R3 Deity

by Steven Dunne

  Through two more large white-tiled rooms they travelled, the stranger not looking back once. At the entrance to a brightly lit third room, Poole could hear the whine of a generator. His green guide turned and ushered him into a large dome-like space at the centre of which was a sunken whitetiled dry pool, surrounded by a wooden rail. Too small for swimming, Poole guessed it was some kind of treatment pool. High windows at the top of the dome allowed Poole’s first glimpse of natural light – the sun was shining.

  In the middle of the dry pool lay a large empty sarcophagus. It looked extremely sturdy. At the base stood a large jar with a heavy stoneware lid, much like the one Poole had kicked over in the darkness a few rooms away. It was empty. To one side stood a hefty wooden table. Next to it was a large copper tank with two tubes attached. With a sinking heart, Poole realised it was for draining and storing the blood from a corpse. Next to the large table was a smaller table on which sat a loaf of bread and two wine glasses. There was also a variety of surgical instruments, most of which he recognised. He picked up a bone cutter and brandished it.

  ‘Ra smiles on us, Anubis,’ said Osiris.

  ‘Let me out of here,’ snarled Poole.

  His captor stood, arms folded, before him – in one hand the crook and in the other some kind of whip or flail. His eyes were closed as though in prayer and when he opened them, the bloodshot whites of his eyes were picked out in stark contrast to the dark make-up covering every inch of his face and neck. Poole fancied he recognised the man in his rearview mirror.

  ‘Think you’re going to cut me up and dump me in the river, sicko?’ growled Poole, mustering some aggression. Over my dead body, went unsaid. ‘Let me out of here.’

  ‘Fear not, my subject. I mean you no harm.’ Osiris raised his face to the heavens to intone with great solemnity: ‘Geb, Nut, Father of the Earth and Mother of the Sky, I prepare to join you in the Underworld. Horus, my son, I call on you to continue my work in this world as I . . .’ At that moment, the man fell into a violent coughing fit which ended with him covering his mouth with a white-robed sleeve. When he pulled the sleeve away, Poole saw blood there.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ demanded Poole, advancing on the man. ‘You abduct me in the middle of the night and bring me here. How dare you? Let me go.’

  The green face returned to the horizontal and the man glared at Poole. ‘I am Osiris, insect, and I dare to bring you to this holy place.’

  ‘What place? Where are we?’

  ‘We are at the Ibu, Anubis.’

  ‘Ibu? Anubis?’

  ‘The place of purification where I must prepare for my journey. Come, Anubis, eat.’ Given his almost bound legs, the man walked as best he could over to the table bearing the food. Poole readied the bone cutter.

  Osiris waved a hand at the loaf and the bottle. ‘Sacred barley for your sustenance. Wine for your thirst.’

  Poole screwed up his face in disbelief. ‘You don’t expect me to touch that, do you, you fucking fruitcake? Now let me out.’

  ‘Unless you join me in a sacred meal, Anubis, you will never look upon Ra, the Sun God, again.’ Poole hesitated, tightlipped, gripping his weapon. ‘Fear not. The food is blessed.’ Still Poole stared until Osiris could be patient no longer and snarled at his guest in the broadest Yorkshire accent: ‘Fucking eat summat or you’ll get my khopesh up your arse.’ He reached under his garments, drew out a large sickle-shaped sword and brandished it above his head. It glinted in the muted sunlight and Poole shrank back. ‘Eat, I command you.’ Osiris regained his composure and smiled beatifically, a better argument occurring to him. ‘Or would you prefer to return to the first chamber and the shelter of Apep’s black cloak?’

  Poole slowly approached the table. He picked up the loaf, all the while watching the bizarre figure before him. He tore off a corner of bread without breaking his gaze and chewed half-heartedly. Osiris smiled his approval. After the first wary mouthful Poole realised how hungry he was and tore off some more. Osiris picked up the bottle and made to pour it into two glasses. Poole’s eye was drawn by a colourless crystal substance resembling sugar in the bottom of one of the glasses. He stiffened and raised the bone cutter.

  ‘No wine for me.’

  Osiris smiled and poured wine into the clean glass and placed it next to Poole who didn’t pick up the glass until Osiris showed him the sword again. Poole took a wary sip. Osiris then poured wine into the other glass and stirred the liquid with a hooked brass rod from the array of surgical tools. When the crystals had dissolved, the man raised the glass to make a toast.

