Men with problems tend to regret everything once they’ve climaxed. They run home to repent alone. Others are filled with hatred, and take it out on their partners. They are the ones I truly fear. There’s nothing they won’t do to suppress their sense of shame and guilt. Some will kill.
I didn’t know what to expect from Kemal. I read regret in his eyes. But also detected relaxation and pleasure.
“You were good,” he said.
So he enjoyed it. And he didn’t seem at all ashamed.
“We have sinned,” he said.
“So you realise it’s a sin,” I teased.
“We’re all sinners,” he replied. “What’s the point of being on this earth if we are incapable of sin?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. What was this transformation?
He begged me to visit him again. He told me that we could arrange for his mother to be out, that we would be all alone and able to get undressed next time. For a moment, I thought I’d feel sick. But I didn’t.
I made him promise not to cause any more problems in our chat room. I threatened him, warning him that if he did, his address and everything we did today would soon be posted on the internet. He got the message. I had nothing to hide. He did.
I ordered him to do some research into the girls’ deaths, and to let me know if he came up with anything. Then, and only then, would I consider a second visit.
Finally, I told him that I would pass along any computer work that wasn’t worth my while. We agreed on that as well.
He wanted to kiss me goodbye. Now that I knew what turned him on, I denied him the pleasure. I even considered a parting slap. In the end, I pressed a knee into his chest and grabbed his chin. I jerked it upwards. He held his breath.
I glared into his eyes. He waited expectantly. For what, even I didn’t know.
I released his chin roughly. His head bobbed sideways.
“Please come again,” he called after me. “If you don’t, I’ve got plans of my own.”
Eleven
There’s no question that wheelchair-bound Kemal has exotic tastes, and suffers from a guilt complex. He is also hostile and blindly devoted to his religion. But he is no killer.
Dusk had fallen as I left Kemal’s house. It was turning into a long and eventful day. When I arrived home, my answering machine was full of messages.
The first one was from Ayla, who had called just to hear my voice. She said she hoped to see me soon, and hung up. As always, ever since our childhood, I detected a hint of aggression in her voice. It was ridiculous of her to feel jealous after so many years. What was there to resent, anyway? Selçuk had chosen her over me, and they were married. What else did she want?
Next came a call from Hasan. He sounded agitated, told me he had a bombshell to drop and asked me to call right back.
Then came Ponpon in a panic. She said Hasan had called her, adding that she couldn’t believe what I was getting mixed up in. The message made no sense.
Of all the girls, Ponpon is the one I like best. She’s cultured and funny. For as long as I can remember she has been doing drag shows at major hotels. She also keeps busy with private performances. Birthday parties, special celebrations and even circumcision ceremonies.
“What can I do?” she says. “If they want to circumcise their sons, and then, once they’ve become men, have them spend the night with me, just what am I supposed to do? I thank my fellow citizens.”
I wasn’t used to hearing panic in her voice, since she’s a cheerful and sometimes even slightly callous sort.
Ali seems to pride himself on calling me every time I prepare to leave the house. This was no exception. He wanted to discuss a proposal he’d received from a German company, Frechen Gmbh, and told me to call him back no matter what the hour. His tone made it clear that there were loads of money to be made. Ali is the sort of man who suddenly speaks with a whole new sense of confidence when money will soon be entering his pocket.
In short, all the callers but Ayla expected me to phone them back.
I gave Ponpon top billing.
“Where on earth were you, ayol!” she began.
“What’s going on?”
“What do you think, sweetie? That Hasan of yours has my head spinning. I’m virtually unhinged as it is, so you can imagine what it’s done to me.”
“What is it?”
“There’s some sort of pervert, or a whole gang of them. Something dangerous. Our girls are getting killed. You’ve uncovered them. But you don’t know who they are.”
Hasan had let his imagination run away with him once again. What he said might turn out to be true, but I hadn’t yet put the pieces together quite that way. I wondered if he’d found out anything new, remembering his claim to have some news of a “bombshell”.
“I’m not sure of anything yet,” I said. “Nothing’s that certain. I’ve just got a lot of suspicions.”
“That’s not what Hasan said!”
“I haven’t talked to him yet. He may have found out something else. Believe me when I say I don’t know any more. Anyway, why are you in such a panic?”
“My name is Zekeriya!”
“So?”
“What do you mean ‘so’? Zekeriya is the name of a prophet. If what Hasan says is true, and there’s some maniac serial killer who’s chasing after people named after prophets, I’m next in line.”
I’d known Ponpon for years, but only as Ponpon. I’d even forgotten that she must have had a real name.
“Sweetie, I’m absolutely terrified! That Hasan of yours has scared me to death. I can’t possibly go to the hotel alone. I’ve got to find someone to go with me. Anyway, that’s not my main problem. There’s no way I’m staying home on my own!”
“Don’t exaggerate, Ponpon,” I reassured her.
“I’m not exaggerating, ayol. I’m not some sheep to be led to the slaughter. You’ve got to understand. I’m terrified. I wouldn’t be caught dead on my own at a time like this!”
