The Mortal Religion Read online

  The Mortal Religion

  by

  Marc Horn

  Copyright © 2012 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.

  This novel is a work of fiction. The characters and events are fictitious, except for occasional references to public broadcastings and publications.

  Also available in paperback.

  This novel is written using UK English

  Best Rabid Reader’s Reads of 2013

  Chalk Cutter was spitefully nicknamed Moonface as a child, and lives a life of torment and isolation because of his unusual appearance.

  Believing only a revolution could induce change, he kidnaps a girl who ridiculed him, intending to re-educate her - and ultimately mankind - in an attempt to lead a narcissistic society to treat all people as equal.

  But Chalk hadn’t anticipated his own emotional backlash to the brutal brainwashing process...

  His self-control diminishing, and after some reckless actions, his elaborate plan seems little more than a pipe-dream, until an old nemesis infiltrates their world.

  This fateful encounter is the catalyst for the creation of The Mortal Religion, the shocking revolution Chalk is certain will breed universal contentment...

  E-thriller headlining Thriller of the Month April 2013

  Featured on 42 Books to Read for Towel Day (from award-winning review blog)

  A dark, disturbing and thought-provoking psychological thriller that explores the effects of social exclusion, THE MORTAL RELIGION takes you deep inside the soul of self-discovery, desperation, and obsession. Unique and perceptive, it will grab you from the first page and not let you go until the last.

  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

  About the Author

  Cuffed

  Timer

  Persona

  1

  A petite, pretty Asian girl bumped into me last night, her vision blocked by tights tied around her head. She patted my shoulders to confirm I was a man, then became the first girl to kiss me in my twenty-six years. Though startled, I quickly took advantage and tried hard to match her technique. I wondered whether our teeth were supposed to clash together, but before I could try something else she withdrew, removed her blindfold and screamed at me. She could not have run back to her friends any faster.

  After clasping her chest, taking several deep breaths and chuckling with her girlfriends, they refastened her blindfold and she set off in the opposite direction.

  She cheated before kissing the next guy she stumbled into, pulling down the tights and checking his face. Then a dozen men fought each other to get in her way.

  Though painfully embarrassed, I found the game enlightening. In her blindfolded assessment I had fared well, receiving the same treatment as would a normal-looking guy.

  This evening I am in the same pub, the Bat in Cave, where I have witnessed the beginning of many relationships. It is seven o’clock and already the bar is full of women. I taste my beer. The Asian girl has made me think. Imagine if we shut our eyes through the day and opened them at night. We would see when we sleep, when no one is around. And daytime periods previously spent deriding others and nurturing paranoia would be replaced with a content society without inhibitions. I only have to glance at any girl in this pub to prove this would be a wonderful thing. I turn my head slightly right. As soon as the attractive lady with the fiery hair catches my eye she looks away to ensure she doesn’t mislead me. Because that one look is all she needs to know we’re not compatible. And, for the millionth time, I’m stunned that a girl can make such an important decision from my face alone. All of us are looking for a soul mate. Should such a search not delve deeper?

  I sip my lager and continue to check my surroundings. I notice two girls are staring at me. I am used to being stared at, but these girls look neither shocked nor amused. This, coupled with the fact that these two girls could be models, is very strange. It is, I suppose, possible that these beautiful women could take a shine to me. Love would indisputably be blind if this turns out to be the case.

  It’s an instinctive reaction in men to respond to flirting in a self-conscious manner and I am no exception. I stand up straight, smile as confidently as I can, and swallow a large mouthful of lager. They walk over. Thousands of invisible needles prick my skin. Both girls have shoulder-length hair, so soft that I ache to touch it. One is blonde, while the other is brunette with highlights that sparkle under the recessed lights. Her blue eyes transfix me as she reaches out with her hand and squeezes my bicep. As her fingers pinch, I shamelessly tense the muscle. I feel weightless and disorientated, as if in a dream.

  ‘This is my boyfriend, Gavin,’ she says to her friend.

  I am bemused. Her friend looks uncomfortable as she scans my features, then holds out her hand to shake mine. My thoughts are jumbled and manic. I don’t understand this. I have seen neither of these girls before. And I am not called Gavin. A stupid smile stretches my face and turns me red. I have nothing to say, so I simply oblige and hold out my hand to her friend. Suddenly the brunette laughs and pulls her friend away from me.

  ‘I don’t believe you fell for that! Him? My boyfriend?’ Both girls laugh.

  ‘Oh, hon!’ her friend cries, then they saunter over to a group of men standing at the bar. The brunette then introduces her friend to a handsome guy. All three of them smile and touch each other warmly.

  I bite my lip till I’m conscious of blood trickling down my chin. The brunette thought I was just some nobody she could use and forget about. And now she is over there having fun, while I seethe. I was just a source of quick amusement and am expected to have no further involvement in her life.

