R3 Deity

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Hello, Inspector. Would you care to inform our readers why you’ve arrested Adele Watson’s father? Have you found a body? Has Jim Watson killed her?’ At that moment, Morton emerged with the laptop. Burton spotted it. ‘Ho ho, it doesn’t take a genius to work out what Mr Watson’s been up to.’

  ‘Just as well they sent you then, Brian,’ said Brook over his shoulder.

  ‘Been browsing the kiddie sites, have you?’ shouted Burton, stooping to harangue Watson, inside the squad car. ‘Your daughter catch you at it and you topped her? That it?’

  Brook turned back to the squad car and banged on the roof. The car sped away and Burton swung round to get in Brook’s face.

  ‘Well, Inspector.’

  ‘It’s just routine, Brian. Mr Watson is not under arrest, he’s helping us with our enquiries.’ Brook made for his car.

  ‘If he’s not under arrest, why is he wearing handcuffs?’

  ‘It’s just procedure.’

  ‘Well, here’s my procedure, Inspector. I’ve got a picture of a missing girl’s father being taken away in handcuffs and that’s what tomorrow’s front page will show,’ said Burton to his retreating back.

  Brook turned round and marched up to Burton. ‘I’d ask you not to print that picture, Brian, but I know that would guarantee it. Instead, I’ll say this. If you indulge in wild speculation or say what you just saw as an arrest, your readers will switch off from the story thinking it’s done and dusted, and the search for four young people, who may be in danger, will become that much harder.’

  ‘What sort of danger?’ asked Burton, shoving his Dictaphone in Brook’s face.

  Brook’s face darkened and he tried to slow his breathing. ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment further.’

  ‘What we see and what we seem Is but a dream, a dream within a dream.’

  Brook switched off the tape.

  ‘That’s Adele,’ said Watson. ‘What is that?’

  Brook pushed the cup of tea nearer Watson and looked across at Noble in the other chair. ‘It’s a message from Adele.’

  ‘What message? Where is she?’

  ‘We were hoping you could tell us,’ said Noble.

  Watson put his hands flat on the table and his head on top of them. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘Really I don’t. I wish I did.’

  ‘But you don’t deny hiding the laptop and Adele’s books.’

  Watson sat up again. ‘No. I did that. But that’s all I did.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  Watson couldn’t find the words to acknowledge his innermost thoughts. ‘I can’t tell you,’ he finally said.

  Brook wore latex gloves to open one of the books and began to read ‘The Night Walker’ again.

  Watson scraped back his chair and stood. ‘Please stop.’ The uniformed officer on the back wall moved swiftly to reseat him. Watson sat down, defeated. ‘Please. I . . . I didn’t do anything.’

  Brook turned to the middle of the diary and opened up the tome to show Watson. He ran a gloved finger down it. ‘There are two pages missing here. They’ve been razored out.’

  ‘Not by me, Inspector. I’ve not opened either book. I swear. I couldn’t face it.’

  ‘You don’t expect us to believe that, do you?’ said Noble.

  ‘You think I’d have left “The Night Walker” in there if I’d been cutting pages out of her books?’ demanded Watson.

  ‘So that poem does refer to you?’

  He hung his head. ‘I’ve been worried about her. Maybe I . . .’

  ‘Maybe you’ve what?’

  Watson looked up. ‘She’s grown up so fast. I was losing her.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve been possessive, I realise now. You can’t stop it – time. I wanted to spend time with her before it was too late, before she didn’t need me. That’s all.’

  ‘Then why hide the books?’ said Noble.

  ‘I was embarrassed because Adele thought . . .’ He came to a halt.

  ‘But why didn’t you destroy them? The computer too.’ Watson was silent.

  Brook answered for him. ‘Because they’re the last link to the daughter you love.’ Watson nodded his head in confirmation. ‘Adele’s bed was a mess and the phone and leaflet moved. You?’ Watson nodded again.

  ‘Did you masturbate?’ asked Noble.

  Watson stood, his eyes blazing, and fists clenched. Noble and the uniformed Constable struggled to reseat him, Brook watching on, unmoved.