  ‘Anubis, God of Embalming, you bestowed your gifts upon me and now I return them with thanks. Use your skills, Jackalheaded One . . .’ He coughed heavily for a few moments then grinned through bloody teeth. ‘And prepare me for immortality.’ He declined to drink and instead laid the large sword on the floor and clambered on to the wooden table. He took off his domed crown and lay on his back then rummaged under a sleeve and exposed Poole’s wristwatch.

  ‘It is time.’ Propping himself on an elbow, Osiris swirled the dark red liquid around his glass and drained the contents in one gulp. ‘I shall await you on the other side, Anubis.’

  He lay back down but sat up almost immediately, his broad Yorkshire accent to the fore again. ‘Oh, and don’t go kicking my guts around t’floor, you clumsy bastard,’ he snapped. ‘I’m already a servant down, thanks to you.’ A second later he was overcome with serenity once more and lay back.

  Poole stepped nearer the green-faced man then made a grab for the misshapen sword. ‘You fucking weirdo. What’s going on? How do I get out of here?’ But already the man’s eyes were rolling back in his head and his breathing had begun to grate. The empty glass threatened to break from his greenfingered grip and Poole rescued it and raised it to his nose.

  ‘Potassium cyanide? Jesus.’

  Poole felt for a pulse around the neck but couldn’t find one. He grabbed Osiris by the shoulders and shook him violently. ‘How do I get out of here?’ he screamed. His voice was flung around the tiled walls. ‘Tell me.’ A moment later, he lowered the man’s shoulders on to the table. He was dead.

  Len ran back through the other chambers, looking all the while for doors or windows. The only doors led to other rooms and the only windows were too high and filled in with bricks, or boarded up. Next to the chamber with the rats, Len found another door but although it wasn’t locked he couldn’t budge it. It was blocked on the other side. He banged on it and hacked at it with the sword, screaming for help but heard no answering cry save his own, echoing through the building.

  Reluctantly he returned to the dry pool. At least there was light here. He decided to finish the loaf to keep his strength up and began to chew while he considered his options.

  A sudden noise spun him round and he trained his eyes on a darkened corridor which led away from the pool chamber. Although it was dark, Poole could just make out the doorways of other rooms opening off the unlit passage. He turned and took a pace towards the blackness. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Len,’ whispered a voice from the shadows. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Sir’ shouted Cooper, nodding to the large screen. The Deity broadcast was about to begin. Someone switched off the lights and the room fell silent. The countdown reached zero.

  Becky Blake sat on a wooden chair in a bare white-tiled room. There were no windows visible and the light appeared to be artificial. The time and date display showed the film had been shot on the Sunday after the party at five o’clock in the evening. Becky wore a long white robe with a V-neck. She held a piece of A4 paper in her hands but didn’t look at it. Brook could make out a couple of paragraphs of handwritten text on the sheet.

  Becky grinned enthusiastically at the camera but then made an effort to get her excitement under control. ‘I’m Becky Blake. I’m eighteen years old. I want to say goodbye to my mother and father and to my best friend Fern.’ She hesitated then glanced down at the paper. ‘The world is a terrible pl
ace and I don’t want to see any more of it. I’m looking forward to a different reality. You won’t see me again but please don’t mourn. Time to die.’ The shot ended with Becky gazing earnestly into the camera, trying to suppress a smile. Then she reached off-screen for a glass and, after a quick swirl, downed it in one.

  A few seconds later, Kyle sat in the same chair in the same room and seemed to be wearing a similar robe to Becky. The display showed the same date but ten minutes later than Becky’s monologue.

  Kyle was nervous. He licked his lips and flexed his swollen jaw, looking hesitantly at whoever was holding the camera. At an unseen signal he nodded and began. ‘My name is Kyle Kennedy. I’m eighteen years old and come from Derby. I want to say goodbye . . .’ For a moment, emotion paralysed his vocal cords. He cleared his throat and looked back up into the lens. ‘I want to tell my mum goodbye and that I love her. Dad, I’m sorry I wasn’t the son you wanted. I didn’t choose this path. If I had, I would have chosen to be gay in a more understanding place.’

