Steven Dunne - Deity

Brook skidded to a halt behind the bright green VW. No ambulance. No lights on. Maybe it had been and gone or worse, hadn’t arrived yet. As Brook hurried towards the cottage he heard the sound of an engine block cooling down. He put his hand on the VW. The engine was still warm. He tried the driver’s door but it was locked so he sprinted up to the darkened cottage and burst into the kitchen.

Peeping Tom. Directed in 1960 by Michael Powell, starring Carl Boehm as a serial killer who films people as they die. Cool.

Brook saw the red dot in the shadows and around that a sinister figure sitting at the kitchen table. In spite of the darkness, Brook saw the light.

‘What have you done with my daughter, Ray?’

Brook heard a low chuckle. He leaned back towards the door to snap on the light.

‘Or are you still Rusty?’

Ray grinned back at him, the camcorder covering one eye, a pose Brook recognised from the Facebook picture of Rusty. But where Rusty’s skin had been pale and spotty, Ray looked tanned and healthy and, with the baseball cap still back to front on his head, the blond hair and the beard, Brook could plot Rusty’s transformation into Ray.

‘It’s amazing what you can do with facial hair, a bottle of dye and tinted contact lenses,’ said Ray, his visible eye still squinting as he filmed. ‘And — cut,’ he called, lowering the camcorder and fixing Brook with his blue eyes.

‘Where is she?’ said Brook, moving towards him.

‘Stay where you are or the girl gets it,’ he roared. He had an open laptop on the table in front of him and a finger hovered over the Enter button. A moment later, the grin returned. ‘Film?’

‘Where is she?’ repeated Brook.

‘You’re right,’ beamed Ray. ‘It could be any one of a dozen movies, and not very good ones either. Our denouement promises to be a much classier affair.’

‘Where is she, Ray?’ Brook advanced menacingly.

‘She’s safe,’ said Ray, turning the laptop screen to face Brook. Terri’s image glared back at him. Her eyes were closed and she wore an oxygen mask.

‘Where?’

‘She’s alive and will stay that way if you sit down.’

Brook looked at the screen, where Terri’s chest was rising and falling. There were a couple of tubes leading into the mask and Brook could see small red and green lights flashing next to two small tanks.

‘See those tubes? One is feeding her oxygen as we speak.’ He dangled a finger theatrically. ‘If I press Enter, the tank of cyanide gas will cut in and your daughter will be dead in seconds. Now sit down, we’ve got a lot to get through.’

Brook stared at the monitor. He recognised his bedroom and glanced towards the stairs.

Ray followed Brook’s eyes. ‘By the time you get there, she’ll be dead. Now please sit down.’ He indicated the chair opposite.

Brook gazed at him for a few seconds more, then scraped back the chair and sat.

‘Thank you,’ said Ray.

‘Terri didn’t take any pills.’

‘That was just a ruse,’ smiled Ray. ‘There’s a script in front of you if you want to see it.’

Brook pulled a sheet of A4 paper towards him. Tell him you’re depressed and have taken some pills. v. important — tell him you’ve called an ambulance already.

He pushed it away. ‘Very clever — she says she’s called the ambulance so I don’t do it.’ Brook’s eyes burned into his uninvited guest. ‘Ray, Rusty, what should I call you?’

‘Take your pick, Inspector. I have many names. I’m Moriarty. I’m the Star Child. I’m Horus. I’m Keyser Soze. I’m the Fifth Element. I’m Hanging Rock. I’m Deity. I’m everything and nothing, the unknown, always behind you, always beyond your field of vision.’

‘My daughter. .’

‘Your daughter’s fine. For now.’

Brook glared at him. ‘What do you want, Ray?’

Ray rummaged in a khaki-coloured laptop bag at his feet.

‘You can autograph my book for a start.’ He pulled out a copy of In Search of The Reaper by Brian Burton and slid it across the table. Brook snorted in bitter amusement. When it became clear he was serious, Brook opened the book and wrote a few words in the front before sliding it back across the table.

‘You know, for a star detective, you don’t seem to catch many killers,’ said Ray.

‘You haven’t got away, yet.’

Ray laughed. ‘Killer? Me?’

‘You killed Yvette’s son.’

‘I never laid a finger on that little pansy and I’ve got the photographs to prove it — the same with the others.’

‘Others?’

Ray raised a digit. ‘Getting me talking. Very good.’ He flipped open the book to read the dedication. ‘ You’re sick and need help. Let me help you . Signed Damen Brook .’ Ray looked up and laughed. ‘Maybe Len was right, Damen. Maybe I have underestimated you.’

‘You took Len. Is he with the others?’ Ray nodded. ‘Dead?’

‘I’m not sure. I just finished recording my final message to him before you got here. Then we’ll see. Or rather you will. I’ll be long gone.’

‘And Adele?’

Ray looked at Brook with a mixture of appreciation and curiosity. ‘You single her out?’ He nodded. ‘You feel the same as me. Mesmeric, isn’t she? She’s going to be a great example.’

‘Is? You mean she’s alive?’

‘I mean she will provide ongoing inspiration to all those unhappy souls seeking a solution.’

‘And Kyle and Becky?’

He shrugged. ‘Who cares? Window-dressing. Adele is the key. Adele was my Miranda.’ He looked wistful for a moment. ‘You know, I’ll miss her. She was a good friend.’

They’re dead, you know . ‘So you have killed her.’

For once Ray’s restrained amusement gave way to consternation. ‘Don’t be vulgar, Damen. I’ve told you, I’m not a killer. I help people — help them to see their true value so they can clear their minds and do what has to be done.’

‘You mean you prey on the vulnerable and manoeuvre them towards their deaths. Like Wilson.’

‘Wilson was a bonus. I did him a favour. He threw himself at Yvette so I made him throw himself at the river.’ Ray laughed at his own joke. ‘Will he be missed? I don’t think so. The fat fuck is more famous now than he could ever have dreamed. He should be grateful. He was a bully and a sex-pest. But now the worldwide web has made him a star.’

‘What happened?’

‘After I filmed Kyle’s slapping I followed Wilson back to Yvette’s. He made it so easy for me. Did I kill him? No. Did I offer him mind-altering drugs? Absolutely. But he chose to take them. After that, a few choice words and his own paperedover inadequacies did the rest. He made quite a splash, don’t you think?’

Brook shook his head. ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you doing this? Preying on teenagers on the verge of starting their lives? Is it because they have a future that you can only imagine?’

‘Where’s the fun in emptying out the old people’s homes? That’s no challenge, it’s a public service,’ Ray said. ‘But those with their whole lives in front of them. . getting them to step off is very rewarding.’

‘Because they have prospects that you were denied,’ snarled Brook. ‘You’re another orphan, aren’t you? Only you got bitter and twisted because people didn’t worship the ground you walked on. They couldn’t see how special you were. Is that how you hooked up with Yvette — two needy, grasping narcissists against the world?’

Ray’s face hardened. ‘And so the cheap psychoanalysis begins.’ In a whining voice he said, ‘ It all started when I got a taste for pulling the legs off insects, Doctor. Pretty soon I moved on to drowning cats . .’ He couldn’t continue for laughing. ‘I wouldn’t expect a stupid policeman to understand.’