It took Derek a while to reply. He stayed up until two in the morning, writing and deleting, drinking a few cans of beer. He clicked through a few websites. He walked to his bedroom and retrieved a photograph of Carol. He put everything into the message, his hurt and frustration, his need. It was the angriest, most honest thing he had written in his entire life, and the next morning, he hardly dared turn on the computer. When he did, he found a message waiting for him. “Foreplay is over,” the subject field read. The text of the body gave instructions for where they would meet: next Saturday, on the high street in Bromley. Derek would collect Janice from the high street, outside a large chemists. “I can promise you the time of your life."
That morning, he showered, soaping himself with a gel fragranced with menthol and vanilla. He shaved with care and precision, clipping excess hairs from his nostrils with a small pair of silver scissors, filing his fingernails. He dressed and ate breakfast; it was still two hours until he had to meet Janice. The life that had been opened up to him—this subculture, as Sneddon had called it—felt more comforting than he could have imagined. If this works out, he told himself, it is quite possible that I will have achieved happiness. I have a decent home. My job is an irritation at times, but the money is acceptable. If this part of my life is made complete, it is quite possible that I will never want for anything again.
For a while, he watched the television news. The presenter talked about the war, about a disaster in Africa, a fire in a monastery outside Barcelona, the continuing investigation into the death of the young woman outside the city. Her picture appeared on the screen, her delicate face and bobbed black hair. She was smiling, leaning back on a rusted iron gate over which the head of a Friesian cow appeared. The newsreader gave a short account of the woman's actions on the day she had disappeared, describing her clothing, her movements. Derek hardly paid attention, flicking through the Sunday supplement for the TV listings.
When the time came, he headed out to Bromley, listening to his favourite radio station, watching women as they walked along the pavements. Some of them, he thought, might one day be available to Robert Bower. The idea gave him a sense of purpose, of power. Soon he reached the outskirts of Bromley; the traffic moved slowly along the high street. When Derek saw the sign for the chemists, he slowed down the car, looking for a place where he could pull up to the kerb. He recognised Janice immediately. She was standing a few metres away from the entrance to the shop, a lithe woman, much taller than he had imagined. She wore her tar black hair in a sharp bob, blue jeans and trainers, a black shirt and a brown corduroy jacket over the top. Derek was a little disappointed with her clothes: he had expected something more alluring, dangerous, erotic. As she approached the car, he leaned over to open the passenger door.
"Hello, is that Robert?” Her voice was high pitched with a Northern accent.
"That's right. Janice?"
Janice climbed into the front seat. “Can't be too careful, these days.” She closed the door behind her and they sat facing each other. “Well.” She laughed nervously, and leant over to kiss Derek on the mouth. “Nice to finally meet you.” Her skin smelled of a subtle, musky deodorant, her breath of mint and cigarette smoke. “Well, come on then. Let's go."
Derek eased the car into the flow of traffic. He could hardly keep his eyes on the road. “So where do you come from? Your accent..."
Janice nodded. “Huddersfield. I've been down here for a while now.” She glanced at the passenger window, which was open halfway down. “Do you mind if I close this? I don't want to mess up my hair."
"Of course."
As the window closed, the sound of the high street cut out, and they were sealed in together. Janice looked back over at Derek, biting her lip as she smiled. “God though, I'm looking forward to this."
"Me too."
"I swear I haven't been able to keep my mind on anything else."
"Me neither."
"I thought we'd drive to a place I know. Outdoors."
"Whereabouts?"
"It's a bit of woodland I know. Very private. Would you like that?"
"Yes, of course.” Derek frowned up at the sky through the windscreen. “Looks a bit cloudy though."
"The country air,” Janice said. “It keeps you healthy."
"Might rain."
She laughed. “Nothing like the feel of rain on your skin."
They trailed through satellite towns and their outskirts, finally breaking free into the countryside, the bland scrub fields, a huge power station dominating the horizon. Derek flicked on the radio, and they chatted about their lives. Janice had moved down to London after splitting from her husband. She worked in the offices of a bank in the City, a job which she hated, but which had a lot of benefits. At first Derek had been worried that she would be disappointed with him, and that she would find some excuse not to go through with things. She seemed totally relaxed in his company, however, and sat back in her seat, her eyes rarely leaving his face, laughing warmly at his jokes.
They had been driving for half an hour when they passed through a large village. It was nothing remarkable: a green, a stream, a pub, a bank of shops, a decaying church sliding slowly into moss. The name zipped past them on a white sign. “I know that place,” he said, more to himself than to Janice. She nodded absently, without looking over at him.
"Been here before?"
"No. Not at all."
"It's not far now,” Janice said. “Take the next right."
