Deity didb-3

by Steven Dunne

  Deity

  ( D. I. Damen Brook - 3 )

  Steven Dunne

  Steven Dunne

  Deity

  One

  January — three years ago

  ‘How far, Ian?’ asked the smaller boy as he swung the rucksack on to the grass, narrowly missing a clump of dried sheep muck.

  ‘A few hundred yards. See that bend in the river?’ Ian raised an arm to indicate the curve of the water. ‘Just past there.’ He rummaged in a pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Want one?’ he asked as he lit the end of his and inhaled a huge belt of smoke. His friend shook his head. Ian then produced a half-bottle of cheap vodka from his back pocket and spun off the cap. He took a long gulp and grimaced as he swallowed then breathed hard through the fumes. He offered the bottle to his companion who hesitated for a second then took it from him.

  ‘Why the hell not?’ He took an even longer draught than Ian and pulled an equally pained expression at the taste before handing the bottle back. He felt carefully around the light stubble on his face. ‘How do people drink that stuff? My face is numb.’

  ‘That’s why.’ Ian grinned.

  They walked on, one behind the other, treading carefully along the muddy rabbit path that hugged the river. The water was fast and fierce from winter rains and sounded like the blood in their eardrums. The ground was damp and slippery and the pair lapsed back into silence as they picked their way along.

  At the bend, Ian struck away from the path towards a large sturdy tree. Once there, he took out his cigarettes and vodka and tossed them to the smaller boy. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’ With that he set about climbing the tree, keeping his own rucksack on his back while the smaller boy picked up the vodka and took another tentative swig.

  A few minutes later, Ian jumped down beside his companion and hauled off his rucksack. ‘All set.’ He took out a camera and pointed it at his friend who posed with the vodka and took another pull. ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  ‘You got enough pictures?’

  ‘Plenty. They’ll lap it up.’

  The other boy smiled and nodded, then looked back down to the river. ‘Nice day, this.’

  ‘The best,’ retorted Ian.

  The small boy turned and began to climb while Ian lit a cigarette and adjusted the camera for the piercing winter light. He walked away from the tree then turned to wave at his friend, who was nearly in position.

  When he was ready, the boy raised an arm to acknowledge. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ shouted Ian from the ground.

  The boy steadied his footing on the branch and looked out over the countryside. He had a fantastic view down the river — he could see the bridge and, beyond that, the otter dam. He even fancied he could see the tower of the Town Hall clock. His eyes darted further round to a dog scrabbling at a mole hill on a bank on the other side of the water. It was a Springer Spaniel — lovely dogs. ‘Nice day,’ he repeated, smiling.

  He closed his eyes and stepped off the branch, even remembering to have I love you, Mum in his thoughts as he hurtled towards the ground. As he fell, he was sure he could hear the whirring of the camera. Wait till his tormentors saw the pictures. Then they’d know.

  A second later, the tree shuddered as the snap of his neck ended his fall.

  The rope held. Ian was pleased. Everything had gone well. He put the camera to his eye to take the money shots. ‘Everyone will know you, my friend. Everyone will envy you.’

  Two

  Tuesday, 17 May — present day

  The man placed the final cone across Station Road and propped up the Road Closed sign facing Borrowash to the north. No traffic would be crossing the bridges in this Derbyshire village for the next half-hour. At first he’d considered blocking the road a precaution too far on such a minor route, especially at three in the morning, but when disposing of the dead, nothing was too much trouble.

  He walked calmly back to the vehicle, climbed in and, without turning on the engine, rolled back down the slope over the railway bridge. Having reversed into the drive of a lone farmhouse, barely visible through the trees, he turned the ignition and drove slowly back on to the second bridge, spanning the River Derwent, before coming to a halt.

  He skipped out, leaving the engine running, opened the back doors and pulled out the trolley. The metal legs unfolded and the man pushed the trolley to the low bridge wall. He stepped down on the brake. The pale waxy body was a late-middle-aged male, naked apart from the loincloth covering his genitalia. The man bent his head over the corpse, sniffing along its length. He caressed the dead face with latex fingers then rubbed them together, feeling the waxy film of make-up lubricate his gloves.

