The Prophet Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  I remained in the sports salon until I was certain I had burned all the calories from that day’s meals. As I headed for the showers, I noticed that the salon was getting busier. I decided to look over the new arrivals before taking a shower. I hoped someone attractive had arrived. If nothing else, I’d get an eyeful of something nice. I might even go further.

  I loitered in the changing room until I’d finished a bottle of sparkling water. Only two people arrived in the interval. One was definitely not my type. He was far too tubby. He immediately knew where I was coming from. The other was at least as feminine as me. If he thought I wasn’t on to him, he was wrong. There was no flying under my gaydar. As he passed, he looked me over as though sizing up a rival. I nodded a silent greeting.

  I decided not to waste any more time, and went straight to the shower room. Waiting for me there was Mr Tubby, who was lathering his loins and lardy stomach behind a half-open shower curtain. The timidity in his eyes was belied by the turgidity of his nether regions. I couldn’t resist a peek out of the corner of my eye: he was what they refer to as “majestic”. Thick with a mushroom head. But he still wasn’t my type. He looked at me invitingly, lips puckered into a kiss. I gave him a withering glance and proceeded to a stall as far away as possible. I snapped the curtain shut and stood under the shower head.

  When I left he was till lathering himself up. And the curtain was still partly open. He resumed sending me what he no doubt imagined were erotic air kisses.

  I could stop and give him a good scolding. Or I could call the vacant-eyed attendant in the changing room. But why bother? I had no time for such nonsense. I still had to find a.

  young girl, preferably named Isa or Musa.

  Feeling like indulging in a bit of a tease, I blew him a kiss.

  “See you later, hubby,” I cooed.

  That was it. It was enough to push him over the edge. If there is such as thing as coming over a single word, that was it. He immediately snapped the curtain shut.

  Twenty-seven

  Ponpon awaited me in a gold lamé turban and my pink bathrobe. She greeted me in a panic before I was even halfway through the door.

  “I worried myself sick over you.”

  “What for?” I asked.

  “You’re unbelievable,” she complained. “Is it too much for you to let me know what’s going on? Where have you been? Where did you go? And what about your calls? What am I supposed to tell them? It isn’t like I’m not busy myself, but I have to drop everything to try to find you. You’re not at the club. You’re not at the office. I called Hasan. You know what he’s like. He said you were at the office. I called, but some secretary said you’d left. I’ve been going out of my mind.”

  She had no intention of calming down. I hung up my jacket and went to the sitting room.

  “Someone named Kemal rang,” she said.

  That’s all I needed. Kemal pestering me on the phone! I would have to change my home phone number again.

  “He keeps calling. You’d think he had nothing better to do. He sent you an urgent message. He asked if you’d got it. It’s about Davut.”

  “Who is Davut?” I asked.

  “How am I supposed to know? I didn’t even know where you’d gone. And I’m supposed to know who Davut is?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll have a look.”

  The phone rang. Having slipped into the role of lady of the house, Ponpon promptly grabbed it.

  “Hello.”

  She looked stunned.

  “Yes, he just arrived. Here you are,” she said. But instead of giving me the phone she narrowed her eyes and continued listening. Then she hung up.

  “It was Kemal again. He doesn’t want to talk to you. But he said you’d better read his message. It’s urgent.”

  “That’s strange,” I said.

  “Stranger than strange. I’ve been looking after your calls all day. Every nut case in the city has called. It’s either the police or someone saying a prayer. . . Not a single reasonable gentleman the entire day. No one even worth flirting with.”

  “You didn’t have to answer,” I reminded her.

  “Ayol, don’t be such an ingrate,” she exclaimed. “I only picked up because I thought it might be you. Otherwise, I couldn’t care less about talking to your maniac callers. I really feel it’s my duty to give you a warning. You’d better get your act together. If you go on like this you’re only asking for trouble.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” was my only response.

  “I see. In one ear and out the other. You know best. I’m just giving you a bit of friendly advice. The rest is up to you. You’re a grown man.”

