The Prophet Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  Without breaking his pose Adem Yildiz asked in his most macho voice, “So what do you think, girls?”

  “Disastrous,” I wanted to say. But I held my tongue. In fawning tones, I managed a weak, “You look fabulous.”

  “I didn’t want to miss the chance to have some fun. I sent my man away to Milas. He’s got a brother there. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Well isn’t that nice,” was my weak response.

  I was at a loss for words. He certainly hadn’t wasted any time emptying the house. He was now free to say and do whatever he wanted. Here we were, on this dark moonless night, just the three of us.

  When I thought of the Zodiac tied to the pier my spirits sank even lower. I hadn’t expected a manoeuvre of this kind so early in the game. I’d brought along a couple of things from Spy Shop, just in case, but I’d anticipated nothing more than an introductory dinner.

  Crestfallen, sa Gürhan sank into a chair. Taking tiny geisha steps in his miniskirt, Adem kissed us both on the cheeks. Gone was the macho man I’d unwillingly fancied by day, replaced by a lady of the night. Even as a coquettette he retained a touch of the thug.

  “I wanted to join in,” he said. “This isn’t something I do regularly.”

  “It suits you,” I said.

  “Don’t,” murmured sa

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Really.”

  I was lying.

  “You know what? I was dressed as a girl until the age of seven. My mother made me clothes. Little outfits all decked out with ribbons and bows. And big starched ribbons in my ringlets. You should see the pictures!”?. “So is that why you’re a big queer?” asked sa. “Because they dressed you as a girl when you were a child?”

  “But I’m not,” said Adem. “I’m no queer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean just what I say. . . ” he said. “I’m not queer. I just like wearing women’s clothes from time to time. Knickers, stockings, garter belts . . . The feel of silky smooth fabrics on my skin . . . That’s all. I’m still a real man. I mean, I still like young boys like you.”

  Well that was good news. There was still hope.

  “Well, does your family know you’re still into girls’ clothes?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “What do you do with your dresses? Where do you hide them?” I asked. “And what about your shoes . . . ”

  “In a bag in the boot of my car. . . ”

  I thought he’d flown here. What was this about a car!

  “If I can’t dress up with you where can I?” he said.

  “A friend of mine took me to a transvestite club the other day. I loved the girls there.”

  He was, of course, referring to our club. And the girls he mentioned were our girls. He may even have been talking about me. I worried that Isa would give the game away by saying as much. I gave him a hard look. He had other things on his mind.

  “But that’s like lesbianism,” Isa said. “Girl on girl.”

  “That’s what you think,” Adem Yildiz growled. He gestured to the small tent springing from his loins. The sequined fabric twinkled in the candlelight.

  Adem’s taste for transvestitism was as refined as it was grotesque. His mannerisms, attitudes, meticulously executed duties as a host and presentation of dinner were refined in the extreme, as was the way he flirted with Gürhan. It was like being in a well-written scenario for an English film. His sense of timing was impeccable.

  On the other hand, his occasional lapses into ladylike manners, the coy look in his eye, his limp wrists and speech peppered with “honey” and “sweetie” were flamingly over the top.

  We talked about Bodrum in the old days, how much it had been developed and the fact that Mazi harbour had somehow remained totally unspoilt. When Isa asked who owned the house at the other end of the harbour, Adem used a finger to trace in Isa’s lap a half-circle representing the harbour.

  “Now, there are three houses with gardens just over here,” he began.

  Adem wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip by. He provided details for every house in the area, groping his way across sa Gürhan’s lap. In fact, he kept his hand on Isa’s map the entire time.

  As we finished the meze he came straight to the point.

  “Stay with me tonight.”

  He looked from one of us to the other, and waited expectantly.

  Then he added:

  “The three of us . . . ”

  It wasn’t what sa was expecting.

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “I mean all of us, together,” said Adem. “The bed is wide . . . and the night is long.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  I knew what he liked. He’d want to bottom. His desire for a threesome could only mean one thing, a sandwich. And he’d be the filling.