  He gathered himself before continuing. ‘I’d like to say goodbye to Jake.’ Again he paused and looked away. ‘The tenton truck is here, Jake, and I’m standing in the middle of the road. Goodbye, Morrissey. I love you.’ He prepared to stand up but relaxed back on to the chair and, almost as an after-thought, added, ‘Time to die.’ He reached for his own glass. . . then downed the contents.

  Brook’s heart began to beat faster as Adele Watson appeared on the screen. The scene was shot in the same format as the others, fifteen minutes later than Kyle. Adele Watson sat confidently on the chair and gazed mockingly into the camera. Her dark eyes reached across cyberspace and burned into Brook’s. He could see from her manner that she meant business, her thin smile almost scornful in its superiority. She wasn’t to be cowed and wouldn’t shrink from the path she’d chosen – Adele was totally in control.

  ‘Hello, faceless voyeurs. I hope you’re all enjoying the show. I’m Adele Watson and I’ve existed for eighteen excruciating years in a little backwater of Hades called Derby. Don’t worry, it’s not long to the money shot – what you’ve all been waiting for. But first I need to ask a favour. I need all you good people to take a moment after you’ve witnessed our humble sacrifice and think about what we’re about to do because it’s not selfish. We do this for you. We go willingly for the chance to speak to you, to show you that the world is fucked and we want no part of it.

  ‘Look around, citizens. What do you see? Does it make you happy? Everywhere your eye falls, man is gorging himself on the planet. The animals, the oceans, the soil, the weak, the poor, the downtrodden – shit, even the air particles we breathe are being fucked over so a few members of a sad and lonely and unhappy elite can feed on what’s left of our ailing world. If this elite were aliens, we’d organise, we’d resist and we’d fight with our dying breaths. But whilst our world is being raped, we do nothing. We scuttle around doing their bidding, making their lives richer and the planet poorer. And do we protest? No. Do we rise up? No. Instead, we struggle blindly on and hope they’ll leave us alone or if we’re really good boys and girls, let us join their club.

  ‘And the membership card? Money. You remember that stuff. Course you do. You’ve all had some, you’ve all wanted more, so you can buy stuff you don’t need and which won’t make you happy. But that doesn’t stop you. Obviously you haven’t bought enough stuff. Must try harder. That nagging doubt where your soul used to be has to be driven out. Work more, eat more, buy more. The pursuit of happiness depends on it.’

  Adele smiled into the camera. ‘Our gluttony knows no bounds. But will it mean we can live forever? No. Our corporeal existence will end and our memory will be held in the minds of those who come after us. How do you want to be remembered, friend? As a heartless rich bastard who climbed over others to reach the sunlight – or as a doer of good works? Be forgotten in hate or revered in love? Decide now. Make a stand before it’s too late. You have the power. Goodbye parents, goodbye world. Remember me as one who cared. Time to die.’ She threw the contents of her glass into her mouth without breaking her gaze to camera.

  The screen blackened and Brook blew out his cheeks. There was silence in the crowded room.

  ‘No Rusty,’ muttered Brook.

  ‘Rusty?’ said Charlton. ‘But he’s the fox in the henhouse. You said so yourself.’

  ‘He is,’ replied Brook. ‘But he can’t be certain we know that. Why isn’t he keeping up the pretence that he’s a victim too?’

  Cooper went to hit the lights but before he reached the switch another piece of footage began.

  It was night. Becky Blake was framed in the light of her bedroom window, naked. The camera was lowered to point towards the ground. There were branches of tree in the frame. A second later the ground hurtled towards the camera and the assembled officers heard a muffled expulsion of air. The camera helpfully panned back up to the tree from which the cameraman had just jumped.

  ‘That must be the tree outside Becky Blake’s house,’ said Noble.

  Brook looked at the time display. ‘It’s the night of Becky’s naked dance – the night before the party.’

  An excited voice boomed from the speakers. ‘Body Double – directed by Brian de Palma. Result or what?’ In case they were in any doubt about the origin of the voice, the camera turned towards its owner and the grinning face of Rusty Thomson leered into the lens. Then the screen went blank.