  I wondered what Jihad2000 had sent me so urgently. I prepared myself for nothing more than a soppy love note as I turned on the computer.

  Jihad2000 had sent me an e-mail under the name Kemal Barutçu. The message consisted of just two words: “For you”. There were two attachments, however. I hesitated before opening them, not putting it past him to send some killer virus that would cause my system to crash. I wouldn’t put it past him to hack me. Normally I’m not quite so paranoid, but when faced with a certified madman like Kemal there’s no being too careful.

  I got offline and scanned both dossiers with my most reliable anti-virus program. They both came up clean. I opened them. And froze.

  A body belonging to a transvestite singer had been discovered in Bodrum. She was a singer with an orchestra at a club there. Acid had been forced down her throat.

  I sank into the chair. My shoulders sagged. My hair stood on end. My mind went blank. I couldn’t think.

  I came to my senses thanks to a sharp poke from Ponpon, who was looking at the files over my shoulder. “That’s the bass singer Davut!” she screeched. “God save us all. I’m next. May the Lord preserve us! We may be sinners, but you created us. The Almighty Lord has infinite wisdom. I am his servant. Protect us, oh Lord!”

  Ponpon was clearly on the verge of a fit of hysteria. I shook her by the shoulders and forced her down into the chair I’d vacated.

  “I don’t believe it, ayol,” she whimpered.

  She stared off into space.

  “Davut!” she screamed. “There goes another girl named after a prophet. Davut with the bass voice. He enchanted everyone with that voice of his . . . And now he’s dead and his voice silenced! I know I’m next. I can feel it.”

  At this rate she would be unstoppable. She’d been getting on my nerves for two days in any case. I leaned back slightly, gathered my strength and gave her a slap full across the face. Her eyes flashed and she looked stunned for a moment. But she came to immediately.

  “You bastard!” was all she said.

  Her pointed fingernails reached out for me like claws. I seized her by the wrists, stopping her. She seemed to realize I’d been acting for her own good, and decided not to attack. But she begun rubbing the red imprint of my hand on her cheek.

  “You really let me have it. It hurts like hell.” “I’m sorry,” I apologised. “I’m not in control of myself either, I guess.”

  “If you’d just hit me a bit more gently. You know I bruise easily. If you’ve wrecked my face I won’t be able to work for three days.”

  I’m so fed up with this bruising business! Am I the only person who doesn’t go purple at the slightest blow?

  Ponpon announced that tonight, too, she would not be able to go to work. Perhaps because she blamed me for her condition, she had no compunctions about taking the night off. My nerves were shattered, and I just couldn’t care less either way. I may have adored Ponpon and valued her friendship, but that didn’t mean we needed to live together.

  Once she was feeling a little better, Ponpon served dinner. As we ate her rich lasagne, and I regained all the calories I’d lost playing squash, we did a situation evaluation. So far, there had. been seven deaths: Ibrabim, Yusuf, Musa, Muhammet, Yunus, Salih and Davut. As Ponpon recollected that her real name was Zekeriya, she’d once again reached the brink of
a nervous breakdown, then calmed down when she remembered that she was with me, safe in my home. I know she thinks of me as a kind of Rambo. While it pleases and even flatters me a bit, I’m realistic enough to see how ridiculous she is being.

  As she came out of the kitchen bearing am enormous tiramisu, the final course of our Italian themed dinner, the doorbell rang. Ponpon’s cry of terror mingled with the sound of the bell. The expression on my face was noted and understood. She apologised on the spot.

  “Ay, what can I do? I just can’t control myself. My nerves are shattered. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here. The devil tells me to go and ask for police protection. Of course I won’t listen to the devil. At most, I’ll check into a private hospital. At least I’ll be lost in the crowd. And there are nurses. There may even be a handsome intern.”

  It was Hasan. He entered tugging at his loose trousers, which appeared about to fall to the floor. It was no use. Those jeans of his would rise no higher than his pubic hairline.

