Steven Dunne - Deity

‘We’d prefer not to,’ said Brook.

‘So tell us,’ said Noble.

‘No, I didn’t masturbate. I was on the bed because I just wanted to be near her, okay, to smell her. It was in my head. Only there. Please, I promise you. I didn’t do anything. Ask Ade.’ His head fell to the table again and he began to sob. ‘My God, what have I done? Please forgive me. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to drive you away. I love you.’ He sat bolt upright. ‘You must believe me. I never — I wouldn’t-’

‘I advise you not to say another word until you’ve been counselled, Mr Watson.’ Brook announced the time and switched off the police recorder. Noble looked across at him. ‘I think you need to consult a solicitor. You’re obviously distraught and that’s not a good time to make a statement.’

‘A solicitor?’ Watson smiled crookedly and finally had a sip of his tea. ‘Only God can help me now. Only God can clean these thoughts from my head.’

‘Then pray to Him.’ Brook rose to leave.

‘There’s another book.’

Brook and Noble turned back to Watson.

‘Another book?’ said Noble. ‘Where?’

‘I don’t have it. It’s her presentation book, leather-bound. When she finishes a poem, when she’s happy with it, she writes it in there.’

‘It’s not in the house?’ asked Brook.

‘I don’t think so. She must have taken it with her. I don’t have it. I swear.’

Brook nodded and opened the door to usher out Noble and the Constable.

‘Inspector.’ Brook turned at Watson’s voice. ‘Do you believe in God?’

Brook paused over the question. ‘I don’t have time.’

‘Not a good time to make a statement?’ said Noble, incredulous.

Brook dropped Adele Watson’s two handwritten books back into their evidence bags. ‘Get every page photocopied and on the boards after fingerprinting, then ask Don Crump to run the ESDA over the page beneath the razored pages. We might get a clue about what was on them.’

‘Watson was on the verge of cracking up,’ persisted Noble. ‘What better time to give a statement? That’s when we get the good stuff.’

‘You saw him, John. He hasn’t killed Adele and he hasn’t had sex with her.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘I can’t prove it, no. But I’m a father. You’ll have to trust me on this.’

‘Trust? If he’d carried on, we would have known for sure.’

‘No, we wouldn’t. He’s on the edge. With the levels of guilt he’s carrying, he could say anything incriminating just to make himself feel better. He needs counsel to protect him from himself.’

Noble was silent but no more convinced. Eventually he shrugged. ‘So what then?’

‘Get him a solicitor and give him a cell for the night.’

‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

‘That makes two of us.’ Brook made to leave but turned back. ‘And John, in case his God deserts him, make sure he’s put on Suicide Watch.’

At nine o’clock that night, Brook rapped on the front door of his cottage and marched into the steamy warmth of the kitchen. The delicious smells told him to expect a meal with bacon and onions.

‘Dad. You finished early.’

‘I’ve got an early surveillance tomorrow,’ he replied. ‘And I haven’t finished work tonight.’ He showed her the DVD. ‘I’ve got homework.’

‘ Picnic at Hanging Rock ,’ she said, pulling on a large glass of wine. ‘Good film — is this to do with your case?’

‘It is.’ Brook picked a glass from the drainer and poured out some red wine. There was only half a glass left in the bottle. He spied another open bottle of Merlot already breathing. ‘You know the film?’

‘ Picnic ? It’s beautiful but I don’t want to spoil it for you. Is this about the missing students?’

‘Did it make the news?’ asked Brook.

‘Something on Hicksville FM. And the press conference was on local telly.’

‘Good. Maybe we’ll get some sightings. What are we eating?’

‘Bacon and pearl barley hash,’ she grinned. Brook noticed she seemed a little unsteady on her feet. ‘My own recipe.’

‘Sounds great,’ said Brook, taking a sip of wine. He peeled some notes from his wallet and dropped them on the table. ‘That should cover groceries for the next few days.’

‘Da-ad. You don’t have to.’

‘Yes, I do. I get off easy. No shopping, no cooking, no washing up. I don’t even provide the wine glasses.’

Terri laughed and began serving up.

Twenty minutes later, Brook and Terri were stretched out contentedly in front of his small TV, watching the opening titles of Picnic at Hanging Rock . Brook nursed his wine but Terri seemed to be throwing it down with gusto.

‘How did your writing go today?’

‘Okay,’ she replied, declining to provide details. Brook waited in vain, before turning back to the film. As he’d found out that morning, the film opened with the lines from Edgar Allan Poe, which set the tone for the story to follow. Gradually Brook became absorbed in the story of the mysterious disappearances of three Australian schoolgirls at Hanging Rock and, the best part of two hours later, watched the end credits roll.

‘What are you up to, Adele?’ he said quietly. He looked over at the sleeping form of his daughter on the sofa and smiled. He mulled over the film in silence until he’d finished his wine then stood to switch off all the appliances.

On his way to the kitchen, he sat on the edge of the sofa and brushed Terri’s hair. She responded by shifting her position for greater comfort but as she moved, the sleeve of her top rode up her arm.

Brook’s veins turned to ice when he saw the deep scars on her wrist and he found himself catching at a breath that wasn’t there. After what felt like an eternity staring at his sleeping daughter, he stood, finally able to unlock his eyes from the gnarled skin of the old wound, and crept into the kitchen.

Instead of going to bed, he sat at the table and poured himself another large glass of wine, while the questions tumbled in, one after another. When? Why? His mind was racing but the rest of him was numb.

‘Dad.’

Brook looked up. Terri walked through the door rubbing her eyes open.

‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘You should get some sleep.’

Terri blinked herself awake and stared at his face. Her father looked as if he’d had his insides kicked out. She followed his gaze to her arm and saw the sleeve riding up her wrist. She pulled it back down over her scars.

‘Dad. .’ She was unable to continue. Instead she sat down opposite her father and took a pull on his wine, her eyes searching unsuccessfully for his.

Brook sat as though in a trance, much like Jim Watson earlier, unable to say the simplest three-letter word. Finally Terri rummaged in her handbag, pulling out her cigarettes, lighting one with a shaky hand.

Brook opened his mouth to complain but nothing came out. Instead he lit a cigarette of his own and exhaled with a shuddering sigh. Eventually he managed to say: ‘I have no right. I’m sorry. You don’t need to tell me. Whatever prompted. . well, at some level or another, I have to take the blame. I wasn’t there when you needed me.’ Self-loathing flowed from Brook’s every pore.

‘Dad. .’

‘In fact, I wasn’t there at all, was I?’

‘It’s not your fault, Dad. It just happened.’

‘Does your mother know?’

Terri nodded.

‘What happened?’ Brook felt a sudden dread overwhelm him as the answer arrived before the question was fully formed.

Terri took another sip of Brook’s wine. ‘It was over two years ago. I was depressed.’