Deity (8 page)

Becky’s expression betrayed an objection but she didn’t voice it. ‘Stop hiding behind that thing, Geek Boy. Tell me.’ Rusty kept filming so Becky gave in and pouted at the lens, fluffing up her curly blond hair with her hands and striking several poses. ‘I mean, if it’s based on a true story, where did they go?’ she said as she looked at the camera with a startled expression.

‘Here’s a theory even somebody shallow and superficial can understand,’ said Adele, an icy edge to her voice. Becky narrowed her eyes. ‘Without doing a day’s work in their lives, those girls became famous. They were frozen in beauty and time forever and here we are talking about them over a hundred years later. Jealous?’

Rusty put the camcorder down and smiled hesitantly at Adele. ‘That’s very clever, Ade.’

‘Jealous?
Me?’ sneered Becky. ‘You mental bitch.’

‘When I go that’s what I want,’ said Fern. ‘People everywhere talking about me, missing me. It’ll be so sad. Like
Romeo + Juliet
.’

‘Kylie’s the jealous one,’ continued Becky. ‘He’d have loved going to a girls’ school, wouldn’t you, sweetie?’ She directed her laughter towards Fern, who cackled her approval.

‘All those gorgeous dresses to wear,’ Fern answered.

Kyle managed a good-humoured middle finger.

‘Never mind, Geek, I can guess what happened,’ replied Becky, sitting back down. ‘I’ll bet those blokes raped and murdered them. Only sensible solution. Men are only interested in one thing. Isn’t that right, Kyle?’

Kyle squirmed under her accusing gaze but this time didn’t react. The limelight shifted quicker that way.

‘No answer from Faggot.’ Becky downed her drink and stood to leave. Fern followed suit. ‘Well, I’ll see you all at Sad Bastard Central tomorrow night. And you better not tell any cool people I’m coming to your party, Kylie.’

‘I don’t know any,’ quipped Kyle.

Becky glared at him but decided not to challenge. She stalked away as if on a catwalk, Fern trailing in her wake.

Rusty stood to film them as they walked away. ‘Poor Becky.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Kyle.

Rusty stared at the table. ‘To be so ugly inside.’

Adele gazed at him, a thin smile forming around her mouth. ‘Maybe it’s a cry for help, Rusty.’

Rusty turned the camera on Adele but lowered it when she became uneasy. He looked into her dark eyes briefly.

‘Do they really not know what happened to those girls on the Hanging Rock?’ asked Kyle.

‘No,
though there are lots of theories,’ said Rusty, finishing his drink. ‘The favourite is that they were buried under a rock fall somewhere near the summit. Me? I prefer not to know. That way they
do
live forever.’

‘Live forever.’ Adele nodded at him. ‘Like angels.’

‘Or gods,’ chipped in Kyle.

‘And poor Sara who flew to her death from the roof of the school – did she really kill herself? For real, I mean.’

‘Sara?’

‘The orphan – the girl who wasn’t allowed to go on the picnic because her school fees hadn’t been paid. She lost her best friend on Hanging Rock and later jumped off the roof of the school.’

Rusty shook his head. ‘I don’t really know. Most people concentrate on the girls who disappeared.’ He looked at her, pleased, and then a moment later said, ‘She had to content herself with being mortal.’

Adele nodded at him, her dark sad eyes mesmerising. ‘And alone.’

At that moment Rifkind entered the refectory and glanced across at Adele. She darted a quick peek in his direction then looked away.

‘You okay?’ asked Kyle.

She raised her dark eyes to him and smiled. ‘I will be.’

B
ROOK DID A FEW HOURS’
paperwork then set off home in the late afternoon as there was little more to be achieved after details of the incident had been entered on the PNC. It was a fine warm day though he was so tired he hardly noticed. The post mortem on the unknown corpse would take place in the morning, and without a cause of death and an ID, there was nothing left to do except pointless theorising.

Dr Higginbottom had already emailed a copy of his preliminary report. He couldn’t speculate on COD but his initial inspection had shown that several, if not all, of the deceased’s organs had been removed, so the corpse had clearly undergone a rudimentary post mortem.

One possibility mentioned by the doctor was that the body might have already been somewhere in the mortuary system but had been misplaced or misappropriated, so Brook had Noble contact the Coroner’s Office to request a list of all recent post mortems performed on corpses fitting a broad description of their John Doe. Brook then compiled a list from
Yellow Pages
and the trade website for undertakers and funeral directors of all organisations who might employ a mortician.
He restricted the search to Derby and the surrounding area but even so there were still dozens. Death was a reliable employer.

One drawback to Higginbottom’s theory was the unusual incision in the man’s side. The doctor had never seen a corpse after a PM with such an aperture, and neither had Brook or Noble for that matter. More often than not, a British pathologist or mortician would cut a corpse down the middle of the chest from the neck to the pubis with a slight detour around the sinew of the belly button, because it was difficult to both cut and sew up afterwards. Brook had known pathologists who’d trained in the United States as Medical Examiners and used the Y-shaped incision often preferred over there. But no reputable pathologist would extract the organs of a cadaver from a six-inch opening on the flank. It just wasn’t practical, according to Higginbottom.