  Eventually, when Watson was calm enough to hear the question again, he responded with a look of pure horror. ‘How can you think that? You’re sick, you are. Perverted. Worse than me. At least I’m her father – I have a right to be near her. You’re strangers. You shouldn’t think about other men’s daughters that way.’

  ‘We’d prefer not to,’ said Brook.

  ‘So tell us,’ said Noble.

  ‘No, I didn’t masturbate. I was on the bed because I just wanted to be near her, okay, to smell her. It was in my head. Only there. Please, I promise you. I didn’t do anything. Ask Ade.’ His head fell to the table again and he began to sob. ‘My God, what have I done? Please forgive me. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to drive you away. I love you.’ He sat bolt upright. ‘You must believe me. I never – I wouldn’t—’

  ‘I advise you not to say another word until you’ve been counselled, Mr Watson.’ Brook announced the time and switched off the police recorder. Noble looked across at him. ‘I think you need to consult a solicitor. You’re obviously distraught and that’s not a good time to make a statement.’

  ‘A solicitor?’ Watson smiled crookedly and finally had a sip of his tea. ‘Only God can help me now. Only God can clean these thoughts from my head.’

  ‘Then pray to Him.’ Brook rose to leave.

  ‘There’s another book.’

  Brook and Noble turned back to Watson.

  ‘Another book?’ said Noble. ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t have it. It’s her presentation book, leather-bound. When she finishes a poem, when she’s happy with it, she writes it in there.’

  ‘It’s not in the house?’ asked Brook.

  ‘I don’t think so. She must have taken it with her. I don’t have it. I swear.’

  Brook nodded and opened the door to usher out Noble and the Constable.

  ‘Inspector.’ Brook turned at Watson’s voice. ‘Do you believe in God?’

  Brook paused over the question. ‘I don’t have time.’

  ‘Not a good time to make a statement?’ said Noble, incredulous.

  Brook dropped Adele Watson’s two handwritten books back into their evidence bags. ‘Get every page photocopied and on the boards after fingerprinting, then ask Don Crump to run the ESDA over the page beneath the razored pages. We might get a clue about what was on them.’

  ‘Watson was on the verge of cracking up,’ persisted Noble. ‘What better time to give a statement? That’s when we get the good stuff.’

  ‘You saw him, John. He hasn’t killed Adele and he hasn’t had sex with her.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I can’t prove it, no. But I’m a father. You’ll have to trust me on this.’

  ‘Trust? If he’d carried on, we would have known for sure.’

  ‘No, we wouldn’t. He’s on the edge. With the levels of guilt he’s carrying, he could say anything incriminating just to make himself feel better. He needs counsel to protect him from himself.’

  Noble was silent but no more convinced. Eventually he shrugged. ‘So what then?’

  ‘Get him a solicitor and give him a cell for the night.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’ Brook made to leave but turned back. ‘And John, in case his God deserts him, make sure he’s put on Suicide Watch.’

  Sixteen

  AT NINE O’CLOCK THAT NIGHT, Brook rapped on the front door of his cottage and marched into the steamy warmth of the kitchen. The delicious smells told him to e
xpect a meal with bacon and onions.

  ‘Dad. You finished early.’

  ‘I’ve got an early surveillance tomorrow,’ he replied. ‘And I haven’t finished work tonight.’ He showed her the DVD. ‘I’ve got homework.’

  ‘Picnic at Hanging Rock,’ she said, pulling on a large glass of wine. ‘Good film – is this to do with your case?’

  ‘It is.’ Brook picked a glass from the drainer and poured out some red wine. There was only half a glass left in the bottle. He spied another open bottle of Merlot already breathing. ‘You know the film?’

  ‘Picnic? It’s beautiful but I don’t want to spoil it for you. Is this about the missing students?’

  ‘Did it make the news?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Something on Hicksville FM. And the press conference was on local telly.’

  ‘Good. Maybe we’ll get some sightings. What are we eating?’

