Free The Prophet Murders by Mehmet Murat Somer

much of an interest in his son.
    The cookies were delicious, filled with fruit. I would be in real trouble if I kept gobbling them down. In any case, I was binging these days. I gain weight every autumn. It’s my body’s way, every year, of preparing me for winter.
    From what Kemal told me, he didn’t reserve a particular enmity for transvestites. They were on a par with the other sinners and unbelievers: gays, lesbians, Jews, socialists, the immodestly dressed, drinkers of alcohol, and those who fail to teach their children to fast and pray. There were so many who failed the test, who strayed from the path of righteousness and were infidels. I belonged to a minor sub-category.
    The messages he sent on the internet had no particular relevance. He wrote the same things, no matter what chat room he was in. No one could stop him. It wasn’t their place to do so. He was simply inviting everyone to the path of righteousness. It was up to his readers to obey, or not.
    He was a total homosexual. While he didn’t confess as much, that was my objective evaluation. His general lack of confidence, coupled with occasional bursts of overconfidence, the mimics and gestures he used when explaining something, the sideways glance as he said it was “not their place” to stop him. Considering his condition, it was highly unlikely he had ever done anything, nor likely that he ever would. He chatted on quite merrily about sinners, infidels and whatnot, but when condemning homosexuality a certain gleam in his eye gave him away.
    Up to a point, his hostility was perfectly reasonable. I understood. While everyone else was living it up, he couldn’t do a thing. He never had and he would never be able to. I’m sure he had practically memorised all the internet porn sites. Seeing as he was online all day, he had certainly visited them. It was easy to imagine the sighs as he stared at his monitor, the loathing and rebellion when he then looked at himself in the mirror.
    “You’re a real beauty like these two,” he complimented me. “I was able to intercept two photos you sent to a friend over the net. You were wearing a leather mini-skirt.”
    That’s right. I had those taken at Ipek’s birthday party. Then I e-mailed them to my friends. So he’d even got his hands on them. I didn’t think much of myself in those snapshots. I looked like Vampirella, a heroine of my childhood comic books, or maybe a sexier version of Angelica Huston in The Addams Family .
    “You had long hair,” he said.
    “It was a wig.”
    “You were wearing high-heel boots,” he continued.
    “I don’t really go out like that,” I told him. “Just at night.”
    “That’s all right,” he said. “You’re beautiful like this too.”
    I had arrived in my most convincing “young man about town” costume, but there was no dampening his enthusiasm. Kemal was ready to be seduced. Just one experience could change his life, his outlook, everything. Now, I wasn’t about to make such a sacrifice for nothing. The last thing I needed was to do something that would later haunt my dreams.
    I told him what I was after. Unlike during chat, all traces of impulsive behaviour had evaporated. He simply listened, making tiny cries of protest. As I spoke, he stared at my mouth. I didn’t appreciate it, as I prefer eye contact, so long as it is not exaggerated.
    He suddenly snarled at me.
    “I don’t know anything. But good on whoever was responsible! They deserved it!”
    Now, that sort of talk really pisses me off. I lose my temper. Without meaning to, I struck him full across the face. It was reflexive. I was ashamed of myself.
    But then I noticed a spark of desire in his eyes. I changed my mind. I had a complete masochist on my hands. He continued raining insults, not raising his voice, so his mother wouldn’t hear.
    “I’m glad it happened. Faggots! Infidels!’’ he hissed.
    I was undecided on whether or not to slap him again. I waited. He looked at me