  Finally he stood, a crooked smile on his face, and ran his fingers through the corpse’s washed and trimmed hair.

  ‘Good as new.’ He checked the stitching on the man’s flank then prepared to lift the body. The scars beneath the corpse’s nose drew the man’s eye and he frowned. ‘Nobody’s perfect.’ He placed his hands under the body and rolled it off the trolley and over the bridge wall, sending it crashing into the swirling water below. A couple of horses, grazing in a dark field, lifted their heads towards the noise for a moment before resuming their meal.

  He watched the body disappear and an inert arm seemed to wave a last lazy farewell as it sank.

  ‘Travel safe through the dark waters of chaos, my friend.’

  After a moment transfixed by the soothing rhythms of the water, he rolled the trolley back into the vehicle and closed the doors, then walked the 100 yards back to the railway bridge to stack the cones on to the pavement. He left the cones in a pile — they wouldn’t be noticed — but carried the Road Closed sign over to his vehicle and shoved it into the back.

  Driving half a mile south towards Elvaston Castle on the dark highway, the man drew to a halt at another line of cones blocking the road. Once again, he skipped out, this time stacking both the cones and the Road Closed sign neatly in the back of the vehicle then drove on into the night.

  Three

  Wednesday, 18 May

  JIM WATSON SAT MOTIONLESS IN the dark warmth of his living room, listening to his wife’s rasping snore. The pulse of the TV flickered in the corner, providing the only light source in the room. The volume was barely audible.

  Watson wasn’t looking at the screen and he wasn’t listening to the programme — but to turn off the set, or even mute the sound, might disturb the ether in which his wife was cocooned and he couldn’t risk waking her.

  He exhaled deeply and, without moving his head, flicked his eyes resentfully towards her sleeping form on the sofa. Her mouth hung open, allowing a glimpse of the yellowed teeth she normally kept hidden behind the tight-lipped grimace that deformed her face these days. A strand of lank greying hair, matted against her cheek, flirted with the notion of trailing into her mouth, and had it not been certain to rouse her, Watson would have derived a malicious pleasure from seeing her gag on it.

  He glanced at the clock for the hundredth time then returned his sullen gaze to his wife. Well past midnight and still the cow waited him out, enveloped in her grey shroud of a dressing-gown.

  Watson was caught between two stools. Should he wake her up and push her off to bed half-asleep or leave her be, and hope she’d sleep through? Through what? A half-smile of anticipation creased his mouth but died at once, as his wife turned slightly on the cushions. The grubby towelling robe she insisted on wearing of a night threatened to mimic her mouth by falling open at the breast to reveal the flesh that once had enflamed, but now so disgusted him.

  James Henry Watson was forty years old and this was his life. He turned away, repulsed. His aging wife had let herself go so completely, so wilfully, that just to look at her sic
kened him. And yet his disgust at her couldn’t hold a candle to the loathing he inflicted on himself for hitching his life to hers. His harridan of a wife was an old woman at thirty-eight, and to make matters worse, he was still hard and handsome. When he scrubbed up for a night on the town, he could feel female eyes on him, assessing him, suppressing their desire as well as their bewilderment at the shrivelled hag on his arm.

  In his building clothes he looked even better. In his check shirt, arse-clenching, slashed-knee jeans and scuffed Timberland boots, slightly weathered like his rugged features, he was a sight for sore housewives. Well toned and tanned from outdoor work with just a slash of grey in his curly blond hair, he was the recipient of open flirting and innuendo over endless cups of tea, while his five-pound-an-hour labourers nodded and winked at him behind the women’s backs.

  Bored thirty-somethings with a bit of money were the most persistent. Often they were lonely and frustrated and aware of time slipping through their fingers, their allure dimming with every passing month, and only so much shopping and daytime TV could defray the monotony of their lives.