Before heading for home, Brook and Noble searched the Missing Persons databases for both Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire and marked the files of the dozen men around the right age who were unaccounted for. Unfortunately, though some had seen the inside of a prison, none had been born in Scotland. The attached photo IDs for the subjects didn’t look promising either, though some of the images were out of date, sometimes by many years, depending on the date of disappearance.

‘Want me to start ringing round the funeral homes?’ Noble had asked.

Brook picked up his car keys and shook his head. ‘Let’s have that conversation tomorrow when we have more information and maybe an ID.’

American
Beauty
starring Kevin Spacey, directed by Sam Mendes in 1999 – an exploration of romantic and paternal love, sexuality, beauty, materialism, self-liberation and redemption
. According to Wiki at least. He could show them that film at the party. Adele would love it. Kyle too. Maybe Becky would be more cynical.

But the bonus was Ricky Fitts, one of the characters. He was young and cool and spent all his spare time filming on his camcorder.
Just like me
.

Rusty stopped at the side of the road and bent down to the pavement. Yeah,
American Beauty
. Life – a journey without meaning. This pigeon knew. You live, you get by, you die and everyone forgets you. He lifted his camcorder and zoomed into the pigeon lying on the ground, its neck slack, and its opaque sightless eyes half-open. Maggots were chewing through the bird’s intestines.

A few seconds later he zoomed out and continued on his short journey across the Brisbane Estate, at the western edge of Derby. He replayed the short sequence as he walked through the cool night air then deleted it. His brand new Sanyo camcorder had great picture quality even at night. Just as well.

Becky Blake read the letter one more time, refolded it and slid it into the small gap between the carpet and the actor’s make-up bureau which her dad had made especially for her. The light bulbs around the frame were to accustom his daughter to stardom.

She sat on the padded chair, cradling her old teddy bear and staring at her reflection in the illuminated mirror for what seemed hours. Finally, she sat up straight and Justin the
bear fell to earth. She looked away from her reflection but there was no escape from her face – wherever her eyes wandered in her bedroom, her image glared sassily back at her. Sometimes writhing on a bearskin rug, sometimes peeping coquettishly over a bare shoulder, sometimes hands on hips in
Don’t-fuck-with-me
mode. The confident, self-assured bitch snarled next to the vulnerable girl/woman, who jostled for wall space next to the siren looking for love. Her portfolio of portraits, professionally done and paid for by her father, filled the walls.

A tear fell as Becky turned to face herself on the wall. She couldn’t meet her own eye and was tempted to trash the shrine, tear down every corrupting image and deconsecrate the pink room completely. Avoiding her own gaze, she looked instead at the few remaining posters fighting for space, posters that spoke of Becky’s graduation from thirteen-year-old wannabe to the luminous cynicism of the eighteen year old. Thus the lacy chutzpah of Gwen Stefani was juxtaposed with the brassy sexuality of Christina Aguilera, the perky whole-someness of Hannah Montana with the brooding promise of Rihanna.

With a sigh Becky stood in her silk slip as another tear fell. Calmly, methodically she toured the room taking down all the photographs her father had paid for then slid them under her bed. She flipped up the lid of her laptop and clicked off Facebook to load the document she’d written a couple of days previously.
Dear Becky, I am pleased
. . .

She finished reading and spotted the spelling mistake underlined in red but it was too late to correct – it was already two days in the post. As she closed the brief letter, a casual glance back at her mirror caught a movement outside in the
darkness. A second later her eyes widened in disbelief at the sight of Rusty Thomson, Geek Boy, shinning his way along the branch of the large tree outside her window. Her initial impulse was to turn and vent her spleen, but to her astonishment she found herself watching him in the mirror, unable to move, as he slithered into position.

Instead of rushing to the window to scream abuse, Becky busied herself on her laptop keyboard, keeping her back to the window but her eye to the mirror to observe the gawky Thomson. A moment later Becky watched him lift his right hand. The faint dot of red light emanating from the object in his palm was confirmation of his intent. He was filming her. Geek Boy was filming her in her bedroom.
Cheeky fucker
.

She took several deep breaths then put her laptop aside on the bed and stepped over to her make-up bureau. She moved the chair so she could stand closer to the reflection and the lights. She stared at herself in the mirror again, this time with heightened interest. Her nipples had hardened under her slip and she brushed them with her forearms as she ran her hands through her hair.

Slowly, very slowly, she began to sway her hips from side to side, throwing back her head and opening her mouth invitingly. She cupped her breasts in her hands through the soft silk and massaged her nipples with fingers and thumbs. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and flicked the thin straps of her slip from her shoulders and down her bare arms.

Little by little she lowered the slip until, with a faint wobble, her breasts wrestled themselves free of the material and she pushed the garment to her waist. Swaying more urgently now,
she eased her hands down her stomach before pushing the shiny slip to the floor, standing naked before the mirror. Finally she turned towards her bedroom window and stared intently at the red dot.

PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK –
A FILM BY PETER WEIR