by Horn, Marc
PERSONA
by
Marc Horn
Copyright © 2013 Marc Horn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or any events past or present, are purely coincidental.
Also available in paperback.
This novel is written using UK English.
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
About the Author
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
The Mortal Religion
Sample Chapters
Buy The Mortal Religion
1
He stood still on the kerb. Just his eyes moved.
Above him was a street lamp struggling to compensate for an absent moon; behind him a park encased in railings and locked up until dawn; and in front, across the road, a row of three-storey, semi-detached houses.
Forty-nine Echo Walk. Just as he remembered it: eight bow windows, wall lights by the door, a perfect lawn stretching to a brick driveway.
Her bedroom was dark, but the curtains were open. He imagined what she’d see – the orange light would accentuate him as he watched her. She’d struggle for air and have to grip the wall to stay on her feet. She’d cry for help.
Raindrops fell on his shoulders. He knew that no one could help her.
Jen froze.
He had appeared before her like this many times, and yet she’d never become numb to the sight. However this time was different. It wasn’t her mind playing tricks on her; this time he was real. Clasping her hands against her chest, she ran down the stairs and into the street.
A deep laugh echoed around her, pumping ice through her veins.
‘Flight or fight, you never get to decide,’ he hissed. ‘It’s instinct.’
Jen’s strength faded like an apparition, and her legs felt as if they were wading through putty. She stopped on the road, five feet from Zen’s towering frame. The rain had already soaked through her white silk nightdress and chilled her skin.
‘What d-d-do you want?’ she whimpered.
‘The same thing I’ve always wanted. Justice.’
‘You’re s-sick. You need help.’
‘Help is within.’ Zen turned his palms upwards and sucked in air. ‘I feel myself slowly healing.’
Her knees buckled, but she managed to stay upright. She wouldn’t scream - that was what he wanted. ‘So what is your justice, Zen?’
‘Death.’
Desperate to find strength, she forced her voice louder. ‘Then you’ll get fucked in prison!’
‘I leave no traces,’ he whispered.
‘My boyfriend’s a policeman…’ Jen tried to smile, but her lips only quivered. ‘Every murder leaves a trace.’
‘Not psychological murder.’
She staggered back a few steps on the wet, cold tarmac. ‘You think you can crush me again? I’m over you, Zen, I’m enjoying life.’
Water dripped off his thick, black stubble. ‘Look at you, Jenny. You tremble. You stutter and suffer.’ Zen shook his head. ‘And I’ve not started yet.’
‘You’re a fool,’ she said quietly. ‘You were beaten almost to death. Do you really want that again?’
‘They thought I was dead.’
‘And that is what you want? Death?’ Jen’s arms were shivering and the rain stole her tears. ‘All because of what happened ten years ago?’
‘No, it’s your death I want. I’ll die for that.’
How could it be possible that standing there, dressed in black, he could be more terrifying than before? Jen pressed her face into her hands, then looked up and swept wet strands of hair from her eyes. ‘Why don’t you just kill me, Zen?’
‘I’m not selfish. I’ll only return what you gave me.’
‘And what did I give you?’
‘Psychological death.’
‘Why did you have to die?’ she shouted. ‘You had everything. Looks, personality, you could have done anything! You killed yourself! I’m not to blame!’ She was becoming hysterical.
His voice turned quiet. ‘Oh but you are, Jenny, you know you are. You’ve tried so hard to eliminate the memories, but they’re too strong, they’re always gonna be there in the back of your mind. That’s where I’ll always be… smiling at the past.’
Helpless, she sobbed as she pleaded with him. ‘I loved you so much. You left me. I suffered a broken heart!’
‘But not a broken mind, bitch.’
She ran forwards with her fists clenched. ‘You piece of shit! Do it then!’ She launched her fists towards his face, pummelling his slippery skin till her knuckles hurt. Throughout, he remained rigid, laughing. She backed off. She’d not even hurt him.
Her front door slammed against the hall wall and her father ran across the road, screaming Zen’s name.
‘Ah, Nathan, nice to see you once more.’
Nathan threw a string of punches. Those aimed at his face, Zen blocked. He let his stomach muscles absorb the body blows. Jen’s dad persisted until he was out of breath, then bent over and placed his hands on his knees.
Zen smiled. ‘You’ve grown older. I’ve grown stronger, faster, wiser... I’m focused.’
‘What…do you…fucking want?’ Nathan shouted between wheezing breaths.
‘What I wanted last time.’
‘You’re not gonna get it, you fucking loser! You’ll be leaving in a body bag!’
‘So will Jenny.’
‘Look at you.’ Nathan shook his head. ‘You come here like you’re owed something. All because of something she did when you were kids!’ He straightened up. ‘I’m glad she did it. It sickens me knowing she dated you for as long as she did!’
Zen sighed. ‘Hard words, Nathan, but to a man devoid of emotion they mean nothing.’
