The Desire: Class of 666

by Jon Jacks

  ‘No, no; Paul was from the local school, the state school.’

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘Paul Reed.’

  This just got a whole lot worse.

  I know Paul; if not in the biblical sense, as he’d once hoped.

  *

  Chapter 5

  We can either make ourselves miserable

  Or we can make ourselves stronger

  The effort is the same

  The Desire

  I can see why Paul would have been invited to a party like this.

  At some point, Paul would undoubtedly have dated some of the girls here, the girls from Weldon.

  They wouldn’t see dating Paul as ‘slumming it’. They would see dating Paul as a dream come true.

  As we all do.

  As any girl would.

  Easy smile, easy going, easy conquests.

  One of those guys who can wear an old leather jacket and beat up jeans and make it all look like the perfect style to try and emulate.

  Who’s going to notice tears and rips when he locks those eyes on you?

  Or, even better, when he locks those lips on yours.

  Yeah, I’ve been there, obviously.

  His skin just seems to ever so slightly smell of an intoxicating mix of lemons, oranges and milk chocolate.

  For me, it was love.

  Love like I’ve never felt for anyone, before or since.

  But then again, for every girl, it was love.

  ‘Where is he, this Paul?’ I ask like I don’t know him, like he means nothing to me.

  It takes an unbelievable amount of effort to choke back the longing I still feel for him.

  ‘He’s still downstairs, I think.’

  She’s still wringing her hands, looking at me as if she’s expecting me to say at any minute, ‘Hey, everything here’s fine; she’ll come round in a moment, I’m sure. You just wait and see.’

  ‘I think they had an argument,’ the girl adds innocently.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  ‘Oh, oh; not a really bad one,’ she adds hastily. ‘That’s…that’s Paul for you.’

  She sounds like she has personal experience of one of Paul’s arguments.

  Figures.

  She’s pretty enough to interest Paul. And anyone who’s been out with Paul is bound to have an argument with him at some point in their relationship.

  Usually when you realise he’s two-timing you. Or three- or four-timing you, if there’s such an expression.

  Afterwards, you more or less just sit by the phone, wondering when he’s going to call. When he’s going to forgive you for questioning him, accusing him.

  Sometimes, the call comes, you breathe a sigh of relief, and you act as if the argument had never happened.

  Eventually, however, the day, then the week, then the month, arrives when there’s no call.

  When you realise you’re going to have to call him. Hoping he’s been waiting for you to call, agonising over the fact you haven’t.

  Of course, he hasn’t.

  It’s over.

  If you can’t accept that he should be free to see other girls, well, there’s not much point in going out with each other, is there?

  If any girl’s strong enough to casually shrug off his snide put down – the way it highlights your insecurities and jealousies, makes out you’re the problem, not him – I haven’t met her.

  Thing is, all that’s more likely to lead to Paul’s murder: not the girl’s.

  ‘I need to see him; this Paul, I mean.’

  *

  Chapter 6

  Taste me here

  See, how different it tastes here

  There

  And, yes, there

  The Desire

  Outside the room, I turn to Burke, who’s still guarding the door. Hare, I presume, has headed off as I’d instructed: making sure no one leaves, by locking the doors and windows.

  ‘Keep the door locked, make sure no one enters,’ I say to Burke.

  ‘Are others on the way?’ he asks. ‘Some sort of murder squad, I mean?’

  ‘Sure they are,’ I lie. ‘Oh, and when Har– when your friend gets back, could you ask him to make sure no one phones outside. Disconnect the phones, and ask everyone for their mobiles.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ Burke guffaws. ‘Do you know anyone who’d willingly give up their phone? They’ll get withdrawal symptoms in about five minutes.’

  I turn to the girl, who’s walked out of the room with me.

  ‘Could you tell them it’s for some sort of game? And they’ll get them back safely afterwards?’

  ‘Why do you need their phones?’ She not only looks doubtful but also suspicious.

  ‘I don’t want anyone causing panic outside this house. Or saying anything that could lead to morbid sightseers or journalists besieging us.’

