Deity (6 page)

‘I see a good portion of the group are already exhausted and have decided to skip the last two Thursdays,’ said Rifkind. ‘No matter.’ At that moment the double doors swung open and Jake McKenzie strode into the suite. He looked around for an available chair.

‘Ah, Jake. Decided to favour us with your presence today. Hurry up and sit, please; the group are ravenous for knowledge to start.’

Jake
smiled and hesitated. There were no chairs left except the one next to Kyle Kennedy.

‘There’s a seat next to Gay Boy,’ chuckled Wilson Woodrow, the overweight eighteen year old with the zigzag haircut and buzzing earphones. ‘If you don’t mind catching AIDS.’

‘That’s enough of that,’ admonished Rifkind as mildly as he could. He prided himself on his good relationships with students and didn’t like to play the authority figure.

To avoid Wilson’s confrontational leer, Kyle stared down at the floor through his John Lennon spectacles and buried his long delicate hands between tightly crossed legs. He wore the blank expression of the diplomatically deaf.

Jake made for the seat next to Kyle and sat down. Kyle looked up at him in greeting and then just as quickly returned his gaze to the floor.

‘Today and next week we’re going to be watching and critiquing a film so this morning we can sit back and chillax.’ Rifkind paused to make sure his comfort with the patois of youth had registered. ‘Today’s film . . .’

Wilson produced a DVD case from his baggy clothing and held it under Rifkind’s nose without having the courtesy to look at him.

The lecturer stared at the top of the boy’s head and ignored the offering. ‘Today we are—’As Rifkind clearly hadn’t noticed the DVD, Wilson waggled it in front of his face again.

In the end, the lecturer accepted it with a sigh. ‘Thank you, Wilson.’

‘Will,’ replied the boy gruffly, again without looking up from his iPod.

‘Oh, you managed to hear that over the Death Metal?
Funny how I have to repeat things three times when I want
your
attention.’

Wilson gazed up at Rifkind, a pearl of wisdom on the end of his tongue. ‘My dad says sarcasm is the lowest form of something.’

‘Ignorance perhaps,’ replied Rifkind, looking at the cover of the DVD with a sinking heart.

‘No, it’s not that,’ answered Wilson, thinking hard.

‘
Saw 4
– interesting choice.’

‘It’s brilliant,’ agreed Wilson, as though revealing a great secret to which only he was privy.

‘Is it as brilliant as
Saws 1
,
2
and
3
, dare I ask?’

‘
Saw 2
is my best film ever. But
Saw 4
is even better.’

Rifkind looked around the room to garner support for his upcoming putdown, but only Kyle Kennedy’s brow furrowed in amusement so he thought better of it.

‘Thank you, Wilson.’

‘Will!’ the teenager retorted, with a touch more aggression.

‘I’m afraid we won’t be watching
Saw 4
,
Will
. Rusty has—’

‘What? Why not?’

Rifkind made sure to speak slowly because he didn’t want to repeat it. ‘Because, as you’ll remember, at the start of the academic year, we agreed to have a rota for people to choose the end-of-term film, and I’m afraid you’ve had your turn.’

‘Yeah, my turn is the
Saw
films. You have to see them all for it to make sense. They’re a series.’

‘I don’t care if it’s a series, Wilson,’ he said, taking pleasure in repeating the boy’s hated name.

‘It’s Will!’ shouted Wilson, this time. ‘And we’re watching
Saw 4
.’ He turned round to the gathering. ‘Everybody else
wants to watch it, don’t you?’ Wilson eyeballed the group. Only Jake and Becky returned eye-contact.

‘It doesn’t matter what everybody wants.’

‘That’s not very democratic.’

Rifkind smiled at him, beginning to enjoy the little power he had over the boy. ‘Nor is bullying people into doing what you want.’

‘I’m not bullying anyone. You want to watch
Saw 4
, don’t you, Kylie?’ he said to Kyle Kennedy, who bridled at the sudden attention. ‘I’m talking to you, Faggot.’

‘That’s
enough
of that language,’ said Rifkind.

‘What language? English?’ Wilson sneered. ‘It’s a crime to speak your own language now, is it? I was just asking Faggot—’

‘I said that’s enough,’ countered Rifkind, attempting a show of strength that he knew he couldn’t back up. ‘We’re wasting time. Rusty has chosen today’s film. End of.’

‘Geek Boy wasn’t even here at the start of the year, so how can he be on the rota?’ snarled Wilson.

‘Give it a rest, Will,’ said Becky. ‘I couldn’t be arsed. He’s taking my slot.’