  A few seconds later, another piece of film and the screen erupted into noisy life; the detectives covered their ears to the cacophony. The picture seemed to be rolling at speed between a hard pavement and the night sky as though the camera was being bounced along the ground. For a split second Brook fancied he also saw a bike-wheel in shot. He winced as the soundtrack gave way to a mixture of screaming and loud banging as the camera came to a halt. The time display showed ten minutes had elapsed since Rusty had filmed himself jumping from the tree.

  ‘What the devil?’ muttered Charlton. ‘What is this?’

  The camera was on the ground. A few yards away, Rusty Thomson lay face down on the pavement, a hand clutching at his neck. A moment later Rusty looked up and reached his bloodstained hand to the lens before his breath gave out and he sank back to the ground. He lay still as the camcorder continued to record.

  Brook stared at Rusty, his eyes narrowing. ‘I know it’s dark, but . . .’

  ‘What?’ asked Charlton.

  Brook stared a moment longer then looked back at Charlton and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  The screen changed to black until the caption deity – the end flashed up. No countdown followed. It was over. Cooper turned on the lights. Again there was silence until broken by Charlton.

  ‘Did we just see our prime suspect murdered?’ he asked. Nobody answered for a moment. Charlton turned, as usual, towards Brook for an injection of expertise. ‘Inspector?’

  Brook roused himself to answer. ‘If so, he died the night before the party.’

  ‘That would explain why he didn’t have a monologue,’ said Cooper.

  ‘And why Jake didn’t see Rusty at the party,’ added Noble.

  ‘Then who the hell filmed the other three students? And who the hell was at the river with Wilson Woodrow?’

  ‘It must have been Kyle,’ said Morton.

  ‘Jake saw Kyle doing the filming at the party.’ Noble nodded.

  ‘What about Rifkind?’ ventured Charlton.

  ‘That wasn’t Rifkind at the river or on the bridge,’ said Brook.

  ‘But you can’t be sure,’ argued Charlton. ‘It’s impossible to tell.’

  Brook didn’t answer but remained deep in thought. ‘Yvette identified Rusty from the bridge.’

  ‘Then maybe that last piece was a fake,’ said Cooper. ‘Make us think Rusty’s dead and take the heat off him.’

  ‘Did that look faked to you?’ asked Morton, nodding at the screen.

  Cooper shrugged. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Which means Rusty wa
s killed on Thursday night,’ began Noble.

  ‘Are we sure he died?’ said Charlton.

  ‘What we see and what we seem is but a dream,’ intoned Brook to no one in particular. Everyone turned to him. ‘Dave, play that last bit back again – in slow motion.’

  Cooper moved his hand back over the mouse and restarted the film in slow motion. The lights went off and detectives could clearly see the blurred film of night sky and ground, either side of indeterminate shots of vegetation and distant streetlights.

  ‘Stop,’ commanded Brook. He stood and walked towards the screen. The bicycle-wheel he’d seen before was clearer now. Next to it was a leg dressed in a bright blue tracksuit with red and yellow chevrons and bright white chunky training shoes.

  ‘Len Poole,’ said Noble. ‘He killed Rusty.’

  Brook nodded without taking his eyes from the leg. ‘When we asked Mrs Kennedy if Kyle had a bicycle, Poole said he’d been out on it, remember?’

  ‘So Poole killed Rusty Thomson,’ said Charlton uncertainly.

  ‘We don’t know that,’ said Brook.

  ‘He looked dead to me,’ said Charlton. ‘I know, I know,’ he added, before Brook could make his objection. ‘We could be having our heads messed with. But we need to find Poole.’

  ‘He’s been abducted.’

  ‘How do we know that wasn’t faked?’ asked Charlton, waving his hand at the screen.

  ‘We don’t,’ said Brook. ‘But we know Lee Smethwick and Rusty are connected. We know Smethwick is terminally ill and hung up on Egyptian burial rites. We know Poole is a pathologist.’

  ‘We also know Poole’s connected to the students,’ interrupted Charlton. ‘He’s connected to the house where they were last seen and now we have film of him attacking Rusty Thomson.’

  ‘Poole’s not behind Deity.’

  ‘You sound very sure of that.’

  ‘Why would Poole upload footage to implicate himself in a murder?’ said Brook. ‘If anything, Deity has shone a searchlight on his past indiscretions. Why would he want that? Besides, Poole’s not smart enough to run rings round us like Deity has for the past week.’