  I place down my glass before I break it. Everything advances except people. Desperation caused me to believe that time would breed consciences. But the brunette and the Asian girl have driven home the truth. Finally. Still no one cures nor prevents mental wounds. This routine must stop. Only change will induce change. I wipe my chin with my fingers and then watch the blood sink into the grooves of my skin.

  I will respond to this.

  She will find out who this nobody is.

  2

  My parents raised me to correct their mistakes and regrets. My father has a criminal conviction for tax evasion, so my employment is in law and order. He broke his femur playing football, so I play no sports. And worst of all, my mother felt excluded as a middle child, so I have no siblings.

  The problem with this system is that my parents have not lived this ‘ideal’ life themselves. They have an average life – a house, car, jobs and a child. They are very fortunate to have this. So why
did they raise me to do it all so very differently? Did they not consider where their guidance might lead me? I assume not, for my life is not desirable. Their handling of my development was idle and irresponsible – avoid or achieve, and nothing else.

  So now I am here at home, planning a kidnapping. Trouble is, I am still too livid about last night to think clearly, so I log into lightsaberon.com, a chat forum for Star Wars fans. Nothing relaxes me as much as antagonising geeks. Yesterday I posted the question ‘What is so exciting about Star Wars?’ I smile when I see forty-six responses. User name ‘Lucas is God’ stands out, so I read his reply...

  ‘Have you watched the films? Star Wars is the most influential, original and ground-breaking film in movie history. Lucas is a goddam genius and has created a phenomenon you clearly don’t understand. Do something with your life, open your mind, then come back to this forum.’

  I chuckle. I love the obsessiveness. I read five more replies. Each is similarly scathing. I hit reply... ‘Star Wars is not original,’ I begin. ‘Hitler was a dictator. He employed storm troopers. He sought world domination. He used revolutionary ‘V’ weapons. The ‘force’ is just an ecosystem. Rescuing a princess is a rehash of any Disney film.’

  I am very pleased with this and hit send. Short, sharp and factual – blood pressure should soar.

  Then I decide to take things one step further. I create a new post under the heading ‘Obi-Wan v Vader 2 (Obi-Wan’s redemption)’. Beneath this, in the body of text, I write, ‘To satisfy us fans that it was not cowardice that forced Obi-Wan to retreat to Tatooine to save himself rather than the republic, a second duel between Vader and him must occur, where Obi-Wan’s inferior power is clear. Then, he will be regarded as being unable – as opposed to too frightened – to help, thus securing his redemption. I will forward a satisfactory script to George Lucas. Expect to see it in the next special edition...’

  With a wry smile I log off the net and saunter down to the basement. I am in bad shape. Some people like to take the focus off their undesirable features by perfecting and then accentuating other areas. A girl who considers her face too horse-like might run until her legs are slim and then will continually wear tiny skirts. I, however, am aware that it would take more than a toned physique to divert attention from my face. It would take more than plastic surgery too. My body is flabby and misshapen. My frame is large and could probably be chiselled into something impressive, but I don’t have that motivation. More relevantly, it would be hypocritical of me to change my appearance. It would diminish everything I want to achieve.

  As I clear out the basement for the brunette, I decide how I will lure her in.

  * * * * *

  ‘He’s on the first plane ’ome,’ PC Collingwell says to his colleague. ‘Look who’s dealing!’

  It’s Monday morning. His colleague turns to face me as I walk into the custody suite. Police officers think they’re untouchable. You stand six feet from them and they think you can’t hear them.

  ‘Cutter! …Result!’

  PC Collingwell shuffles over to me. He spends most of his shift hunting for illegal immigrants. ‘Hello mate,’ he says. ‘Nice to see you again... Othman Ali. Somalian. Usual score. Pretends he can’t speak English. Taking the piss. Sponger.’

  ‘Right.’ He will speak only of the case, and will not engage in social banter. I have a reputation. As an immigration officer, I am revered. As a person, the police regard me equally as impersonal. But I have no desire to befriend them. ‘Any evidence that he does speak English?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah. When I told him I was gonna cuff him, he held his hands out to the front. Rear cuffing’s a lot more painful. I never showed him the cuffs, so he obviously understood me.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Can I get you a brew?’ he offers.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Mind if I sit in on the interview?’

  PC Collingwell is not dissimilar to a hardened criminal. Both break laws, both aim to ruin someone’s life, yet, on the whole, Collingwell is more vicious with his victims. He constantly abuses his power.

  ‘No,’ I reply, ‘not once I’ve started the tape. Before I do that I want to speak to him alone.’

  PC Collingwell looks disappointed. ‘That’s fine, that’s fine. Let me know when you start.’