She directed Derek down a narrow road amongst a small patch of pine woodland. The trees arched over the road, obscuring the sky. He pulled the car off the road onto a pitted dirt track, parking it away from the road. “After all,” Janice explained. “We don't want to attract attention.” Outside, she took Derek's hand, and they walked into the woods. The smell of pine needles was strong in the air. The ground was littered with old crisp packets and beer cans; not far from where he had parked the car, Derek noticed a small length of torn police tape wound tightly to the trunk of a tree. The sunlight shattered on the ground beneath the leaves, the shadows oozing in freckled patterns to the soft beat of the trees. It was a peaceful scene, but Derek could hardly have been more agitated: his pulse throbbed thickly in his neck, his breathing was shallow and expectant. A bird clattered through the branches. As they reached the centre of a small clearing, Janice pulled at Derek's hand.
"I think this is far enough."
She moved close to him, and they began to kiss, her small teeth nibbling at his lips. She unbuttoned the top three buttons of her blouse, and pulled down her jeans. “I want you to keep your clothes on,” she said. “For now, at least.” The blouse hung down to her thighs like a short dress. Derek watched openly as Janice reached underneath and removed her underwear, scrunching them into a ball, and letting them drop onto the forest floor. Derek's hands were shaking slightly. His fingers struggled on his belt.
"I'd better help you with that.” Janice bent down and pulled at the tongue of his leather belt, at the zip of his fly. A cool subtle breeze blew through the woods, catching the skin on the back of Derek's neck. The warmth of Janice's mouth enclosed him, and he experienced a sense of vertiginous elation. It was the most intense, the most perfect moment of his life.
They fell down to the ground. Twigs cracked under the pressure of their bodies, dried leaves rasped. At one stage, Janice rolled away and scrambled inside her handbag, removing a wall plug attached to a long length of flex. She rolled back towards him and pushed the flex into his hands.
"Tie me up.” Obediently, Derek bent down and wrapped the plug around her wrists. “Not like that,” Janice insisted. “It needs to be tighter."
"I'm sorry.” He pulled as hard as he could.
"That's good,” she gasped. “That's perfect. Now roll me onto my front."
As they continued, Derek reached out for Janice's hair, but she pushed his hand away. It was only then that he noticed she wore a wig: that under the line of black her blonde hair was crushed be
neath a finely meshed net. He lost his rhythm for a second.
"You're not done are you?” Janice called out.
"No."
"Good. Now put your hands around my neck.” Janice spoke to him patiently but firmly. “Do it now."
"Like this?"
"That's good. Now tighter. Do it tighter. Don't finish but ... Steady. Yes. That's right."
* * * *
A bird was singing somewhere in the trees. As he lay upon his back, Derek concentrated on the mellifluence of the song. He would have liked to see the bird, or even better to be able to name it from the call; he felt very content. Eventually, the song subsided. Janice stood up and began to dress, brushing twigs and shreds of leaf from her clothes. Derek watched her from the ground, feeling a sense of heightened contentment, where sensations of the cool breeze on his skin, the dampness in the air, the slight pain of the twigs and stones on the forest floor pushing into his back, made up the quiet ecstasy of life. As she did up the belt on her jeans, Janice stared away from him, towards a cluster of bushes on the edge of the clearing. She was beautiful, utterly beautiful. There were many things that he would like to have said.
Just as he was about to speak, the bushes parted, and a figure appeared from amongst them. He was a dark, rangy man dressed in blue denim and leather. He wore a pair of circular spectacles and carried a camcorder. Janice walked over to meet him, and, without a word, took the camcorder from his hands. “Be seated,” the man said as Derek moved to stand. “My name is Star. What's your name, friend?"
"Derek.” It would take him minutes to realise that he had used his real name.
"Derek,” Star said. “It is good to meet you."
Even though Janice had started filming their conversation, the first thing that occurred to Derek was that this was a robbery. “I haven't got any money,” he stammered. “I haven't got anything."
Star nodded, as though this had been expected. “Then you are a man like myself."
The name of the village returned to him. Details from the newspaper article about the murder in the woodlands returned to him. He thought of the police tape wound around the tree, a few metres away from where they were now standing.
"The woman,” he said. “The dead woman..."
Star shook his head. “I mourn for the unfortunates. She was taken young. The monster that could commit such a crime ... There are no words to express my hatred.” Star paused. He touched his lips with the fingers of his right hand and glanced above him, where the thin network of the bare trees ran against the sky. “I want you to understand, Derek,” he said eventually, “I am only a service."
"A service?"
"The world is unhappy, and hungry,” Star continued, pacing around the clearing. “And its needs are manifold. People see what happens to such unfortunates and they grieve for their passing. They demand justice, the only justice they understand. I can't begin to debate the right or wrong of their needs. Raise arguments about the illusion of justice, and I'd probably agree with you. Nature has no concept of such a thing. It's only a dream, which remains constant as people's values change. When people were religious, justice was God. When people embraced money, justice became compensation.” He shook his head. “These things we think we can buy..."
Janice continued to film Derek, occasionally moving the camera over to Star. She had removed the wig and hairnet, and her dull blonde hair hung down to her shoulders. At first, Derek had been scared, but the presence of the camera put him at ease. I've been set up, he thought, an extreme practical joke for a reality TV show. It was the only explanation. He glanced at the camera, and forced a nervous smile.