  ‘Bacon and pearl barley hash,’ she grinned. Brook noticed she seemed a little unsteady on her feet. ‘My own recipe.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ said Brook, taking a sip of wine. He peeled some notes from his wallet and dropped them on the table. ‘That should cover groceries for the next few days.’

  ‘Da-ad. You don’t have to.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I get off easy. No shopping, no cooking, no washing up. I don’t even provide the wine glasses.’

  Terri laughed and began serving up.

  Twenty minutes later, Brook and Terri were stretched out contentedly in front of his small TV, watching the opening titles of Picnic at Hanging Rock. Brook nursed his wine but Terri seemed to be throwing it down with gusto.

  ‘How did your writing go today?’

  ‘Okay,’ she replied, declining to provide details. Brook waited in vain, before turning back to the film. As he’d found out that morning, the film opened with the lines from Edgar Allan Poe, which set the tone for the story to follow. Gradually Brook became absorbed in the story of the mysterious disappearances of three Australian schoolgirls at Hanging Rock and, the best part of two hours later, watched the end credits roll.

  ‘What are you up to, Adele?’ he said quietly. He looked over at the sleeping form of his daughter on the sofa and smiled. He mulled over the film in silence until he’d finished his wine then stood to switch off all the appliances.

  On his way to the kitchen, he sat on the edge of the sofa and brushed Terri’s hair. She responded by shifting her position for greater comfort but as she moved, the sleeve of her top rode up her arm.

  Brook’s veins turned to ice when he saw the deep scars on her wrist and he found himself catching at a breath that wasn’t there. After what felt like an eternity staring at his sleeping daughter, he stood, finally able to unlock his eyes from the gnarled skin of the old wound, and crept into the kitchen.

  Instead of going to bed, he sat at the table and poured himself another large glass of wine, while the questions tumbled in, one after another. When? Why? His mind was racing but the rest of him was numb.

  ‘Dad.’

  Brook looked up. Terri walked through the door rubbing her eyes open.

  ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘You should get some sleep.’

  Terri blinked herself awake and stared at his face. Her father looked as if he’d had his insides kicked out. She followed his gaze to her arm and saw the sleeve riding up her wrist. She pulled it back down over her scars.

  ‘Dad . . .’ She was unable to continue. Instead she sat down opposite her father and took a pull on his wine, her eyes searching unsuccessfully for his.

  Brook sat as though in a trance, much like Jim Watson earlier, unable to say the simplest three-letter word. Finally Terri rummaged in her handbag, pulling out her cigarettes, lighting one with a shaky hand.

  Brook opened his mouth to complain but nothing came out. Instead he lit a cigarette of his own and exhaled with a shuddering sigh. Eventually he managed to say: ‘I have no right. I’m sorry. You don’t need to tell me. Whatever prompted . . . well, at some level or another, I have to take the blame. I wasn’t there when you needed me.’ Self-loathing flowed from Brook’s every pore.

  ‘Dad . . .’

  ‘In fact, I wasn’t there at all, was I?’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Dad. It just happened.’

  ‘Does your mother know?’

  Terri nodded.

  ‘What happened?’ Brook felt a sudden dread overwhelm him as the answer arrived before the question was fully formed.

  Terri took another sip of Brook’s wine. ‘It was over two years ago. I was depressed.’

  Brook closed his eyes in bitter confirmation. ‘You tried to commit suicide after your stepfather died.’

  Terri’s eyes blazed suddenly. ‘His name was Tony, Dad. And he didn’t die. He was murdered, remember?’

  ‘Oh, I remember perfectly,’ retorted Brook. ‘There aren’t many Good News days in this job. That was one of them.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ Terri began to cry. ‘Whatever you think about him, he was still a human being.’

  ‘He betrayed your mother. He betrayed you.’

  ‘He didn’t betray me!’ she shouted. ‘I loved him and he loved me.’

  ‘He took advantage of you when you were fifteen years old. That makes him a rapist and a criminal in my book. How can you sit there and defend the way he preyed on you?’

  ‘I loved him, Dad. What can I say?’

  ‘Anything but that,’ snarled Brook.

  ‘It’s the truth. After my eighteenth we were going away together. Mum would’ve understood.’