  We shared the tiramisu. He hadn’t heard about Davut. He’d learned Yunus’s surname. He also said it would be impossible to determine the time of death. Just as I’d guessed, some of the internal organs showed signs of having been frozen.

  “Ponpon, sweetie, that was wonderful,” I complimented the chef.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit odd,” Ponpon said. “We sit here eating dessert while we discuss internal organs. May the Lord forgive us. If we go on like this we’re all going straight to hell.”

  I related all that was going through my mind, my suspicions concerning Adem Yildiz and my intention to organise a hunting party. Ponpon listened attentively, punctuating nearly every sentence with a shriek to illustrate her terror. When I finished, she pushed her empty plate to the centre of the table.

  “Count me out,” she said. “I’m already petrified. I’ll just spoil things.”

  Hasan’s eyes were gleaming.

  “I’m in!” he declared. “I’ll do whatever you want. This kind of excitement is just my thing.”

  “Look Hasan,” I said, “this could be extremely dangerous. It means putting one of the girls’ lives in danger. If we aren’t able to save her, or something went wrong, we’d have to live with it for the rest of our lives.”

  “I know,” he said. “But you can still count me in. Tell me what to do and I’ll follow your orders to the letter.”

  “First,” I said, “I need a young girl. Someone brave, willing to take risks and a little greedy.”

  “Isn’t her name important?” Ponpon put in.

  “Not really,” I said. “We’ll make something up.”

  It would be no problem to invent a name. There was no reason for the girl to reveal her real name. We could even rustle. up a fake ID card if we had to. We’d just fill in Isa, Nuh, Yakup or whatever.

  Ponpon stood up with a long drawn out sigh.

  “Doesn’t anyone want coffee?” she asked. “I’m not having any, but I’ll make you some.”

  Her impression of a self-sacrificing mother was too priceless for words. She breathed new life into the supporting actress role of devoted mother, a staple of so many Hollywood films of the ’40s and ’50s.

  Twenty-eight

  The fresh young thing Hasan rustled up and brought to the club was just the ticket. His deportment and speech indicated he was from a good family. He was named Gürhan. As far as I could tell, at least, he wasn’t someone Hasan had picked up in the street. He had graduated from one of the French high schools, but hadn’t yet been accepted into university and was at loose ends. While he described himself as gay, his carefully trimmed and painted nails, plucked eyebrows, lightly pencilled eyes and terracotta complexion suggested he was a bit farther along than that. But I didn’t contradict him.

  Together, we went up to my low-ceilinged office on the top floor. Although referred to as an office, it really looks more like a storeroom. Cases of alcohol, napkins, toilet paper and other stock line the walls.

  Hasan had told Gürhan that we needed help seducing a minor celebrity. According to the scenario, the man had a transvestite girlfriend who was as jealous as she was famous. She suspected that he was cheating on her, but had no proof. She had given him the best years of her life. Yet he slept around with young things, denying it each time. Our girl couldn’t take it any more. She hoped to catch him in the act, have photographs taken and then ask for a reckoning.

  Our story wasn’t particularly believable, for any number of reasons. We had no time to refine it further, however. In any case, Gürhan didn’t seem inclined to question anything.

  Hasan had flattered Gürhan, telling him that if he helped us he’d shoot to instant notoriety, winning the help and support of all the most influential and powerful girls, including me. For a girl preparing to make her debut on the scene, this was no small achievement.

  Gürhan perched on his chair, doing his best Winona Ryder imitation.

  “My mother won’t pay for depilation,” he remarked, out of the blue.

  Hasan and I exchanged glances. It seemed we’d found our girl. Dimwits are a dime a dozen, but we’d struck it rich.

  “And?” I pressed him.

  “I’m starting to get hair on my chest. I wax, but it just grows out again. I told my mother about it, but she said I was being silly. I want depilation.”

  “We’ll arrange it,” I said soothingly.

  “And there’s another thing,” he added. “Don’t you think my tits are too small?”

  “How old are you dear?” I asked.