  ‘Sure, I see,’ the girl says, turning Burke’s way. ‘Phil, ask Tom to round up as many as he can, would you please?’

  Burke nods grimly. He obviously doesn’t relish the task of even asking his friend to round up all the phones at the party, let alone being the one to do it.

  As we head down the steps, the girl follows me.

  ‘Sorry; I haven’t asked your name yet, have I?’ I say, glancing back over my shoulder.

  ‘Veronica,’ she replies with a half smile that’s almost hidden by the heavy makeup of a sneering, evil queen. ‘Though my friends call me Veri.’

  I almost politely reply, ‘I’m Kate,’ yet stop myself just in time.

  Hardly the right way to maintain authority and confidence, is it?

  ‘I’m Officer Denham,’ I say instead.

  On the steps, the party is still in full swing. No one, as yet, has picked up any bad vibes coming from Burke’s edgy guarding of the door. Or even, I surmise, from Hare’s locking of the doors.

  Then again, everyone appears heavily intoxicated. Whether that’s all down to alcohol or just the excitement of the party, I’m not sure.

  My presence doesn’t appear to have raised any eyebrows, no doubt because my uniform appears pretty tame amongst the outlandishness of all these costumes. Down in the hall, I can see someone who I think is supposed to be Idi Amin, with garish, over-decorated uniform and enough padding to give him a substantial bulk.

  Everyone’s probably assumed that, like them, I’ve come as some character, albeit one that’s either a tad obscure or a little misplaced.

  As for the locked, guarded door, well, who hasn’t been to a party where someone’s retreated to a bedroom for any number of reasons? A distraught, weeping friend being consoled after being unthinkingly dumped by a boy. A friend who’s drunk too much and is in a really really bad way, just about passing out on the bed.

  ‘There’s Paul!’ Tapping me on the shoulder as we near the bottom of the stairs, Veronica points ahead of me towards the people crowding into a kitchen at the end of the hall.

  I can’t miss him.

  Hair from a photograph in a hairdresser’s window, hoping to entice you inside, promising something they can’t really deliver. Nonchalant pose, leaning back against a wall, lifted straight from an old Marlon Brando movie. Smile that, despite slightly uneven teeth, looks easy, confident and alluring, all at the very same time.

  ‘Which one?’ Once again, I manage to say it like I don’t know him.

  Crazy, really.

  In a minute, when I approach him, he’s going to recognise me, isn’t he?

  What do I say then?

  ‘Oh, that Paul Reed!’

  No, I just ignore it. Make out like I couldn’t remember him.

  Just a minor blip in my life. Easily forgotten.

  That’s why I didn’t recall his name.

  ‘That one.’ Veronica points again, leaning over my shoulder a little. ‘With the gorgeous mass of dark hair.’

  Yeah, that’s enough to pick him out, okay.

  ‘The one with Diana Foscut.’

  Veronica’s tone im
plies she’d like her voice to be capable of striking someone down as surely as an expertly thrown knife.

  We push our way through yet more zombies, this time including what could be a red-jacketed Michael Jackson from the Thriller video. There’s a hooded character who could be Skeletor, the guy from Scream, or a Death Eater.

  The quality of the costumes differs, of course, so I’m not certain who some of them are supposed to be. A masked man could be either Hannibal Lecter, the Halloween villain, or maybe even the real weirdo from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. A dark wizard could be any one of a number from Lord of the Rings.

  Some of the girls are possibly a bit more recognisable, including Medusa, a few sirens, Narnia’s White Witch. There’s an alien, however, who might be the man-eating Species, or possibly from Star Trek or a Marvel movie.

  In the kitchen, Paul’s successfully flirting with Catwoman. The slinky version, with the costume made up of roughly stitched patches of leather. She’s got the figure for it too.

  Lucky girl.

  Beyond her, farther into the kitchen, there’s a Lord Voldermort, a Snape, the character played by Helena Bonham Carter whose name I can never remember.

  There’s also either a Dr Evil or a Blofeld, a Gollum or a Goblin, a Jango or the other Fett, a Jack the Ripper, Nosferatu, or a Dorian Grey.

