Deity

‘Let’s hope she doesn’t remember you,’ said Brook, ignoring his daughter’s insinuating tone.

But Terri wasn’t to be deflected. ‘Are you and her. .?’ She tilted her head suggestively.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Brook. ‘She’s part of an investigation. Her son is missing and she’s very vulnerable. That would be opportunism of the worst kind.’

‘But if she wasn’t involved in a case?’ Brook concentrated on the road. ‘Taking the fifth on that one, Damen? Well, she’s certainly pretty.’ Brook wasn’t to be tempted into an answer. ‘And far too attractive for that dirty old Len. Did you see the way he looked me over?’

‘I did. But he may just be Slab Happy.’

‘Pardon?’

‘He used to be a pathologist. It’s a habit in people who work with the dead. They assess people’s height and weight. Just in case. They don’t know they’re doing it.’

Terri pulled a face. ‘Gruesome.’

‘What about Russell? Did you get a feel for him?’

‘Sort of. There’s a poster missing. Do you know what it was?’

‘No. Miss Thomson couldn’t remember.’

‘Pity. And without books he’s a tough read but, no books,’ she raised an eyebrow, ‘that’s significant in itself.’

‘How?’

‘He’s more of a plotter than a thinker.’

‘Plotter?’

‘Director would be a better word. Probably where he gets his love of films.’

‘Go on.’

‘Look, this may be completely offbeam. He may just be a film buff and his tastes may be completely random. .’

‘But?’

‘But if you were to assume his character from the posters in his room, there are one or two pointers. The Blair Witch Project, for instance. Did you know the makers built its reputation by using the internet? They created a website that treated the disappearance of three students investigating reports of a supernatural entity, as a real event.’ Brook looked at her. ‘I know. Spooky, eh?’

‘And people got hooked on the mystery like they are with Deity?’

‘Exactly.’

‘What happened to the students in the end?’

‘It was a bit vague but I think they died.’

Brook nodded. ‘Similar to Picnic at Hanging Rock. Anything else?’

‘Have you seen Badlands?’

‘Actually I have. I saw it with your mother a long time ago. I can’t remember much about it.’

‘It’s about a mindless teenage killer played by Martin Sheen. He’s on the run and heading for the Canadian border and safety.’

‘Go on,’ said Brook, trying to remember.

‘He’s getting away — just a few miles from the border — but suddenly he stops and shoots out his tyres.’

‘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