“All right, come stay with me if you want.”
“I’ll be right over. I’ll go to the hotel, finish work and then head straight for your place. I’m totally frazzled. I can’t even sit down.”
“Fine,” I said. “You’re welcome to come. I’m here at home.”
When she hung up I called Hasan. His line was busy, as usual. It was to be expected. How else could he spread so many rumours in such a short time to so many people? The salary I pay him can’t possibly cover his phone bill. He must rake in the tips.
I decided to try Ali later. He was sure to keep me on the phone for ages, and I had no intention of talking endlessly about work. About a German company no less.
I loathe German porn. It’s the epitome of bad taste; the most repulsive sex imaginable – crooked, straight, wet and dry. It seems calculated to put people off sex for good. There’s never a single beautiful woman, handsome man or presentable boy in German films. Not to mention that the soles of the feet of the performers are inevitably filthy. It’s just disgusting.
I tried Hasan again. The line was still busy.
The doorbell rang. It was Ponpon, who lives two streets up the hill. She must have jumped into her car the second she hung up. She carried an enormous wardrobe bag full of clothes on hangers.
“Ayol, give me a hand,” she demanded. “I’ve got two more.”
She seemed to be moving in with me for good. The bags she’d referred to were enormous suitcases. She couldn’t have packed them in such a short time. Clearly, she’d arranged everything before calling me, including getting her things ready.
She was wearing stage makeup. On her head was a knotted old stocking, in preparation for a wig. Naturally, during her performances, she went through several changes of costume and wigs, and the stocking was one of the tricks of the trade. She settled into my guest room. I watched.
“What’s with the staring?” she asked. “Is something wrong with my makeup?”
“No,” I replied. “I was just watching y
ou. I was lost in thought.”
Not content with my answer, she raced to the full-length mirror, and examined herself under the spotlight. She caressed and rearranged her entire body. Then posed. She raised, then lowered, an eyebrow. She sucked in the hollows of her cheeks. In short, she did all any self-respecting girl would do under the circumstances. Still, she wasn’t convinced.
“You don’t think it’s a bit much.”
She pointed to her eye-shadow. As far as I’m concerned, she applies too much makeup, but that’s her style. Considering she would be up on stage, it was really quite moderate.
“Not at all,” I said. “It’s just fine.”
“All right then. I’ve really got to go. I’ve got some business on the side to take care of first.’’
“Fine,” I said.
“Where should I go when I’m finished tonight? Home or the club?”
“Wherever you like,” I told her. “Here are the spare keys. I’ll be at the club.”
“Well aren’t we feeling all carefree and light-hearted, ayol!” She blew me two kisses and sped off with mincing little steps.
I called Hasan again. This time I got through.
“Where have you been,” he began. “I’ve got the most amazing news!”
“I’ve been at home. But your number’s always busy.”
“I’ve got the most incredible news!”
“So you say. Go on then,” I said.
“I’m terrified you won’t believe me.”
“Hasan, stop dragging it out. Everyone believes you. Ponpon’s in a total panic. She’s moved in with me.”
“Of course. She should be,” he said. “After all, she’s named Zekeriya. What a funny name! I didn’t think there were any more of those around. Seems I was wrong. And of all the people to be named Zekeriya!”
“Hasan, I’m telling you for the last time. Get to the point.”
“Listen,” he said. “Your theory seems to be right on the mark. Something’s happening to the girls named after prophets. There were three more of them recently. Their names are Musa, Yunus and – hold on to your wig – Muhammet!”
“Muhammet?”
“Yes, from Iran.”
“Why didn’t we hear anything about it?” I asked.
“There’s no way we’d have heard about it? It happened so far away. Muhammet was working in Van, one of those transvestites who fled Iran and found refuge in Turkey. They say they were victims of the regime. But they’re real popular over in East Turkey. Guess what happened.”
“I’ll never guess. Just tell me.”
“It’s no fun telling you anything,” he complained.
“Fun? We’re talking about a murdered Iranian girl here.”
“You’re right. I guess I got carried away.”
Hasan was out of line, but he came to his senses. Or at least dispensed with the giddy, self-important airs.
“Anyway,” he continued. “She disappeared a while ago. Her friends – it seems she wasn’t alone – reported her missing to the police. Then they found her body in a cave up in the mountains. Some shepherds found it. It was unrecognisable. They said it had probably been eaten by wild animals, wolves and jackals and the like. The police didn’t bother to investigate. The thing is: what was she doing up in the mountains? From what they say, she was a delicate slip of a thing. So what was she doing in some mountain cave?
That knocked the wind out of me. I don’t just get upset by news like this. I feel like my insides are being torn out.
“Are you there?”
“Yes,” I said. “Sorry. I guess I lost it.”
“If you’d prefer I’ll tell you the rest at the club.”
“You’d better give me a quick rundown now,” I said. You can leave the details for later.”
“All right,” he said. “Musa was from Antalya. Born and bred. He hadn’t even bothered to change his name. And there’s another incredible detail: he stuttered!”
