She hung up. Deepak was staring at her.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, ma’am.’
She knew what he was thinking. He had his disapproving face on again. She ignored it. She had enjoyed hearing Mickey’s voice. He was a nice guy. But she shunted it off into a corner of her mind once more. She had work to do.
A murderer to find.
30
The Golem had moved rooms. He was still in the house and waiting for instructions, but claiming the time as his own.
It was something he had to do every day. Spend time alone to meditate. Recharge. Rediscover his past self, make peace with it and in doing so reveal his forward path. His employers all knew he did this. They accepted, understood and allowed him time, even building it into their schedules. He delivered a very specific service. He had to do it in his own way.
But there was another reason for wanting to be alone. He wanted to get away from the Sloanes. Or Dee Sloane in particular. He thought again of her bloodied teeth, her lithe body. Her need to be dominated, to be broken, and her desire for him to be the one to do it. It was something he could do easily. And enjoy it.
But he was working.
He shut the door behind him. It closed with a satisfyingly heavy click, shutting him off. He stood in the centre of the room. Slowed his breathing down. Took in his surroundings.
The room was virtually bare. A spare room that hadn’t been filled with anything. Considering their wealth, the Sloanes didn’t seem to have accumulated much debris or clutter in their lives. The Golem interpreted that as them living in the present, not allowing the past to weigh them down. He approved of that.
He closed the blind, blocking out the day, removed his T-shirt and boots, sat down on the floor, straight- backed, and crossed his legs. He slowly inhaled through his nostrils, filtering out the smells around him, concentrating on only pure air. He brought up the image of the red spot like he had been taught. Focused on it, stared at it in his mind’s eye. The day died away around him. He heard only the symphony playing within himself.
He felt his heart valves open, the unclean blood being taken in, the locks and chambers filling, emptying, filtering, the good, purified blood punching its way round his system, cleansing him, renewing him, healing him.
When he had counted enough heartbeats, when he was sure enough blood had been circulated, he allowed the ritual to begin.
Silence.
He stayed where he was, his consciousness focused only within himself. He saw his mother’s face and gave an involuntary gasp. His mother’s screaming face.
His other life. When he had a name. Before he was just the Golem.
He was back in the room as it shook from falling bombs. He heard more screams, more empty, hopeless prayers. His childhood, a time when hope of independence and self-determination for Bosniaks like his family soon turned into hate. When Milosevic’s Bosnian Serb army attacked them, turning neighbours to foes. Legitimising hatred. When being born in Srebenica was the worst thing that could have happened.
Ethnic cleansing. A simple, clean phrase that hid a horrific truth. Rape. Torture. Murder. It was what the Serbs and the Yugoslav People’s Army had done to his family. The ones they hadn’t killed were herded into camps. The ones who survived the camps were damaged beyond belief.
Like him.
His mother, his sisters had been raped and mutilated before they died. His father murdered. And he felt that he had died along with them. He no longer felt human; he burned with a righteous anger and a hunger for revenge.
The war had ended in 1995. But it would never end for him. He rebuilt himself. Turned himself into a killing machine. Kept focused on tracking down the Serbs responsible for his family’s death. He popped pills, took vitamin supplements. Kept himself clean, fit. And as his body became bigger and harder, it also changed colour. He turned grey.
At first he hated it, couldn’t bear to look in the mirror. But gradually he came to accept it. He felt dead inside, and grey was the right colour for a dead man. The nickname soon followed. Golem. Made of clay, the mythical saviour of the Warsaw ghetto. He liked that. Kept it.
Eventually he was primed and ready to kill. And he did so. He couldn’t track down those responsible for his family’s death, so he attacked anyone who had been in the war on the side of the Serbs. It was messy, violent. And it didn’t bring him the peace he thought it would.
But it did bring him to the attention of people who could use his services. Drug barons. People-traffickers. Gangsters. At first he wanted nothing to do with them, but eventually he gave in. He was a killing machine with no one to kill. Why not get paid for it?
He didn’t enjoy it, though. He didn’t know if his victims deserved it or not. And it plagued him. So he sought help, and found it in meditation. And now he had reached a still point. A place within where he could do his job and absolve himself of guilt afterwards. A way for a dead man to live with himself.
There was a sound behind him. The door opened, closed again.
His mind tunnelled quickly back from the past, barrelled down towards the present. Refocused on the red spot … then out. Back in the world once more.
‘Hello.’
He turned, his vision jarred by his enforced return to the present, and saw who it was. Dee Sloane, standing against the door. Unbuttoning her blouse.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ She undid another button. Her eyes travelled down his body, roamed over his naked chest. ‘You’ve started without me.’ She moved nearer to him. Slowly, each spike heel hitting the floor with a deliberate crack, like a bolt from a predator’s crossbow hitting the bullseye.
He remained where he was. Tried not to respond to her.
‘I know what you wanted,’ she said. ‘I could see it in your eyes. You tried to hide it, but I always know when someone wants me.’
Her blouse fell to the floor beside him. He didn’t move his head upwards.
‘You do want me. I know you do.’