  Many a time, while demonstrating his mastery of the finer points of conservatory bases to their baffled but adoring faces, he could feel their eyes wandering over his hard body, wanting him, daring him to undo his shirt so they could pull their expensively manicured nails across his bare chest.

  But did he stoop to such betrayal despite the temptation, despite the many offers, despite the provocations from his acidic wife? Never. Jim Watson swelled with righteous indignation. He had taken an oath before God that he would never stray from the path of unswerving loyalty to his wedding vows. And he never had. But that only made it all the more galling to endure the daily servings of spite and suspicion from his wife’s poisonous lips.

  I know what these rich bitches are like, sitting around the house all day, dolling themselves up and looking for a cheap thrill. Think I don’t see the way they look at you. I better not catch you. .

  Watson drew in another deep breath. God knew how he suffered. God knew Jim Watson was owed.

  Finally he heard the noise he’d been expecting outside the house but, instead of his daughter’s footfall, Watson heard a car glide to a halt. The engine sounded powerful as it idled, as though it were trying not to be noticed. Watson waited, ears pricked. He eased himself from his armchair and tiptoed to the curtain to pull it aside, and caught a raised voice followed by muffled wailing. Then he saw his daughter slam the door of a sleek sports car before turning to run to the house, while the sports car — a Porsche — roared away with a squeal of burning tyres.

  Watson crept to the door as quietly as he could manage, all the while eying the snoring harpy on the sofa. He snuck out of the living room and gently pulled the door closed behind him, waiting in the blackness at the foot of the stairs.

  A key turned in the latch and Adele stepped through the door and, after closing it, leaned her slim languid body against it as though holding back intruders. She looked to the heavens and released an intense sigh. Watson fancied he saw a tear wiped as he watched from the shadows. Her breathing was harsh and snatched as she fought for control but, after a few moments of puffing and panting, equilibrium returned and finally she was able to pull her frame upright from the door.

  Still Watson watched from the gloom of the hall as his daughter ran a hand to her forehead, pushing it through her soft dark hair and down past the perfect curve of her neck. She took a final deep breath and straightened herself as though a decision had been taken, a course of action defined.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she breathed.

  ‘Was that him?’ said Watson, emerging from the dark.

  Adele Watson started when she heard him and fumbled for a switch. A striplight flickered into life, unforgiving in its illumination.

  ‘Dad. What are you doing up this late?’ Adele attempted a smile to imply normality, though she couldn’t hold his eyes.

  ‘I should say the same to you, love.’ Watson stepped into the harsh kitchen glare and closed a second door on his wife. ‘Was that him — your guilty secret?’

  ‘Guilty? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he’s got a car, hasn’t he? A Porsche, if I’m not mistaken. You didn’t mention that before. He hasn’t driven up to the house either or I’d have known it.’ Adele looked away. ‘What have you got to say for yourself, young lady?’

  ‘I’m eighteen, Dad. It’s none of your business.’

  ‘You’re in sixth form, girl — for a while yet. You live in my house and you have no income. That makes it my business.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she retorted, with an attempt at haughtiness.

  ‘Well, I do think so, and I’ll thank you not to take that tone with me.’

  Adele’s expression betrayed the preparation of further defiance but she side-stepped it. ‘This is silly,’ she said and made for the door. Watson moved to block her way.

  ‘Answer me.’

  ‘Answer you what?’

  ‘He’s got an expensive car.’

  ‘Is that a question?’

  Watson sneered at his beautiful daughter. ‘Don’t take that high hand or you’ll know my wrath. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s a friend,’ she answered coyly, after a few seconds.

  ‘A friend?’ he snorted back. ‘You have a friend who drives an expensive car and you haven’t mentioned him to us.’

  Adele sighed, her eyes searching for a way to the stairs. ‘Dad, I’m tired.’

  ‘With a car like that, he must be a lot older than you, Ade.’

  ‘Dad . .’

  ‘And I know what that means. You think I don’t? Men like him — I know what he wants. I know what he expects . .’ He tailed off, unable to say the words.