Rifkind grinned at Woodrow’s tubby face. ‘Happy now that democracy has been served?’

Wilson stared angrily at the carpet, urgently searching for another compelling reason to have his way.

‘Rusty?’ Rifkind looked expectantly at Russell’s pale face as he handed over a DVD case.

‘
Picnic at Hanging Rock
,’ said Rifkind. He beamed approvingly. ‘Interesting choice.’

‘Who’s in it?’ growled Wilson.

Rusty cleared his throat and in a timid voice said, ‘Nobody
famous, but it was Peter Weir’s breakthrough film, made in 1975. Weir, you may remember, directed
Gallipoli
and
Witness
, starring Harrison Ford.’

There was silence as everyone stared at him. In the six months since he’d been enrolled at Derby College, he’d barely spoken to anyone and certainly hadn’t dared to speak in front of classmates. He seemed to spend most of his time sitting in the refectory drinking Coca Cola and pointing his camcorder at everyone who passed.

‘Nineteen seventy-five?’ howled Wilson. ‘Is it in colour?’

‘Beautiful colour, Will,’ nodded Rusty, warming to his theme. ‘The cameraman was Russell Boyd and his use of vibrant—’

‘Sounds shit. What’s it about?’

‘It’s about an Australian girls’ school in 1900,’ interjected Rifkind, in case Rusty began to buckle under Wilson’s interrogation.

‘You’re shittin’ me. I’m not watching that shit. It sounds shit.’

‘That is your democratic choice,
Will
,’ replied Rifkind, hopeful that the bully might be about to leave. But instead he waggled his own DVD in Rifkind’s face again.

‘Here. We’re watching
Saw 4
. Rusty don’t mind.’ Wilson grinned over at him. ‘Don’t worry, Geek Boy. You’re not going to get battered. Your mum’s a MILF,’ he hissed at him with a leer.

Rifkind shook his head. ‘Well, I mind. We’re watching
Picnic at Hanging Rock
. In Media Studies, Wilson, we have to open ourselves up to a variety of genres, aimed at different audiences
. . .
’

‘My name is WILL!’

There
was silence for a moment but Rifkind refused to be fazed. He was smarter than Wilson and wasn’t about to back off until he’d proved it. He sniffed coldly. ‘You should enjoy this film, Will. If you’d been born two hundred years ago, Australia is where you would have ended up.’

‘What does that mean?’ A smattering of the students sniggered their understanding and Wilson rounded on them angrily. ‘What the fuck are you laughing at?’ His eye caught Kyle Kennedy smiling and he stood to confront him. ‘Something funny, Gay Boy?’

Kyle’s smile disappeared. ‘I
. . .
no, I mean—’

‘Wilson. Either sit down or get out!’ shouted Rifkind, finally losing his temper.

‘Gay boys don’t laugh at me,’ bellowed Wilson, wading through chairs towards Kyle.

Jake McKenzie jumped hurriedly between the two. ‘Back off, Wilson,’ he said calmly. He held a hand up to Wilson’s chest, keeping him at bay with ease. ‘You’ve had your say. Sit down or fuck off.’ He flexed his neck. Jake was not just sporty but also a fitness fanatic and built like a middleweight. And as the object of lust for female students, he was naturally well respected by the male students.

Wilson looked him in the eye. A second later the pressure on Jake’s hand eased. Wilson smiled and put his hands peacefully in the air. ‘Sure, Jakey. Whatever you say,’ he said softly. He turned back towards Kyle. ‘We’ll talk later, Faggot,’ he added menacingly.

‘No, you won’t,’ said Jake. ‘You won’t go near him.’

‘Why are you defending the little bumder?’ Wilson leered towards Jake, a further insult bubbling to the surface. ‘Are you his
boyfriend
, Jake? You potting the brown with that little—’

Jake
threw a hand to Wilson’s throat and gripped it hard. ‘What did you say to me, Fatso?’ Wilson was choking and pawing at Jake’s hand as he was pushed back over his chair. ‘What did you say?’

‘Get him off me,’ gasped Wilson, trying to loosen Jake’s grip but to no avail. Rifkind, Kyle, Becky and a few others grabbed Jake’s shoulders and tried to pull him away.

‘He’s not worth it, Jake,’ shouted Kyle, forcing himself into eye-contact. ‘Jake, he’s not worth it.’

Jake glared at Kyle then relaxed his grip on Wilson. He turned away to confirm his pacification and Wilson got to his feet, rubbing his throat.

‘That’s assault, that is!’ Wilson screamed at Rifkind. ‘And you let it happen.’