  The girl from the Exorcist has a clever mask that makes it look as if her head is half turned around. Freddy Kruger has talons covered in glistening foil. Agent Smith from The Matrix has a suitably plastic-looking face.

  Paul, he’s dressed as he always is; old leather jacket, jeans, and simple T-shirt.

  Maybe he didn’t think it was cool coming as some evil character. Maybe he decided he’d just come in the gear he feels most comfortable wearing. And to hell with what anyone else thinks.

  ‘Paul?’

  I try to say it devoid of any hint of emotion. I’m not sure I pull it off.

  He still looks amazing. And yes, despite going against the party’s theme, he looks incredibly cool.

  Cool is the right word to describe how he turns to me. There’s no recognition in his eyes at all, let alone the start of surprise I was expecting. No hint, either, of the impressed look I’d sort of been wishing for. (‘Wow, Kate! You’re in the police now?’)

  ‘Yes?’

  That’s it: ‘Yes?’

  Like we’ve never, ever met. Like we didn’t go out together for a few months just a few months back.

  Like I’ve changed so immeasurably in that time, I’m completely unrecognisable.

  I’m sure pulling my hair back into a stern ponytail hasn’t altered me that much!

  Then again, there was the relentless exercise and training, the Spartan diets. All of which has given me a harder-faced, more straight-backed look.

  No, let’s face it Kate, old girl; you were so unimportant to him, just one of so many other girls he’s dated, that you don’t feature anywhere in his memory anymore.

  Then he smiles.

  I smile back, hopeful.

  ‘A prison officer; you’ve come as a prison officer?’ he says cheerily. ‘That’s different, yeah, I like it. They can be really evil when they want to be, can’t they?’

  He still hasn’t used my name. Has he recognised me, or what?

  He seems to mistake my questioning look for confusion over the way he’s dressed. Perhaps he’s been frequently asked for an explanation.

  ‘I thought I’d come as T-One Thousand,’ he says, with a grin that reminds me of how wonderful it used to be when he’d use it to greet me. ‘From the second Terminator movie? But then I thought, no: I’ll come as James Dean. He must’ve played a bad character at some point, right?’

  I give Catwoman a hard, uncompromising glare. Beat it! She looks a little miffed, yet also very unsure about just how far she wants to take protesting against her dismissal. She takes her cue to leave, saying to Paul, ‘Later?’

  Paul nods, grins, looks back towards me with an expression that implies he’s none too happy with the way I’ve butted in like this.

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ I state bluntly. ‘A real police officer.’

  He glances Veronica’s way, who’s hanging back just by my shoulder.

  She nods, backing my assertion up.

  Strange, when you think about it; me not being a police officer at all.

  ‘Officer,’ he says with a welcoming if doubtful nod.

  He doesn’t know me.

  That’s all I am to him; an officer.

  And I’m not really that, of course.

  Just great!

  Oaky, an officer it is then.

  ‘I heard you were involved in an argument earlier?’

  Paul looks shocked by my blankly delivered statement. Once again, he looks to Veronica for reassurance that everything’s fine, that there’s not really anything to worry about.

  Behind me, Veronica must nod her assent. Paul looks back to me with a slightly calmer gaze, his eyes still bemused, even a little angry.

  ‘Nothing serious, Officer,’ he insists, giving me his best ‘See how innocent I look?’ smile. ‘Just a tiff; nothing more. What did she say? Why did she call you?’

  Towards the end, he can’t hide his irate glower. His easy manner has gone too. He’s stiffened, standing more upright, a little away from the wall.

  ‘She didn’t call: I’m just trying to work out what went on here tonight, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m not being accused of anything, am I? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing to concern you – yet. That’s what I’m trying to work out.’

  ‘It was just a regular argument; you know, like you have over another girl? That’s all. I’ve had hundreds of them. And none have had to involve the police.’

  Hundreds, I reckon, is dead right.