  “Nineteen.”

  “You don’t look it,” Hasam interjected.

  “Tell me the truth,” I said.

  “I swear it’s true. I’m nineteen. I started school early.”

  “You’re a bit too young for hormones.”

  “But I want to start now,” he protested.

  It was quite touching that he still referred to himself as merely “gay”. At this rate, she’d be a plucky little cabaret singer by twenty-five.

  “We’ll discuss this later,” I promised.

  Gürhan looked me up and down.

  “Why don’t you have breasts?” he asked.

  “I’m happy like this,” I said. “I like being a man at times, a woman at others.”

  “You look like Maria Callas.”

  There were more flattering comparisons. Actually, Maria Callas went through a series of distinct phases. Plump Maria, fat Maria; her Audrey Hepburn period with Visconti and society lady period with Onassis, followed by her wronged woman episode when Onassis married Jacqueline Kennedy. I didn’t ask her to be more specific. I decided she must have been referring to the Audrey Hepburn phase.

  “Oh, and there’s one more thing,” he said. “I don’t do kinky. And if you plan on taking photos no porn shots. I’ve got my family to think about.”

  There was no telling what plans Adem Yildiz would have for Gürhan, but we reassured him anyway.

  “I’ve got to tell you something. This man enjoys being a bottom as well,” I said.

  Hasan looked even more surprised than Gürhan. It was old news for me. I continued as though I hadn’t said anything juicy.

  “What I mean to say is, you may have to . . . ”

  “I told you, didn’t I? I’m gay; I’m game; I’ll do whatever he wants.”

  I suppressed a cry of joy.

  “And there’s one more thing,” said Hasan. “Your name.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This guy has a thing for holy names. The names of prophets and saints and stuff. So don’t tell him you’re named ” Gürhan. If he asks, say you’re Nuh or Isa

  “I don’t like either of those names,” Gürhan pouted. “I like the name Ceren.”

  “I told you, a man’s name,” I said.

  “You mean I have to choose a man’s name?”

  “That’s right. You definitely must,” I said.

  “Only if you help me with hormone injections.”

 
; He tried to cup his chest as he said this, but came up empty-handed.

  Gürhan agreed to the name Isa but he seemed such an idiot he’d probably reveal his real name in minutes. We would have to prepare an identity card with the name Isa. Then we’d find a way to get Adem Yildiz to notice him.

  As we all left the club I could tell from ükrü’s expression that he fancied the new girl. Our “Isa” Gürhan seemed to be just the type for boys who like girls who are boys. ükrü narrowed his eyes into what he imagined to be a rakish expression, keeping them on Gürhan until we were outside.

  Looking back at Cüneyt, who’d held the door open for us, Gürhan said, “Your barman is gorgeous.”

  “He certainly is,” I agreed. “All my employees are handsome. I handpick them.”

  “Could you arrange him for me when my work’s done?”

  “Sure. He seemed to like you, too.”

  “I know. The way he looked at me . . . ”

  Gürhan’s ID card was completely worn out. The PVC coating had come off in places. It was cracked from being carried in his pocket. It wasn’t difficult to peel off the plastic coating with the help of a hot iron. Using the same type of pen, I added “sa” to the name section. We’d get it plasticised first thing the next morning.

  The newspaper clippings sent to me by Jihad2000 all had a Bodrum by-line. Our maniac killer, Adem Yildiz, must be holidaying at his summer house near Bodrum Mazi harbour.

  We could go there, but there was the chance that he’d be on his way back to Istanbul by the time we arrived. Only Jihad2000 would be able to confirm his location. After all, he was the one tracking Adem Yildiz’s every move. I could try to locate him myself, but Kemal was a step ahead of me. He’d be able to determine instantly the exact location of Adem Yildiz based on where he accessed the internet.

  I sent him a message saying I hoped he wasn’t cross with me and asking for his help. I chose language that was straightforward but contained the hint of a promise. I told him that despite everything I hoped we could do business together, and suggested we may be able to swap work.