  ‘And what’s that?’ Adele flashed back, her dark eyes now smouldering into his.

  Watson flinched as the blackest thoughts in his mind sought the right words. Eventually, sanitised, they emerged. ‘Older men with money want certain things from beautiful girls. Am I right?’

  Adele hesitated. She knew the information he was seeking but also knew it was better to withhold it. ‘He’s not that much older,’ she lied. She saw him take a crumb of comfort but was sickened by her own weakness. Tell him you’re in love. Tell him about the sex. Tell him you’re no longer a virgin. She looked hard at her father, almost enjoying his anguish suddenly. ‘Besides, I’m a woman now. I can make my own choices.’

  Watson clenched a fist as his face contorted and Adele took a step back. ‘Tell me who he is,’ he seethed, but still with the presence of mind to keep the volume down.

  ‘No.’ Adele made to move around him but he grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

  ‘Tell me,’ he repeated, this time with a half-turn to the door behind him to ensure continued privacy.

  Adele looked angrily at her father. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Tell me who he is.’

  She wriggled from his grasp and backed away but Watson followed her and trapped her against the kitchen sink. ‘Tell me,’ he insisted, grabbing her wrists and looking down at her full figure pushing against the fabric of her low-cut T-shirt.

  ‘Please, Dad.’

  Watson moved his body against her and forced her back against the cold steel of the drainer. ‘Then tell me. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s not you,’ she hissed, her face contorted into the expression of contempt, well-grooved on teenage faces.

  As though physically slapped, Watson’s head flew back and his grip slackened. Adele was able to push him away. ‘What does that mean, Ade? I’m your father. I love you. I only want the best for you.’

  ‘The best? I’ve seen the way-’ Adele broke off and trained her gaze to the linoleum to avoid further confrontation, then looked to the door to close the conversation. ‘I’m tired,’ she said again.

  ‘You’re tired?’ Watson snapped back at her, laughing, ready to fling more vitriol. ‘What right have you got to be tired? You’ve never done a da
y’s work in your life. Sitting around in classrooms, writing poems — that’s not work. I work all God’s hours to provide for you and your mother and not a word of thanks. Money for your A-level books, money for your university courses next year, no doubt. More books, more expense.’ Again he ran his eye over her well-endowed figure adorned by designer T-shirt and jeans, tan leather Chelsea boots on her feet. She blanched under his gaze. ‘Even the clothes you wear belong to me and your mother, and don’t you forget it.’

  Adele’s discomfort turned to sudden anger and her eyes started to water. ‘You want them back? Here.’ She began to pull the T-shirt over her head, exposing her bra.

  ‘Stop that.’ He grabbed her arm to prevent the T-shirt revealing more flesh. ‘Have you no shame before God?’

  ‘Shame?’ She laughed bitterly in his face. ‘Hell, yes, I’ve got plenty of that, Dad.’

  Watson’s face creased in pain and he couldn’t look at her. ‘Don’t be like that, angel. I don’t want the clothes off your back.’

  ‘Then what do you want? Tell me what I owe you. Give me a bill. You’ll get every penny back.’

  Watson’s voice softened and he held his arms wide. ‘Baby, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, you’re so young, so vulnerable and yet you’re becoming . . soon you’re not gonna need your old dad any more. What’ll I do then?’

  ‘You’ll still have Mum.’

  ‘And don’t I know it.’ He smiled weakly at her. ‘How about a hug for your old man?’

  ‘I told you — I’m really tired, Dad. I’ve got college tomorrow.’ A sliver of doubt crossed her features for a second. Can I face it now?

  ‘What’s one little hug between Daddy and daughter? We used to have plenty of hugs.’ Adele looked away. ‘Is your boy-friend the only one you can hug these days?’ Watson sneered.

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend any more, Dad.’ Adele looked at him through her tears. The tears turned to sobs, and as she stood shaking in the cruel light, Watson gathered her into his arms and pressed her head on to his shoulder.