Steven Dunne - Deity

‘Hurry up, Len. Or you can stay there and rot.’

Poole took another deep breath. The heat in this part of the building was oppressive and Poole unzipped and discarded his tracksuit top. His bottoms stank worse but he couldn’t remove them and retain the dignity he so cherished.

He crept onwards. The light became brighter with each watchful step. He passed a fourth room, which was lighter than the others. No coffin. No sarcophagus. But there was a chair. A chair that sat beneath a rope which dangled from an iron cross-girder above.

‘Last chance, Len.’

With improved visibility, Poole quickened his step towards the light, turned another corner and stopped in dismay. Instead of a way out, the dim light that drew him on belonged to a laptop open on a small folding table. A grinning face greeted him from the monitor.

‘Hi, Len.’ The young man beamed happily from the screen.

Poole tried to place the face. ‘Who are you?’

The talking head spoke, fake emotion distorting his voice. ‘Dad, don’t you know me?’

Puzzled, Poole squinted at the screen. ‘Rusty?’

‘Give the man a cigar.’

‘Jesus. You look different. What have you done to your face?’

‘I’ve had a makeover, Dad.’

‘Just who the hell are you?’

Rusty grinned again. ‘Who was I last week or who am I next week?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘That’s the idea, Dad.’

‘Don’t call me that. I’m not your father.’

‘One reason I don’t have your cowardly genes.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not a victim, Len. Not like your progeny — not like little baby Russell. You didn’t work it out yet?’

‘What have you done with him?’

Rusty shook his head mournfully. ‘He didn’t make it, Pop.’

‘What do you mean? He’s dead?’

‘As a dodo.’

Poole nodded. ‘I did wonder. Did you kill my son?’

‘Your son,’ sneered Rusty. ‘Like you gave a shit.’

Poole pulled in a huge tired breath. ‘It doesn’t mean I’m happy he’s dead. Did you kill him?’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Len. I didn’t touch him. Russell killed himself. Despite sucking on the teat of your generous patronage, your son just didn’t have the stones for modern life.’

‘And Kyle and the others? Did you kill them too?’

Rusty just smiled. Poole watched as he leaned forward and reappeared with a pint of beer in his hand, taking a couple of gulps before putting it back down. The sun was shining in the background. Poole guessed he was in a beer garden.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ said Rusty, wiping a sleeve over his top lip. ‘You’re not having a lot of luck with your offspring, are you, Len?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, your real son killed himself and your future stepson was a whining, self-absorbed faggot. .’

‘Was?’

‘I’m all the family you have left.’

‘What have you done to Kyle?’

‘I’d worry about you, Len. Your death will be much slower if you don’t pull your finger out. You seen the size of those rats? Scared the living shit out of me, they did.’

‘So you’re going to kill me too.’

‘Again with the melodrama. I don’t kill, Len. I just help people realise how worthless they are, and then let them make their own decisions.’ He raised the pint to his lips again and looked behind him. ‘It’s a beautiful day. Makes you feel glad to be alive. I’ll miss Derbyshire, it’s really. . elemental.’ He raised a hand in mock apology. ‘Sorry. I’m here catching a beer and some rays and you’re stuck in there with a dead lunatic. I assume he’s safely on his way.’

‘You mean the green-faced nut job? He’s dead, all right.’

‘Man, he actually went with that make-up?’ Rusty shook his head and laughed. ‘Gotta hand it to Lee — the guy didn’t do things by halves.’

‘He was ill, wasn’t he?’

‘Lung cancer, he told me.’

‘So he topped himself to avoid a slow and painful death,’ said Poole. ‘He can’t have been that crazy.’

Rusty gazed back at Poole from the monitor. ‘Indeed.’

‘So what now?’

‘It’s time to get to work, Len.’

‘Work?’

‘Well, Lee rather hoped, in his befuddled way, that he’d become immortal.’ Rusty grinned. ‘You could say he’d set his heart on it — and several others too,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘That’s why you’re there, Len. To make him live forever.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve got all the knowledge, Len. The tools are there. Work it out.’

‘You want me to embalm him?’

‘There you go. Anubis — God of Embalming,’ he said with great solemnity, before breaking into laughter. ‘There should be cloth and bandages as well. He wants full mummification.’

‘I don’t have those skills.’

‘Really? Well, you better develop them because if he’s not processed in twenty-four hours you’ll die there. In case you hadn’t noticed, the whole building has been specially rigged. As soon as Lee put his Egyptian costume on, he would have sealed you both in — just like they used to do in the pyramids. There is an escape route, but that also seals twenty-four hours after his death. Something to do with sand trickling out of a tank. It’s very dramatic, Len. Well, you can’t be too careful with all the tomb raiders roaming the badlands of Erewash Borough.’

‘Twenty-four hours?’

Rusty looked at his watch. ‘Actually less now, as you kept me waiting. Lee said the whole embalming should take about three days but I’m on a bit of a schedule, so chop chop.’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘See what I did there.’

‘You’re crazier than he is.’

‘Name-calling won’t help you, Len. So get to work.’

‘How will you know if I’ve done it or not?’

‘The Eye of Horus sees all,’ he bellowed grandly, before lapsing into mirth again.

‘Horus?’

‘Son of Osiris.’ Rusty shrugged. ‘Lee liked it when I played along.’

‘And what if I don’t finish in time?’

‘You will. Then tomorrow I’ll be here to tell you the way out. Now don’t hang about, out with the blood, the guts and the brain.’

‘The brain? I didn’t see a cranial saw.’

‘Well, that’s not how the ancients did it, Len. Don’t you know anything? There should be a long brass hook which you push up the nose to chop up the brain. He made it himself — quite brilliant. Then you pull the bits out with the hook. I shouldn’t be telling you all this — just soft-hearted, I guess. Which reminds me — leave the heart in. He needs it for the journey.’ Rusty chortled again. ‘I ask you.’

‘What a fucking headcase.’

‘Headcase,’ sniggered Rusty. ‘See? You’re getting the idea.’ He held up a hand in apology.

‘Why are you going to all this trouble for him?’

‘It’s not like me, as you know. Or rather don’t. Lee’s been a big help and I promised him. I couldn’t have got Project Deity off the ground without him.’ Rusty’s face hardened. ‘Besides, I couldn’t let you get away without paying for the way you treated Yvette, not to mention the attack on me.’

‘Serves you right,’ sneered Poole, managing to resurrect a little righteous indignation. ‘I hope it hurt.’

‘More shock than pain,’ said Rusty, rubbing his neck and finding his grin again. ‘But you know what? It worked out perfectly. Bit of a fluke really. The camera caught the whole thing and with a bit of judicial editing, it actually looks like I’d been killed. Inspector Brook will be scratching his head for weeks.’

‘Brook scratching his head? You don’t know him, son.’ Poole smiled. ‘He’s a lot smarter than you think.’