Steven Dunne - Deity

‘Why?’

‘Because he’d rather die on the electric chair and be famous than live in obscurity for the rest of his life. Think that’s what Russell and the others were planning?’

‘Well, they’re more famous than they were a week ago.’

The press conference was now featured on the national news channels, as were parts of the two internet films from the Deity broadcasts. They didn’t carry the appeal for information about the suspect in The Embalmer case although it went out after the main news on the local East Midlands bulletins.

‘They’ve found their audience,’ said Terri, looking up from the Sylvia Plath book. ‘Are you feeling okay, Dad?’

He snapped out of his reverie and switched off the TV. ‘Bit of a headache.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

Brook padded into the kitchen for some tablets and returned to sink into a chair with the photocopies from Adele’s diary. He swallowed two aspirins with a gulp of Aberlour to wash them down. ‘I can’t help thinking I’ve seen The Embalmer’s face before last night — except it’s wrong.’

‘Wrong? What’s wrong?’

‘The face.’

‘Looked pretty regulation to me,’ said Terri. Then: ‘Listen to this, Dad.’ She read ‘Suicide Off Egg Rock’ from the Plath anthology. When she finished the line I am, I am, I am , she said, ‘Need I say more?’

Brook nodded thoughtfully. ‘Adele wrote the same line in the front of her diary.’

‘You still won’t let me read it?’

Brook grimaced. ‘There’s a big difference between giving your impressions on her collection of books or Russell’s taste in films and actually looking through their thoughts.’

‘I don’t see it.’

‘But I do. I’ve been doing this a long time and, believe me, putting yourself in someone’s head is not healthy. Doubly so if that person’s a victim. Or a killer. I’ll let you know if I need advice on something. That reminds me. What does,’ he checked a detail in Adele’s diary, ‘WGAF mean to you?’

‘Who gives a fuck?’ she answered.

‘I do.’

‘No, I mean. .’ Terri pushed back her chair at first sight of her father’s grin. ‘Very funny. I’m tired. If I’m driving you in early tomorrow, I’d better get some sleep.’

Brook got out of the chair. ‘Good idea. Night, darling.’ He turned at the door. ‘And Terri, you’ve already helped me a lot.’

She smiled at him. ‘Night, Dad.’

Brook closed the living-room door and sat at the kitchen table to read more of Adele’s diary. When he picked it up, he noticed the word Diary had been split by a hyphen added in the middle of the word. Di-ary. Why? Brook held it away from him. Di — could she be a female friend? Was Adele personalising her memoirs to make the diary an imaginary comrade?

He opened it at the first passage again. The entry was for I January 2011 but Adele had crossed out every date of every entry and replaced it with Some number, some month. WGAF?

Believe nothing. It’s not real. None of it. It pours out of the screen. And the idiots suck it up. Mums and dads, neighbours too. Look at their faces, all aglow, deformed by defeat.

‘Hallelujah. We believe.’

Here is the news. Drive to work, drive back, sit for hours plugged into the stream of stuff flowing from the tube. The surrender of life, the move from first hand to second. A headshake here, a tut there, a ‘serves them bloody well right’ somewhere else. There’s a Japanese earthquake but it’s not real. How can it be? We’re not there. There’s no tsunami. Those poor people. Look at them run. Now that’s entertainment.

A girl’s body is found. They put up the maps. It’s real. It happened here. It could happen to you. I wish it would. I’d be a star. Mum’s mouth sags in awe. ‘I’ve driven on that road. Who would’ve thought?’ No one, why start now?

Bedtime. Turn it off. The Machine Stops. Time to wake up. Time to dream. No time for reality, a better world beckons from the pillow. Even waking is a dream. A dream that today will be better, kinder, full of love and hope.

The real wake-up beckons. ‘Have a nice day, dear.’ ‘You too.’ And the hours start to die, killing the day. It’s over. File it with the others. U for Unmemorable, Unreal. Unrepeatable? If only.

Same old world. Not waking is the answer. Dream forever. Like the Lady of Shallot, I am half sick of shadows.

My hand is real. I examine it as I write. My body is real. My vagina is real. My breasts are real. I can still feel AR’s weight on top of me, inside me. My whole being throbbing. Lungs filling. Such exquisite pain. I am, I am, I am.

Brook turned the page to a fresh entry.

Dad’s face when I told Mum I was going out with someone (AR). I could almost hear the blood rushing to his head. He was in the next room but I didn’t have to shout. He listens to everything I say with bated breath. Words are so powerful. To think the word ‘boyfriend’ can deliver such a kick in the teeth. It was all I could do not to march in there and laugh in his spluttering face. And Mother? Stupid bitch. She doesn’t even know what her man is thinking, wanting. I could’ve kept AR secret and let Dad keep hoping, but I need to crush his heart now. I can’t go on. I can’t stand being around him. My own father. He comes to stand next to me just to smell me, like I’m prey. I’ve ignored his sly looks at my body too long, his enthusiastic hugs. Think I don’t know you lie on my bed when I’m not home, Dad? Give it up. I don’t want to dress like a nun around you. I don’t want to cover my tits. Cover your eyes, old man. Cover your eyes.

Brook read the last entry again. Jim Watson was telling the truth. Surely he would have removed that last section, had he been censoring his daughter’s thoughts. The missing pages must have been cut by someone else. Adele? It seemed likely.

Brook picked up the ESDA copy of the page below the absent pages. The technicians had not picked up all the text with the Electrostatic Detection Apparatus but there was enough to show that Adele had created the script for the leaflet. Live Forever. Immortal. Beautiful . She’d written the same words several times in a variety of ways, presumably as a design exercise.

Brook turned back to the diary and read other entries.

A strange boy joined our literature group. Russell Thomson. He hardly speaks and he can’t bear to look people in the eye. He has a camcorder on his wrist and doesn’t take it off. He looks like he has Special Needs and even Wilson thinks he’s smarter than him but he’s wrong. There’s something about him. I don’t know. It’s like he knows something that the rest of us can never know and he’s just working out a way to explain it to us. I saw him with his mum the other day. She’s beautiful and it’s hard to imagine the two are related. Wilson saw her too and was all over her like a ten year old with a toffee apple. He says he’s going to pop her if it’s the last thing he does. Bad boy. Dirty boy.

Then it was back to her relationship with Rifkind and the passion spilled off the page again.

Adam Fucking Rifkind. No more secrecy. No more sneaking around. No more AR code, Adam Fucking Rifkind. I should Facebook the shit out of your guilty secret, then where would you be? You think you’re a god to women. Is that why you don’t want me and say you don’t love me? You only love yourself. You want your slag of a wife and the brand new screaming receptacle of piss and shit she’s carrying. Fuck you, Adam Rifkind. (Good title for a poem.) Fuck everything about you. And another thing. Your novel is shit. You think you’re God’s gift to literature. You’re not. No more suggestions from me. Or is that the point? I’ve cured your infantile story, put a line through the puerile, and you don’t need me now.