I remembered that the Prophet Musa had some kind of speech defect, and that his brother Harun acted as his spokesman.
“This really is too much,” I exclaimed.
“It’s not over! I think she was the first to die. It’s been a year or so.”
“So how did Musa die?” I asked.
She was found dead on a winter day in an abandoned mountain cabin. They never determined the cause,” he replied.
“And you mentioned Yunus . . . ”
“That’s right, I was about to forget her,” he said. “She was working the motorway out on TEM, but went missing at the beginning of summer. She was known as Funda.”
“Was her body found in the sea? The Prophet Yunus was swallowed by a whale,”
“I don’t know. She’s still missing and there’s no news.”
“That’s enough,” I said.
“We’ll talk at the club,” he said. “When are you coming?”
“I won’t be too late.”
Were we facing a serial killer? It seemed a maniac was systematically stalking girls named after prophets.
Twelve
You could cut the air in the club with a knife. Hasan had done his bit, telling everyone he could everything he’d found out. Like all slow nights, the girls didn’t have much to keep them busy.
There was plenty of time for speculation. Hasan had panicked everyone at the club, relating every gruesome detail for those he’d been unable to reach on the phone.
Osman contributed to the general tension by playing edgy music. The same minimal melody blared out over and over. It was enough to make anyone jumpy, even if they weren’t already suffering a case of the jitters.
The lights were turned up higher than usual. The usual pleasant murkiness was gone, replaced by a disturbingly naked luminosity.
iükrü mournfully tended bar. He perched on a bar stool, something I hadn’t seen him do for ages. Normally, he’s as alert as a flea At most, he leans on the bar. His posture spoke volumes about how low his spirits had sunk. Naturally, my Virgin Mary wasn’t ready. I decided not to make an issue of it.
“Finally!” Sirma greeted me at the door. “Abla, we’ve got to talk.”
I’ve never liked being addressed as “big sister” by those younger than me, even much younger than me. What’s more, Sirma was older. But there was enough tension already. I let it pass. It just wasn’t worth pursuing.
“This sicko killer business is just the pits,” said tubby Mujde.
As always, she drawled out the last word in her sentence.
Hasan contributed to the general gloom by observing that “there still aren’t any customers”.
The girls had dispensed with their falsettos and were using their most baritone voices. The silence that had greeted my entry was replaced by a deep buzzing, as they all began talking at once.
“What is it? I demanded. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know,” said Neslihan. “But how can we work under these conditions?”
“What’s this about some pervert out on the loose?” said Elvan. “I don’t believe any of it.”
Elvan was a dear girl, but a bit slow. She had loudly declared that she didn’t believe in AIDS, either. As though it were a question of faith. In any case, we managed to teach her, through a great deal of bossing and bullying, that she’d better protect herself.
“What about closing the club for the night and having a meeting,” suggested Cise. “In any case, no one’s here.”
When I heard Cise’s voice behind me I remembered to ask her about Deniz, who was found dead in Ataköy. But I decided that it’d be best to wait until later, seeing how wound up everyone was.
“We’ll put a notice on the door,” Pamir agreed.
I realised they’d been discussing everything and had decided on a plan of action long before I arrived.
There was a general air of rebellion. There was no way the girls could work, even if they wanted to. It wasn’t as though shutting up the club for one night would bankrupt us
. At most, I’d just pay the boys for the night. But I was truly pissed off at Hasan. It was he who was responsible for the panic. In a sense, it was all his fault. He’d pay for it. That much was certain.
I agreed with all their suggestions. Cüneyt carefully wrote out the words “We are closed tonight and apologise for the inconvenience” on a piece of paper, and hung it up on the door. Then he added “The Management” on the bottom right hand corner.
The lights were turned up even higher. One of the girls scolded Osman, and the minimalist music was turned off. They all gathered on the dance floor, with me standing in the middle. Hasan darted to my side. He wasn’t about to be left out! With me at centre stage, it was just like Hasan to try to hog some of the limelight. As the person in the eye of the storm he’d created, he began speaking first.
Every couple of sentences he was interrupted by one of the girls, with everyone else then chiming in. Each girl had some detail to add. Some knew the deceased, others knew something different about someone else. Even if they weren’t directly acquainted, they’d heard things. Male names weren’t really in use among us, in fact they weren’t used at all except as an insult, so it took some time to connect the dots.
“Look,” I said. “These names are pretty common. It could all be a coincidence.”
Pamir jumped in. “You’ve got to be kidding! How do you explain the way they were murdered?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m just trying to calm everyone down.”
“We know that,” said Cise. “But we’ve got to do something. There has to be something we can do.”
Despite all the petty infighting, the girls are pretty good when it comes to a show of solidarity. Especially when it comes to a vicious customer, a conservative neighbourhood or some other outside threat. Cise is a ringleader at times like that. She’s a born leader, but some of the others choose to play the helpless female.
“Cise, dear,” I encouraged her. “Then let’s begin with what happened to Deniz. Tell us about her.”
The Prophet Murders Page 7
