Like Romeo and Juliet.’

‘In a way, but they both died so it’s different.’

‘What does that mean?’

Terri took out two more cigarettes and passed one to her father. ‘It means that girls of a certain age are inevitably attracted to bad boys because they represent danger and an escape from the humdrum reality of their lives. But with a dead guy you idolise from afar, you can form a perfect and pure relationship.’

‘Go on,’ said Brook.

‘Well, the relationship is chaste for one thing. But that only increases the erotic possibilities — since they can never have bad sex. All the sex is idealised in the mind so it’s always wonderful.’

‘Interesting.’

‘It is. And, of course, the dead guy is always yours. He can never get married or desert you — no other girl in the universe can claim him.’

Brook nodded. ‘So she can never be rejected by her dead lover.’

‘No. Hence their love is immortal. Nothing can get in the way,’ she looked up at him, her smile tinged with sadness, ‘until the girl is ready to move on. Didn’t this Adele have any crushes on the living?’

‘Some actor in something called True . .’

‘ True Blood ?’

‘Right. Alexander. .’

‘Skarsgard,’ Terri supplied.

Brook looked at the shadows of her face. ‘Why do I get the impression you’ve studied this before?’

‘Because I have. The True Blood series is a big deal in America.’

‘It’s about vampires. You’re not telling me you study it as part of your literature degree.’

‘Only insofar as it’s a cultural event, Dad. It taps directly into what I said — the desire for perfect, immortal love.’

‘So this actor’s dead?’

‘No, but he plays a vampire — so yes, he’s dead but, more important, he’s also immortal. That’s why millions of teenage girls are besotted with the idea of hot vampires. You can have your beefcake and eat it.’

Brook smiled. ‘How lucky am I to have a daughter so intelligent?’ Terri didn’t answer but Brook saw she was pleased. He yawned. ‘You’ll have to tell me more tomorrow. Right now I need to get some sleep. Listen, I’ll have the sofabed. .’

‘No, you won’t. This is your house. You get off to bed and get a good night’s kip. I can sleep late.’

‘Okay.’ Brook stood and walked to the house. He turned to Terri as she sipped the last of her wine. ‘Thanks, Terri.’

‘For what?’

‘Just thanks.’ Brook put some blankets on the sofa and trudged off to bed. He looked out of his bedroom window, feeling well-fed and happy. Terri was stroking Basil on the garden bench. Even Bobby, Basil’s painfully shy brother, had put in an appearance and was manoeuvring himself for some attention.

Brook glanced at the clock. It was a time at which he was more accustomed to being woken by insomnia. He lay back and was asleep in moments.

Diarmuid Strachan — Jock to his friends, enemies and anyone who might be likely to give him spare change — woke to the sight and sound of a rat nuzzling around at his feet, attracted by the putrid aroma of the fungus flourishing between his damp toes.

‘Fuck off, ye bastard.’ He kicked out a disintegrating leather boot at the beast, which skittered into the darkness. He sat up to scratch his whiskers, trying to focus on the small bar of light high in the vaulted roof. It was daylight. Right nuff . He pulled up his sleeve to reveal the half-dozen watches he wore to occasionally barter for enough coins to buy a drink. He peered myopically at each in turn, but each gave a different time. After working his way through three bottles of cheap whisky since Oz had picked him up, he’d forgotten that none of them worked. He only kept them because if he was begging anywhere near a clock large enough for him to see, he could sometimes set one to the right time and sell it to some unsuspecting Sassenach.

Just slow like me. S’good watch, pal.

He let his sleeve drop and tried to stand but fell back on to his hands, and although he banged his head hard on the wall, he felt nothing. Instead he took another groggy sweep around his gloomy accommodation. His new pal Oz had brought him here, picking him up in the middle of the night promising a bath and a bed. But he had no idea where he was or how long it had taken to get here. He knew there were white tiles on the wall and several hard cold slabs on which he’d banged his knees, but he hadn’t yet been able to locate an exit. It was very dark but it was dry and warm and the bar never closed. Jock chuckled at his joke but stopped laughing when he realised he’d run out of whisky — the bar was now closed. Right nuff .