The Prophet Murders Read Free Page A

victim, Hümeyra Hanim, a woman banker.
    I generally exercise in my guest room, which is usually empty. I prefer working out to music, but my throbbing head demanded
     otherwise. Physical activity and a rush of adrenalin would ease the pain.
    I finished my standard warm-up routine. Then I moved on to mid-air kicks, first single, then double. With a good leap, I can
     manage three short jabs with the same foot. In rapid succession, it’s enough to stupefy any adversary. With an even higher
     leap, my blows connect quite nicely with my adversary’s head.
    Next, I moved on to forward and reverse hits. It’s easier when faced with an opponent. But you can’t always get what you want.
     I made do, working at switching legs in mid-air, which I’m not so good at. Sometimes I lose my balance. I need more practice.
    I worked out until I was gasping for breath and soaked in sweat. But no trace remained of that headache. I sprinted to the
     shower.
    Having decided to go to the club early, I began to get ready. When I’m feeling low, I dress simply. That is, no make-up and
     absolutely no glitz of any kind. I was ready in no time.
    I wriggled into a white jersey halter-neck I found among my mother’s old clothes from the ’70s. Teamed with a red patent leather
     mini-skirt, it made me look like the Turkish flag. Then I slipped into a pair of ankle-laced, low-heeled sandals.
    I considered replacing my clear nail varnish with red. But the thought of having to apply nail varnish remover to each toe
     put me off the idea If I fussed around any more, I’d be late for my rendezvous with Afet. I had to leave immediately. I called
     the taxi stand. I was certain Hüseyin, who’s practically my private chauffeur, would be the one to pick me up. And he was.
    “ Merhaba ,” he greets me.
    He paused, arm draped over the seat, turning back to give me a long look. Everyone at the stand knows this is around the time
     I go to the club. So had Hüseyin.
    “What are you waiting for,” I asked. “Let’s get going.”
    “You don’t give me so much as the time of day anymore.”
    I’m not sure how I look at him. But he instantly turned round.
    “I’m not in a very good mood tonight,” I apologised.
    “Forgive me.”
    He continued talking, as though to himself.
    “Some people can make others feel better. But they’re never given a chance.”
    He was flirting with me again. Persistent as ever. What’s more, he knows I resent being addressed by the familiar “ sen ”, rather than the formal “ siz ”. He was deliberately switching from one to the other.
    Hüseyin never misses an opportunity to proclaim his passion for me. No matter how strongly I object, he persists, never losing
     hope. He follows me whenever possible, a bit like an unwanted shadow. When he isn’t giving me reproachful glances, though,
     he does manage to keep the car on the road.
    I have told him dozens of times that he just isn’t my type. But one day, in a moment of weakness, at a time when I needed
     love and affection, he had enjoyed my favours. That was it. He’s been after me ever since. I don’t like, nor am I capable
     of liking, men who beg. I prefer men with a sense of pride. Not clingers. If he really wants me, he’ll grab me by the arm,
     drag me off and take me. Of course, cultivating this air of helplessness is part of the act. And part of the fun. No one who
     really knows me would dare. Everyone in the neighbourhood is aware of my skills in Aikido and Thai boxing. As is Hüseyin.
     Perhaps he’s just biding his time.

Three
    C üneyt, the club bouncer, greeted me at the door. It was still early. He had nothing better to do than hold the door open for those arriving and leaving. But I’m special. After all, I am the boss, even if my stake in the club is a small one. And I am totally in charge.
    As I got out of the taxi, Hüseyin, true to form, proposed returning to pick me up. Not straying from our well-established routine, I refused