  With both of us in his bed he was unlikely to pose a threat. He wouldn’t dare try anything funny. Instead of ensnaring a maniacal killer I’d just been ensnared in an unpleasant sex romp. I stopped drinking the wine.

  “I like you both,” he said. “All evening, while I waited for you, I imagined what we could get up to. You really turn me on.”

  “Well, you’re not exactly spoiled for choice,” I observed tartly. “After all, we’re the only living things in the vicinity.”

  He silenced me with a hearty chuckle.

  “If you’re not interested, I won’t insist,” he said. “But let me tell you again: it’s not just that I’m horny, the two of you are so hot. And I fancy you both.”

  Hackneyed sex talk has always annoyed me. Now was no exception.

  “I’m a bit jealous,” I said. “I don’t like to share my lover.”

  I said this knowing that he preferred younger boys, and hoping that he would settle for sa Gürhan alone. But if he preferred someone a bit more masculine and mature, he’d choose me.

  I was wrong.

  “You’ll get a tidy sum for it.”

  That ruined everything. It was natural enough for him to think that Isa was a whore, but I didn’t appreciate being lumped in with hookers.

  “I’m afraid there’s been a terrible mistake. I’m not what you think,” I said. “I make love only for pleasure, not money.”

  “Me too,” he said. “I only do it for fun.”

  So I do sa Gürhan piped in.

  “And what’s with getting all formal on me, anyway?” Adem asked.

  “Ayol, we met just a couple of hours ago,” I said. “And I’m not the type to just jump in the sack.”

  He leaned over and kissed me, probably leaving lipstick on my cheek in the process.

  “Well we won’t jump. And it’s not a sack,” he said playfully.

  “You’ve gone too far.”

  “Far? You haven’t seen anything yet,” he said, his hand crawling up my inner thigh and onto my crotch. “We haven’t left the starting gate yet. Just wait till I get you into bed, then you’ll see how far I can take you.”

  He weighed up the contents of his cupped hand, then withdrew the hand, chuckling softly.

  sa Gürhan tittered. I silenced him with a glance.

  “I think we’d best be leaving now,” I said.

  “But we haven’t had the fish yet.”

  “And what about dessert,” chimed in sa Gürhan, tittering once again.

  Adem went to the kitchen to fetch the fish.

  I turned on sa Gürhan. “Try to concentrate,” I hissed. “You’ve got to seduce him.”

  “But he wants you.”

  “He certainly does not,” I said. “It’s you he’s after. He’s just being polite. He doesn’t want me to feel left out, or to get jealous.”

  “But isn’t that just what we want?” he asked.

  “Yes, but he doesn’t know that.”

  “Ah . . . ” said I

  Before I had a chance to ascertain what sa had understood from our little exchange, Adem returned carrying a platter.

  �
�The fish,” he announced. “Fresh from the sea. I caught them myself this morning.”

  “Ay, really,” “Do you mean you’re a exclaimed I fisherman too?”

  Isa acted as though catching a fish was a fine art.

  There were far too many fish for the three of us, but I hadn’t enjoyed such a fresh catch for ages.

  I had just finished de-boning my first fish when a man’s voice called out from the garden.

  “Ah, he’s arrived,” said Adem Yildiz.

  Before I even had a chance to ask “who”, Fehmi enyürek appeared. He set down his bag. We were introduced.

  I was as stunned as sa Gürhan What was going on?

  “Fehmi’s my closest friend,” said Adem. “We’re bosom pals. We’ve got nothing to hide from each other.”

  Judging by Fehmi’s lack of reaction to Adem’s get-up, that much was certainly true.

  It was obvious from the way they exchanged glances that something was up, but I had no idea what. Adem hadn’t been the least bit surprised by Fehmi’s arrival. In fact, he was clearly expected. These two had cooked up some kind of plan.

  Fehmi loosened his tie as he took a seat between me and sa.

  “One of our Cessnas was dropping by. I thought I’d get a ride down. I’m glad I did. It meant meeting you.”

  Adem disappeared indoors and returned with a bottle of raki.

