Steven Dunne - Deity

January three years ago

How far, Ian? asked the smaller boy as he swung the rucksack on to the grass, narrowly missing a clump of dried sheep muck.

A few hundred yards. See that bend in the river? Ian raised an arm to indicate the curve of the water. Just past there. He rummaged in a pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. Want one? he asked as he lit the end of his and inhaled a huge belt of smoke. His friend shook his head. Ian then produced a half-bottle of cheap vodka from his back pocket and spun off the cap. He took a long gulp and grimaced as he swallowed then breathed hard through the fumes. He offered the bottle to his companion who hesitated for a second then took it from him.

Why the hell not? He took an even longer draught than Ian and pulled an equally pained expression at the taste before handing the bottle back. He felt carefully around the light stubble on his face. How do people drink that stuff? My face is numb.

Thats why. Ian grinned.

They walked on, one behind the other, treading carefully along the muddy rabbit path that hugged the river. The water was fast and fierce from winter rains and sounded like the blood in their eardrums. The ground was damp and slippery and the pair lapsed back into silence as they picked their way along.

At the bend, Ian struck away from the path towards a large sturdy tree. Once there, he took out his cigarettes and vodka and tossed them to the smaller boy. Help yourself, he said. I wont be long. With that he set about climbing the tree, keeping his own rucksack on his back while the smaller boy picked up the vodka and took another tentative swig.

A few minutes later, Ian jumped down beside his companion and hauled off his rucksack. All set. He took out a camera and pointed it at his friend who posed with the vodka and took another pull. Perfect, he said.

You got enough pictures?

Plenty. Theyll lap it up.

The other boy smiled and nodded, then looked back down to the river. Nice day, this.

The best, retorted Ian.

The small boy turned and began to climb while Ian lit a cigarette and adjusted the camera for the piercing winter light. He walked away from the tree then turned to wave at his friend, who was nearly in position.

When he was ready, the boy raised an arm to acknowledge. Ready?

Ready, shouted Ian from the ground.

The boy steadied his footing on the branch and looked out over the countryside. He had a fantastic view down the river he could see the bridge and, beyond that, the otter dam. He even fancied he could see the tower of the Town Hall clock. His eyes darted further round to a dog scrabbling at a mole hill on a bank on the other side of the water. It was a Springer Spaniel lovely dogs. Nice day, he repeated, smiling.

He closed his eyes and stepped off the branch, even remembering to have I love you, Mum in his thoughts as he hurtled towards the ground. As he fell, he was sure he could hear the whirring of the camera. Wait till his tormentors saw the pictures. Then theyd know.

A second later, the tree shuddered as the snap of his neck ended his fall.

The rope held. Ian was pleased. Everything had gone well. He put the camera to his eye to take the money shots. Everyone will know you, my friend. Everyone will envy you.

Tuesday, 17 May present day

The man placed the final cone across Station Road and propped up the Road Closed sign facing Borrowash to the north. No traffic would be crossing the bridges in this Derbyshire village for the next half-hour. At first hed considered blocking the road a precaution too far on such a minor route, especially at three in the morning, but when disposing of the dead, nothing was too much trouble.

He walked calmly back to the vehicle, climbed in and, without turning on the engine, rolled back down the slope over the railway bridge. Having reversed into the drive of a lone farmhouse, barely visible through the trees, he turned the ignition and drove slowly back on to the second bridge, spanning the River Derwent, before coming to a halt.

He skipped out, leaving the engine running, opened the back doors and pulled out the trolley. The metal legs unfolded and the man pushed the trolley to the low bridge wall. He stepped down on the brake. The pale waxy body was a late-middle-aged male, naked apart from the loincloth covering his genitalia. The man bent his head over the corpse, sniffing along its length. He caressed the dead face with latex fingers then rubbed them together, feeling the waxy film of make-up lubricate his gloves.

Finally he stood, a crooked smile on his face, and ran his fingers through the corpses washed and trimmed hair.

Good as new. He checked the stitching on the mans flank then prepared to lift the body. The scars beneath the corpses nose drew the mans eye and he frowned. Nobodys perfect. He placed his hands under the body and rolled it off the trolley and over the bridge wall, sending it crashing into the swirling water below. A couple of horses, grazing in a dark field, lifted their heads towards the noise for a moment before resuming their meal.

He watched the body disappear and an inert arm seemed to wave a last lazy farewell as it sank.

Travel safe through the dark waters of chaos, my friend.

After a moment transfixed by the soothing rhythms of the water, he rolled the trolley back into the vehicle and closed the doors, then walked the 100 yards back to the railway bridge to stack the cones on to the pavement. He left the cones in a pile they wouldnt be noticed but carried the Road Closed sign over to his vehicle and shoved it into the back.

Driving half a mile south towards Elvaston Castle on the dark highway, the man drew to a halt at another line of cones blocking the road. Once again, he skipped out, this time stacking both the cones and the Road Closed sign neatly in the back of the vehicle then drove on into the night.

Wednesday, 18 May

JIM WATSON SAT MOTIONLESS IN the dark warmth of his living room, listening to his wifes rasping snore. The pulse of the TV flickered in the corner, providing the only light source in the room. The volume was barely audible.

Watson wasnt looking at the screen and he wasnt listening to the programme but to turn off the set, or even mute the sound, might disturb the ether in which his wife was cocooned and he couldnt risk waking her.

He exhaled deeply and, without moving his head, flicked his eyes resentfully towards her sleeping form on the sofa. Her mouth hung open, allowing a glimpse of the yellowed teeth she normally kept hidden behind the tight-lipped grimace that deformed her face these days. A strand of lank greying hair, matted against her cheek, flirted with the notion of trailing into her mouth, and had it not been certain to rouse her, Watson would have derived a malicious pleasure from seeing her gag on it.

He glanced at the clock for the hundredth time then returned his sullen gaze to his wife. Well past midnight and still the cow waited him out, enveloped in her grey shroud of a dressing-gown.

Watson was caught between two stools. Should he wake her up and push her off to bed half-asleep or leave her be, and hope shed sleep through? Through what? A half-smile of anticipation creased his mouth but died at once, as his wife turned slightly on the cushions. The grubby towelling robe she insisted on wearing of a night threatened to mimic her mouth by falling open at the breast to reveal the flesh that once had enflamed, but now so disgusted him.

James Henry Watson was forty years old and this was his life. He turned away, repulsed. His aging wife had let herself go so completely, so wilfully, that just to look at her sickened him. And yet his disgust at her couldnt hold a candle to the loathing he inflicted on himself for hitching his life to hers. His harridan of a wife was an old woman at thirty-eight, and to make matters worse, he was still hard and handsome. When he scrubbed up for a night on the town, he could feel female eyes on him, assessing him, suppressing their desire as well as their bewilderment at the shrivelled hag on his arm.