  ‘This one probably won’t either, after you’ve given me a few answers to a few questions. You’re just helping with enquiries. Being eliminated from them, if you prefer.’

  Yeah, all that guff I’ve picked up from TV rather than from training. Thing is, it works: it reassures him.

  Suddenly, he’s no longer standing so defensively rigid.

  ‘What was this argument about?’ I ask soothingly. ‘This argument like so many hundreds you’ve had before?’ I can’t help adding, lacing it all with a quiet, mocking guffaw.

  ‘Another girl, what else?’ He almost says it with unalloyed pride.

  I must glare at him more reproachfully than I realise.

  ‘No, no!’ he continues hurriedly. ‘Not a girl I was chasing: a girl chasing me!’

  Again, there’s that self-satisfied smirk.

  Whatever did I see in this arrogant jerk?

  I let him continue.

  ‘She approached me! Honest! Worse, though, she kept on insisting I’d been out with her. But I swear I’d never seen her before! So yeah, as you can imagine: that didn’t go down too well with the girl I’d brought to the party!’

  ‘She approached you? Even though you were already with a girl?’

  I say it doubtfully, even though, yeah, it did happen actually. I’d curled my toes in embarrassment a number of times when a girl who saw herself as being more in his league had just about stepped on my feet in her eagerness to talk to him.

  I’m just enjoying watching him squirm, truth be told.

  ‘It happens all the time, I swear.’ He says it with what he hopes is a self-explanatory, winning smile. ‘But, I’ve got to admit, this girl was freaking me out. She just looked, you know – like real kooky!’

  I look about me, catching sight of a passing Genghis Khan, some sort of Arthurian fey, maybe, a female version of the Joker. I’m sort of glad to see that, so far, I haven’t spotted anyone who’s come as Darth Vader. When it comes to kooky, however; I think that just about sums up everybody here.

  Once again, Paul’s on the ball, noting my sceptical frown.

  ‘Look, I mean, she was only dressed as an angel; the Archangel Gabriel, fr
om the movie Constantine? It wasn’t that that freaked me out. It was – well, you’ve got to see her! See, I said I didn’t know her: but really, I wouldn’t know her if I did! She’s had so much work done! I’ve no idea what she must’ve originally looked like!’

  ‘What kind of work? Plastic surgery, you mean?’

  He nods. I glower doubtfully.

  ‘Bit young for a nip and tuck, surely?’

  This time, he shakes his head.

  ‘No, not that kind of plastic. I’m talking of the real whacko kind: when they set out to create someone entirely different to who they really are! She’s gone for the Barbie look; you know, like she really is made of plastic!’

  It’s my time to nod. He smiles with relief, like he’s glad he’s actually getting through to me, getting me to believe him.

  I know what he means by the Barbie look: the incredible transformation some people put themselves through to create a doll-like perfection.

  At one low point in my life – a low point that had an awful lot to do with Paul – I’d actually toyed with idea of going under the knife myself. In newspapers and magazines, I’d seen photos of girls who had done it before, paying for the ludicrously expensive surgery by charging photographers and journos for exclusives.

  Sometimes, rather than Barbie, they’d give themselves a Korean look. Then there were the Koreans who had themselves altered to look like western girls. Boys too, some making themselves into a human Ken.

  Weird, but hey – if that’s your bag, why not?

  ‘And you sure you didn’t know her?’ I probe Paul. ‘She might have changed her appearance, but she must have told you her name.’

  ‘Sure she did; and that’s when I was sure she was a fully-fledged whacko. It was just unbelievable. She said she was Kate Denham!’

  I hold back from gasping in surprise.

  He’s right; she can’t be Kate Denham.

  Because I’m Kate Denham.

  *

  Chapter 7

  We always feel we have become enlightened when things are explained to us

  Yet if they are only words

  Then they are meaningless

  When we really face the world

  The Desire

  I’m probably making way too much of this name thing.

  I mean, it’s not impossible, is it, that someone at a party could have the same name as me?

  Especially when it’s hardly an extra special name.

  Could be, anyway, that she’s just lying. She’s completely changed her appearance, so why not her name?