‘You’re just a psychopath, loved by no one.’
‘Love is in my past.’
‘There’s nothing in your future.’
Zen rolled back his head. ‘Ah, but there is. So much... Retribution.’
Nathan put his arms around his daughter. ‘Come inside. This lunatic has no place in our lives.’ They turned and walked away without looking back.
Zen waited for the sirens, then left.
2
Ryan clenched his fist and narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ll fuck a bloke and I’ll kill someone,’ he said. ‘There are many things
I want to experience.’
Dave, sitting opposite, took a sip of orange juice, scratched away some dirt beneath his fingernail and then glanced up at his friend, using his hand as a visor to shield his blue eyes from the sun. ‘If you start to dislike me,’ he said, ‘please tell me.’
Ryan smiled and swept his tongue along a line of beer froth on his lip. ‘I quite like you, Dave, you know that.’
‘Don’t start liking me too much either.’
A decrepit fence enclosed the beer garden of the White Horse, a violent pub in south London. A handful of punters occupied the picnic tables, gradually peppering the bumpy earth with cigarette butts.
Ryan gulped his drink and stared at the sky, deep in thought. His friend watched him and slowly shook his head. ‘That’s where you belong, up in those clouds. Are you really mad, or is it just pretence?’
Ryan held Dave’s gaze. ‘Why would I pretend?’
‘Because you think it makes you appear more interesting.’ Dave knew this wasn’t the case with Ryan. He just wished it was, because then it could be addressed.
‘Time will tell.’
‘You’ll be doing time if you kill someone!’ Dave pushed aside his drink and squinted at Ryan’s rugged, hard features. ‘Have you heard about the advances in forensics? One tiny piece of saliva left at a crime scene holds enough DNA to prove a person’s involvement.’ He studied Ryan’s face, hoping to see a flicker of concern.
‘You forget that I’d have to be on the DNA database, before they could match the spit to-’
‘That spit stays in the DNA bank forever,’ Dave interrupted. ‘So let’s say in ten years’ time you knock someone out. Police are called, watch the CCTV evidence, and later identify you by your clothing. You get arrested and guess what happens next?’ He nodded at Ryan, lips parted, wanting his creative aptitude to be acknowledged.
Another fucking scenario, thought Ryan. ‘Tell me,’ he responded. Most of the time he just pretended to listen to Dave.
‘Come on,’ Dave persisted. ‘What happens after arrest?’
Ryan sighed. This was irrelevant. It always was - he would suggest something, Dave would object, and then he’d do it anyway. And he’d always get away with it. ‘You go to court,’ he said, just to wind Dave up.
‘And before court?’
‘… Bail?’
‘Oh come on,’ complained Dave, ‘you’re taking the piss.’ The seat creaked as he fidgeted. ‘DNA’s taken! And once they’ve analysed the swab, who d’you think’s going to be knocking on your door?’ Ryan shrugged. ‘The police! And you, my friend, face an allegation of murder.’ He sat back, satisfied, trying hard not to breathe in too much of the putrid air. The garden reeked of tar and beer. It was a disgusting environment and he only drank there because Ryan liked it.
Ryan checked his gelled black hair with his fingers. Dave flapped about everything. Intricate analysis was needed before any decision. But Dave believed himself sensible and everyone else incompetent.
The late August sun was making Ryan irritable. A group of blokes were drinking at a table in front of him, but none of them would dare to stare him out. ‘And you, my friend, are living in the past,’ he said to Dave. ‘You have too much faith in the police. Don’t paint a picture of efficiency. They fucked you in the arse; they ended your career. You owe them nothing.’
Dave broke eye contact. It was a sensitive issue that still affected him. Anyone else might’ve been tactful. ‘I’m just warning you before you drop yourself in it,’ he said. ‘D’you really think you’re going to get away with it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t think you’ve thought all this out.’
Ryan laughed and watched a cigarette burn out on the ground. ‘I’ve spent many hours thinking about it,’ he said.
‘So...’ Dave began warily, ‘have you achieved any of these objectives yet?’
‘No.’ Ryan finished his pint and banged the glass on the rotten table. ‘But that’s about to change.’
3
The Newt was an old-fashioned pub with squeaky floorboards, a low, cream ceiling supported by huge black beams, and a thick, polished mahogany bar-top with a wavy edge. Its walls were dotted with black and white photos of actors and actresses who had starred in classic movies and beneath each of them was an excerpt of their dialogue, professionally engraved into the plaster and then coated with black ink. Nonetheless, The Newt attracted a young market with its huge selection of mixed drinks. It was two-for-one night and there was hardly room to breathe.
Col had to shout to be heard over the music. ‘When I was a boy my dad wanted me to be a professional footballer.’ He made eye contact with each of the three girls sat with him and Dave. ‘He’d wake me up at four every morning and train me in the back garden for an hour and a half.’