  PC Collingwell has assisted me with several house visits. Whenever he arrests someone, he provokes them. He wants them to retaliate. He loves violence. I see it in his eyes. If only he knew what went on behind mine…

  I escort Othman Ali into the police interview room, and sit down opposite him. The police have taken three packs of cigarettes off him. I pass him one of the cigarettes. He takes it, puts it in his mouth, and then stares expectantly at me.

  ‘What do you want?’ I ask.

  He grins and points at his cigarette.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘you don’t smoke? Then I will have it back.’

  His expression turns serious.

  ‘What is it you want? A cup of tea? Coffee...?’

  Othman shakes his head.

  ‘A lighter?’

  He nods. He understands what he wants to. I take out a lighter and place it on the table in front of me. He reaches for it, but I move it away from him.

  ‘What is your name?’ I ask.

  Blank stare.

  ‘You do not speak English, correct?’

  Again, he grins, feigning innocence.

  ‘Somalia?’ I ask.

  He nods.

  I pull my Filofax out of my pocket. I flick through the inserts, find what I am looking for, and hand him the slip of paper. On it is a short note written in Somali. I have many notes like this, each one translated into the language of a country which is not part of the EEC, and is therefore subject to immigration control. The note says ‘You are pretending you cannot speak English. If you treat me like a fool for one more second, I will have you flown over Somalia and dropped 30,000 feet from the plane’.

  The hand holding the note starts to shake. Othman drops the note on the table and swallows hard. Then he starts to break wind. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead. Within seconds the room smells like a bin.

  ‘How did you get into this country?’ I ask him.

  ‘B-b-bus,’ he stutters.

  I nod and sit back, satisfied that when he entered England, he had bypassed immigration control. I fetch PC Collingwell and start recording the interview.

  ‘I am immigration officer Cutter 6696...’

  3

  Using an online translator, I write a note in Romanian: ‘I will pay you one hundred pounds to steal someone’s phone and give it to me. I will point to a girl and you will steal her phone. You must not be noticed. Follow me.’ I print out this note and travel to Fulham.

  Recently, while in Fulham custody, I had overheard police officers discussing crime on the division. Thefts of mobile phones in 2006 had hit the roof, they’d said, and Romanian children were the main offenders. Two of them would wander up to an occupied table in a beer garden, one would ask a customer something unintelligible, while the other snatched their phone. Eventually the victim would realise that the youths had distracted them and stolen their phone, but by that time the thieves would have passed the phone on to their handlers.

  Their stealth is essential to me, as my victim must not know who has taken her phone.

  I have chosen to employ a Romanian thief for two reasons. Firstly, they are successful at their trade, and secondly, to conceal my involvement – the officers had said they rarely get caught and are virtually untraceable. If my accomplice eludes the police then so will I. And even if he is caught, it is still highly probable that I won’t be identified. Though an interpreter may make some sense of the boy’s story, the police will react with mistrust and apathy. Why should they investigate something that will reduce the punishment of a thief who has helped rip their ground apart? Often, they ignore the bigger picture – in my experience when most police officers catch a suspect, the ca
se is complete.

  I get off the tube at Parsons Green, wiping sweat from my forehead and turning right as I leave the station. A few metres on, I glance left towards the pub. She’s there, sitting outside with friends... Overcome with dizziness, I take a deep breath. After the incident in the Bat in Cave, I had positioned myself at the bar within earshot of the brunette, in order to conduct research. Minutes later I heard the blonde reveal that after work she often visited The White Horse in Fulham.

  I slip into Heathman’s Road directly opposite the pub, crouch down and fumble with my rucksack clips. What I’m about to do is not illegal, but could cause alarm, so I must be quick and must not stand out. I pause for a few seconds, close my eyes and loosen my muscles. Then I turn on my digital camera, zoom in as much as it will allow, swivel on the spot and position her in the centre of my frame. I press the shutter, which takes an eternity to capture the jerky image, spin back around and drop the camera in my bag. Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I spring to my feet and head for Fulham Broadway. My breathing is heavy, not just because I’m unfit and walking fast, but also because I can taste success.

  As I stride along the broadway I look for my accomplice, panic building with each step.

  I find him in Virgin Megastores, about to be pounced on by security. The boy, about ten years old, thin, with a mop of tar-black hair, is about to slip DVDs inside his jacket. He is looking for witnesses, but has failed to spot a security guard in the corner of the store who watches him like a hawk. As soon as the boy conceals a DVD, the guard will apprehend him and call the police.

  I briskly browse the DVDs, hands quaking in my pockets. I have to use him - I saw no one else. She was there, I have the photo and a thief. All three are needed to succeed. I take The Proposition off the shelf and pretend to study it. I take out the note from my pocket and press it firmly against the front of the DVD. Holding the DVD waist high, I inch closer to the boy. I scan the selection of DVDs as I stand beside him. In my peripheral vision, I can see that the boy is reading the note. He places a DVD he is holding back on the shelf. Satisfied that I have his attention, I return The Proposition to its home and then leave the store.