  “Thanks, boss,” said Fehmi. He turned to me and continued: “I don’t understand what people see in wine. Raki’s my poison. Especially with fish.”

  sa Gürhan interrupted: “Do you always call him ‘boss’?”

  “No, my dear,” he replied. “When required I refer to him as Adem Bey, sometimes I call him ‘Sweet Stuff’, and then there are times when I just say ‘boss’.” As you can see, I’m up for anything.”

  He was a lot more boisterous than I’d remembered, and drunk as a skunk. I didn’t appreciate his expression. Every time I caught him exchanging glances with Adem he would give me a filthy grin.

  Something had gone terribly wrong. I could sense the balance shifting. Now we had both Fehmi and Adem Yildiz to deal with. The enormous Mazi harbour was totally empty, and the night pitch black. And here we sat with a serial killer and his accomplice. I had no idea how Fehmi had arrived. There had been no sound of a motor. The Zodiac was still tethered to the pier. I’d been a little over confident, and now I might have to pay the price. I’d had too much wine. My reflexes were dulled. sa Gürhan had long since passed his limit, and was smiling stupidly.

  “Adem, honey and almonds,” he murmured softly to himself, in what he thought passed for a song.

  “I’d like a coffee, please.” I carefully enunciated each syllable. “A bitter, sugarless cup of Turkish coffee.”

  The coffee would help me come to my senses. Otherwise, we were finished. I was still young. There were so many places to go, shopping to do, men to seduce . . . I couldn’t bear the thought of such an abrupt end.

  The last thing I needed was to end up as fodder, one of the regular transvestite stories.

  The question Fehmi asked as he turned to Isa only panicked me more.

  "Is your name really sa?” he asked. “Like the Prophet sa“

  I was afraid that the giggling Gürhan would forget himself and reply “No, ‘I’m Gürhan’.” But he’d been too well trained. like Isabella and “That’s right,” he said, simpering. “ I Isadora.”

  Fehmi had a strange gleam in his eye. The look he shot Adem was unmistakable.

  “Would the little lady care for another glass of wine?”

  The “little lady” Fehmi referred to was of course sa. The tone used to address him was both flirtatious and belittling.

  Even in his stupor, sa must have sensed that something was awry. He refused the wine and took a long sip of water.

  “What about the coffee?” I asked, as brightly as possible. “Don’t bother. I’m happy to make it myself.”

  As I rose to my feet my head spun. I sank back into my chair.

  This was a disaster! Too much wine can make me sleepy, but I never get dizzy. What’s more, I never overdo it. Adem hadn’t even opened the second bottle. The wine must be drugged.

  Adem also had a glass in front of him, but he seemed unaffected. Nothing was happening to him, but my faculties seemed to be fading by the second. I was having trouble controlling my body.

  I wanted to get out of the house immediately, taking Isa back with me to Cengiz’s place.

  I reached for the glass of water, downing it in a single gulp.

  As I replaced it I noticed a lipstick smudge on the rim of the glass. I turned and looked at Adem’s glass: it was half full. But there wasn’t a trace of lipstick. He couldn’t have drunk any. The rim of the glass sparkled, it was spotless. sa and I had finished an entire bottle of wine. And who knows what he’d put in it!

  Fehmi began fondling sa whose eyelids were drooping. sa, in slow motion, was making a show of resistance, but Fehmi ignored him. As he kissed sa, Fehmi dribbled raki into his half-open mouth. Some of the raki ran down sa's chin. Fehmi licked it off.

  As far as I could tell, sa was in as bad a shape as me: he’d lost all control. I opened my mouth to ask for another coffee, but nothing came out. By brain was working, but my body failed to respond.

  .

  Fehmi began stripping sa. “Abi, this one hasn’t got any tits,” he said. The padded bra was removed, exposing sa's rib cage.

  They were ignoring us now, talking only to each other. sa’s rib cage. he said. The padded bra was removed, exposing Adem pulled his skirt down below his thighs. Under it, he wore a pair of colourful boxer shorts adorned with tiny butterflies. That’s what comes of men dressing up as women! A pair of boxer shorts under a skirt like that!