‘You provoked that situation, Mr Woodrow, despite my asking you repeatedly to avoid confrontation. Now sit down.’

Presented with a direct instruction, Wilson said the only thing he could to regain face. ‘No.’

Rifkind tried not to smile. The teenage God of
No
. He knew the script from here and Wilson was too stupid to resist.

‘Wilson, I order you to sit down because there’s no way you’re leaving.’

Wilson looked back triumphantly, seeing his path to victory. ‘You wanna bet? Just watch me.’ He turned to leave, throwing an angry look at Kyle, whose eyes were now glued to the floor.

‘You can’t leave and you’d better attend next week or else,’ shouted Rifkind, at the retreating Wilson, laying down his final ace.

‘Or else what? You won’t see me for shit.’

Rifkind faked a look of annoyance but broke into a big grin
as Wilson turned and snatched up his
Saw
DVD, storming towards the doors.

Wilson looked over at Kyle. ‘Oi, Faggot.’ He stuck his tongue out and pulled a finger across his throat.

Kyle looked up from the floor, gathering his courage. His look of terror gave way to a mocking smile and he blew Wilson a big kiss. The assembled students laughed and jeered as the fuming Wilson kicked open the double doors and stalked away, a couple of sympathetic friends trailing in his wake.

‘Respeck, Kylie,’ said Becky, holding her hand up for Kyle to high five. ‘That asshole butt-munch got well and truly parred and merked.’

Kyle basked in a couple of backslaps until the worry reinfected his face.
I shouldn’t have done that
. He looked gratefully up at his saviour but Jake looked away at once.

‘Why do those with the fewest brain cells always have the loudest voices?’ said Adele Watson to no one in particular.

Becky turned and poured her body back into her chair, looking over at Russell who had his camcorder in front of his face. ‘Look at Steven Spielberg here. I hope that’s going on YouTube, Geek Boy,’ she said, striking a pose for him.

‘Maybe.’ Thomson pointed his camcorder in her direction. He lowered the camera and smiled at her briefly but her stony expression killed his pleasure and he blushed.

‘Just start the film, Geek,’ ordered Becky.

Nearly two hours later, the credits rolled in the darkness. Rifkind and most of the other students had gone to lunch an hour ago but Adele, Becky, Fern, Kyle and Russell had continued watching through the bulk of the lunchbreak and even
sat in silence as the cast of characters scrolled down the screen.

‘Wow,’ said Kyle, standing and stretching his slender frame in the gloom. ‘Sick film.’

‘Hard to believe a film about a girls’ school could be that good,’ agreed Becky.

When the inert screen ensured total blackness, Becky edged towards the large curtain and pulled it aside. Bright sunshine streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Media Suite and she and Fern immediately bent to check their phones. Adele remained seated, unable to move. She stared straight ahead. There were tears on her cheeks.

Back in his office at St Mary’s Wharf, Brook got his mouth around his second cup of tea and closed his eyes to savour its soothing heat while his computer loaded. He logged on then registered his dismay at the volume of internal emails in his inbox.

‘Thirty-six emails – in one day,’ he sighed. ‘The tyranny of faceless communication.’ Brook scrolled down the list checking for his personal buzzwords. Any email containing the words
Committee
,
Budget
,
Target
or
Liaison
in the subject line was deleted without being opened. Happily this was most of them and Brook was left with five relevant messages about open cases and upcoming trials.

After dealing with them, he rifled through the drawers of his desk for an
A–Z
he knew he had somewhere. He was both pleased and appalled to find his desk bereft of cigarettes. He remembered wistfully the pack in his locker given to Noble earlier that morning, as a demonstration of his willpower.

Brook flicked through the pages of the
A-Z
and stared at the sparse countryside to the south and east of Borrowash,
taking in the minor roads accessing Elvaston Castle and Thulston. He didn’t know the area well but it seemed very flat and he knew from his trips along the A50 to the M1 or East Midlands Airport, that the land on either side of the carriageway was prone to flooding. Indeed, even without flooding there was sufficient water around the confluence of the Rivers Trent and Derwent to merit a marina at Shardlow for the nautically minded.

Brook pulled the
Yellow Pages
from another drawer. His eye glimpsed a mangled, half-smoked cigarette butt behind some old papers, covered in dust and fluff. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked it out of the drawer and brushed it clean like an old soldier polishing his campaign medals. He stared lovingly at the butt for longer than necessary then threw it resolutely in the bin, chuckling noiselessly at the absurd sense of achievement that followed.