"Do you ever stop to consider,” Star went on, “that once money became divorced from man's ability to pull a precious metal from the ground, then the last trace of its true value disappeared. Did you ever think of money as only paper and numbers? Have you ever looked at the stock market and seen only code? We trade with an illusion, but we expect value. Did you ever consider that once you pay for something, you reduce its value, that in fact, you destroy it. All we are doing with the current system of economics is to take things—real things of substance, that you can touch and hold and feel, and disintegrate them into an idea. That is all money is: an idea. Information transmitted between corporations who view us only as a means to keep the information flowing. Notional, even more notional than the relationship between a word and a thing.
"What disturbs me,” Star went on, “is that I can see all of this, that I know it to be true, but I know that I am powerless. I am only weak.” He leaned back and stared at the sky beyond the trees. “People demand justice. Even if that justice is a show, a sham, a performance, just another example of the way people confuse media with life. People want justice. So I provide justice."
And saying that, he produced a small, silver automatic from the pocket of his jacket, took careful aim, and shot Derek twice through the head. Derek collapsed to the floor, shuddering once, with his arm bent underneath his body. The bullet wounds stood out bright and rude on his forehead. Janice let the camera linger on them for a few seconds before turning off the camera and replacing the lens cap. She walked over to Star's side, as he replaced the pistol in the pocket of his jacket.
"How was it?” she asked. “The early part.” All trace of her Northern accent had disappeared.
"It was good,” Star said. “You were perfect."
"I thought he would never get it right. He was so slow."
"He was slow,” Star said, “but you guided him well. You took the lead, honey."
Her face soured. “Please, don't call me that."
Star grinned. “I only do it because it upsets you."
"Why do you like to upset me?"
"I like to watch your eyebrows when they rise."
"You like to watch me, period."
"Lisa,” Star said, with his hand upon his heart, “I think the world is only a theatre for you."
After Star directed Lisa in a few more shots—a close up of the corpse's face, during which a fly landed upon the right eyeball, capturing the light on the halo of congealing blood which had formed beneath the head—they walked back to the bushes, retrieved two spades, and set about digging a grave. They took turns in filming the process, letting the camera linger on the pale, stricken face as it was dusted and eventually covered with the grey forest soil, to be further covered with grass and moss. Lisa shot a tight close up of Star's boot pressing the earth upon the body.
* * * *
He had parked his car on a dirt track leading up from the road. They walked in silence; he had hardly even acknowledged her since they buried the body, preoccupied, she guessed, with the work still to be done on the film. When they reached the car, he removed the DAT player and microphone from his jacket which he had used to record his monologues, which he regarded as integral to the films. Since they had first started working together she had listened to many similar diatribes, but she couldn't help but feel that Star was deluding himself. A few artistic close ups were one thing—Lisa, after all, was fond of this aspect of the films—but when it came to lengthy philosophising, the genre didn't need that kind of decoration. She kept her thoughts to herself, however. It was best not to argue with Star.
As he unlocked the driver's door, and tossed the player onto the passenger seat, Lisa looked out over the field beyond. A dead crow had been trussed up on wire, presumably by the farmer, to scare off birds from a row of new seeds. Removing the lens cap from the camera, she shot ten, fifteen seconds of the bird, as it rocked on its wires in the breeze, the wings spread out in a gruesome mockery of flight.
"What are you doing?” By the tone of his voice, she knew that he was unhappy.
"I thought it would look good,” she replied. “We could use it at the very end, after we've buried him."
As she turned to face him, her reflection warped to the surface of his glasses. Star held out his hand, only breaking a smile once Lisa had passed him the camera. As he turned back towards t
he car, he tapped his free palm idly against her cheek. “It's my vision, honey,” he murmured, softly. “Remember that. It's what I want to see."
He left Lisa to collect the victim's car, driving on ahead because he was anxious to get back to the Essex farmhouse where he had set up his editing suite. As always, trust was the long leash on which he allowed her to run. Lisa took her time as she walked back to the car. Under the cover of the trees, the air was chilly. The costume of the murdered girl felt uncomfortable, and her head itched from being under the wig. While she felt slightly used, she knew that the only remaining traces of the latest victim would vanish after a hot bath and brandy. She lit a cigarette, the way she always did, after sex, after a death. Star didn't like her to smoke in his company.
Inside the car, she sat for a moment in the driver's seat, Star's presence so dominant that he might have been sitting right beside her. He was the most depraved, intimidating, intelligent man she had ever known. What experiences had resulted in the idea for these films, what agenda he worked through, the names which constituted the great grave secret of his client base, she had only a vague idea. It didn't really concern her. When Star had offered the opportunity to avenge a life which sometimes seemed like only a succession of abuses, she had followed him. If he had snared her, she had been snared for a long time before she had met him, and her life with him felt like an escape. Through the betrayal and theatre of their enterprise, she had discovered part of herself that she had never known, and it was all the more intriguing and affirming because it was an absence, a vacancy.
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