The brunette gawked at him and leaned forward. ‘You really went through that when you were so young?’ Col nodded. ‘Why did your dad stop?’
‘My right foot broke. Instead of a normal football, I had to use a medicine ball to make me strong.’
‘Oh my God!’ shrieked the petite blonde, slapping her hand over her mouth.
‘He had me train in a t-shirt all through winter so I’d become immune to the cold. After every session he stuck my hands in his armpits to warm them up.’
The brunette smiled at him. ‘You’re joking with us, right?’
‘No,’ Col laughed.
‘Didn’t your mum do anything about it?’
‘Fuck all. She knew my dad was off his head, that’s why she married him - he made her laugh.’
‘At your expense apparently! What an ordeal.’
‘It toughened me up. I didn’t learn much at school though – I was too knackered to stay awake!’
‘Where’s your dad now?’ asked the blonde.
Col stared at her as he downed his beer and then exhaled. ‘What colour’s your minge?’
Stunned silence ensued for seconds until the girl who’d said nothing so far blurted, ‘Jesus! We’re just going to the Ladies,’ then got up from her seat and began to push her way through the crowd. Her friends followed her.
Dave spoke through his fingers. ‘Jesus Christ, Col, we aren’t going to stand a chance with any women if you talk like that! It’s not sane to them.’
Col had stood up and was scanning the pub for other women, unperturbed by the situation. ‘Dave, I’m not interested in snob bitches. I won’t be someone I’m not. They don’t like who I am, they can fuck off.’
‘Why do you care whether they like you or not? All that matters to you is that you get sex.’
Col glared at him. ‘I’m not shooting my load into any bitch. You have to earn my cum.’
Dave nodded and smiled. ‘Great. What a wonderful attitude. I predict that we’ll pull nothing tonight.’
‘Yeah we will.’ Col patted him on the shoulder. ‘They won’t be fit though.’ He continued looking around and then smiled. ‘That’s who we want, over there, two chicks with a pitcher. Big drinkers, big birds, they never fail. Come with me.’
In front of Col were two women who, he’d decided, were in no position to pick and choose. That was what he wanted - less effort. It worked for both him and Dave. Dave couldn’t pull for shit, so a bird happy to settle for anyone was ideal, whereas he himself wanted quick sex and knew the mere thought of shagging him would make either of them wet.
He moved up to their table. ‘Alright girls, I’m Col. D’you mind if we buy you another pitcher?’
‘Not at all, Col,’ slurred the girl with short, black hair. ‘I’m Fay, this is Stacey.’
Stacey needed to shed about three stone, he quickly calculated. Her face was shaped like the moon, big dimples dug into it when she smiled and her blond hair was probably as false as her self-esteem. Nice brown eyes though, and big baps.
Fay, he thought, was the uglier of the two - a good four stone surplus baggage, and like most fat birds she had rosy cheeks, bright eyes and an annoying,
high-pitched voice, which gave the impression that she was content with the state of herself. It made him sick.
‘Great. This is Dave.’ Col handed him a twenty. ‘Get two pitchers in mate.’
Dave took the money to the bar. He hated the initial process of getting to know women. He couldn’t think of things to say, so he was content to leave Col to tackle the embarrassing part - he’d had more practice. The bar was full, so he waited for an opening.
Col sat down. ‘Just finished work?’ he asked both of them.
‘We ’ave.’ Fay again. She was taking the lead.
He looked at Stacey. ‘What makes you come?’
Glazed eyes bore into his for seconds, then her shiny red lips parted and she turned to her friend. They stared at each other incredulously and then burst into laughter. Col could tell they were both drunk.
‘You know how to work the charm, don’t you?’ Stacey replied.
‘I’m not into bullshitting. You can ask me anything you want-’
‘Okay,’ Fay jumped in, slamming her glass on the table. ‘When did you last ’ave sex?’
‘If you have!’ Stacey squealed.
‘Don’t you worry, Stacey, I know what I’m doing and I don’t disappoint. Since you ask, two weeks ago.’
‘So you’re single?’ Stacey sniggered. ‘You surprise me!’
Col laughed. ‘Well, some women like to be pampered, some like it rough. Each to their own. What do you like?’
‘In bed?’ Stacey’s eyebrows lifted.
‘In a relationship.’
Stacey’s intoxication meant that Col had to endure irritating pauses before she responded. ‘Oh, you do know the difference.’ She looked away, and then said incisively, ‘I like to feel special.’
‘I’d make you feel special,’ he said.
‘In return for what...dare I ask?!’
‘Commitment.’
‘Ahh.’ Stacey focused on her glass and then carefully clamped her fingers around it, concerned that she might knock it over. She took a sip then said, ‘I bet you’re a real softie at heart.’
‘No, not really, but I’m faithful.’
‘And sadistic?’