  The mind’s a funny thing. Despite the danger of the situation, I was obsessing over wardrobe coordination.

  Adem slipped his hand under his waistband, groping himself as he watched Fehmi and sa. Once again, I struggled to get to my feet. I couldn’t. Fehmi noticed and turned to me.

  “Boss, I know this one,” he said.

  My blood froze. I couldn’t control my movements. In fact, I couldn’t move. My body was numb, paralysed and unable to respond to the messages sent by my brain. Fehmi was coming closer. I fought to widen my eyes, to smile. It didn’t work. Fehmi’s face blotted out everything. He grabbed my chin, turning my head from side to side as he examined my features.

  “I swear I know this one,” he said.

  I opened my mouth to speak. Not a sound came out. Fehmi decided an open mouth was just another orifice.

  Thirty-one

  When I opened my eyes I was naked. On the carpet, in the middle of the living room, we were all naked. A bit to one side, Isa lay on the floor. There were hands roaming across my body, pinching and kneading. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. They closed.

  Time was either rushing by, or standing still. The next time I tried to open my eyes I was suffocating. I forced my lids slightly apart. A body was pressing down on me. It was too close to identify a face. I had no idea who it was.

  When I closed my eyes my imagination took over. A film reel was passing through my mind. I saw what each girl had gone through as she was murdered. Each detail was vivid. There was only one difference: I was the girl.

  The body plunging down the elevator shaft was mine. I was falling, falling for long seconds. I was falling. Then I saw my broken body, at the bottom of the shaft, lying face-down on the oil-stained concrete floor. My body twitched, then was still. A shoe had fallen off; I lay there with one foot bare.

  I had no idea if I was alive or dead. I couldn’t feel my body. Whatever they had given me, it was sure doing the trick.

  I could make out the occasional voice. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I couldn’t even identify the language.

  I was being ushered into a car with dark-tinted windows somewhere on the TEM motorway. I couldn’t see the chauffeur. I was sitting in t
he back, next to Adem. It was a limousine of some kind, enormous. I stretched out on the roomy seat. They were offering me drinks. I downed glass after glass of champagne. We drove along the dreary motorway, around the outskirts of Istanbul, from the Asian shore to the European shore and back again, having wild sex. I was aroused by this part. Sexual desire seemed to be reviving my body, the body over which I had no control.

  Then the nightmare began: I was heaved into the sea. It was a moonless night. The lights on the opposite shore twinkled like stars. But the water was pitch-black. I was naked. As I slowly sank towards the bottom, fish nibbled, the long tentacles of jelly fish brushed against me. My skin crawled.

  I had no idea what Adem and Fehmi were up to, but what was left of my mind kept repeating the same thing, over and over: they will continue until they come. Yes, that was true. Men like that feel pleasure only up to the point when they climax. Then comes a sense of regret, followed by self-loathing and hatred. Once all-consuming lust is gone, the pleasures of the subconscious mind give way to the guilt complexes of the conscious mind. We are of course blamed for what they have been doing with us. They are suddenly filled with loathing for the object of their pleasure. Some flee; others stay, and become sadistic.

  In short, time was running out, fast. Once Fehmi and Adem had gratified themselves the ritualistic sadism of the prophet murders would begin.

  My imagination transported me to the inferno in which Ibrahim Ceren had burned to death. In a broken down building in the narrow streets of Tarlabai, in a damp room smelling of mildew and a long-forgotten past, flames slowly encircled me. Then, as now, I couldn’t budge. As the flames drew nearer, I could see them licking at my body, but couldn’t move. The flickering tongues terrified me; the pain was excruciating. But I could do nothing.

  I tried to open my eyes again. The weight was no longer pressing down on me. It seemed like there were hundreds of tiny lanterns burning in the room. Or I was lying just below a starry sky. Right next to me was a body, breathing heavily. I was unable to turn and look. But there was no mistaking the cries of pleasure.