  ‘Understood?’ Brook laughed. He could sit no longer. He scraped back his chair and paced to the front door, opening it to let out the smoke. ‘You were under-age, Terri. All she would’ve understood was that she’d married a pervert who’d stolen her daughter.’

  ‘He wasn’t a pervert.’

  ‘He broke the law.’

  ‘Love doesn’t obey laws.’

  ‘Don’t hand me the same claptrap you did five years ago. The law is there to protect you from yourself because you weren’t old enough to understand love!’ Brook took a deep breath and wrestled for control. ‘And clearly you still don’t or you wouldn’t sit there and justify what he did,’ he added quietly. ‘This is pointless.’

  Terri laughed bitterly. ‘My exact words as I drew the Stanley knife across my wrists.’ Brook clenched a fist. He saw the sneering mask of certainty in her eyes give way to insecurity. She was too old to man the barricades of unswerving teenage conviction.

  ‘Funny.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘I was okay for the first six months after he . . .’ She took a quivering puff on her cigarette. ‘I had Mum to look after. I had my A-levels. Then one day it all fell in on me. The life we’d planned. The way it was taken from us. So I decided to take the easy way out.’

  ‘The easy way?’ Brook scoffed. ‘Young, beautiful, smart, plenty of money.’ He spat out the next words. ‘I mean, Christ, how much easier do you want it?’

  ‘Easy enough so the world will know my pain without me having to express it,’ she shouted back without flinching.

  Brook turned away to breathe in the fresh summer air. A minute later, he turned back and found her eyes. ‘Even if I say I’m sorry, even if I accept the value you placed on your relationship with that man . . .’ He hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do you think? Terri, you’re educated, for God’s sake. You must have known, no matter how bad the pain became, that one day it would pass. But to try and kill yourself . . .’

  ‘A permanent solution to a temporary problem?’ She smiled weakly at him. ‘I knew. But maybe I didn’t want it to pass. You see, I’d found my immortal love with Tony. No one could ever take him away from me. But if, one day, the pain stopped, then that love was lost. It is lost,’ she added sadly. She looked up at him. ‘How’s your pain these days, Dad? Living out here on your own with your jam jars. No one to talk to. No one to share.’

  Brook turned back to the breeze
blowing through the door. ‘We get by.’

  ‘And no doubt your education helps you make sense of it all,’ she mocked.

  Brook took a final drag at his cigarette before flicking it out into the night. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘It’s a curse. It magnifies everything until it’s a hundred times worse. It disconnects me from so much, from so many people.’ He sighed. ‘I know what you’re thinking, how it must look. Here on my own, I don’t live, I exist. Is that what you want me to say? Okay, I admit it. I live out here in the back of beyond, with my jam jars and my empty fridge and my cigarettes.’

  ‘My cigarettes,’ said Terri, able to smile now the air was clearer.

  ‘Your cigarettes,’ he conceded. ‘And yes, there’s not a day goes by when I don’t question . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I know it’s the logical, educated thing to do when life becomes mere existence. But logic is cold and life is about passion.’

  ‘And is your life about passion, Dad?’

  Brook turned a baleful eye on her. ‘It is tonight.’

  ‘So we’re supposed to just plod on even when we can see no point in living.’

  ‘No point? What could be more pointless than being dead forever, without the kernel of hope that somehow there’s something beyond, some afterlife? Education has robbed me of even that puerile vanity.’

  ‘But at least you can choose your time. You’re in control.’

  ‘Believe that if you want, Terri, but you don’t choose and you’re not in control. On the contrary, you’re a prisoner of your own weakness. Even at my age. But for a teenager it’s worse. You think people would see, you think they’d take you seriously. You’re wrong. All people would see is confusion and fragility, a failure of will. And your cowardice to face up to life.’

  ‘Maybe so, but they’d also see the pain, Dad. They’d see you were hurting and that they missed it, that they should try harder next time. See, you can improve people when you go, make the world a better place.’

  ‘By taking “the easy way out”.’

  ‘It’s not easy, Dad.’