The Serenity Murders Read Online Free

ladies’ room; we have only one single restroom. In protest against sexual discrimination, we had not separated the toilets. Besides, it saves us space.
    She giggled upon hearing my reply, as if I had said something funny. “Well, let’s give it a go, then,” she said. I’ve always found her to be a bit shallow, and although I’ve known her for years, I’ve preferred to keep my distance.
    She caught up with me again on her way back from the toilet. She was still giggling. It seemed she’d had a generous helping of alcohol.
    “What a fabulous idea to have mirrors fitted behind the urinals! And no screens either…”
    What she thought was a mirror was actually stainless steel, but it served the same purpose. After all, ours was a venue that, striving to be
cool
, bore the marks of a designer’s touch. We deserved that extra bit of quality. She had clearly found it difficult to take her eyes off of what she had seen, and had immediately begun comparing it to her boyfriend, Cavit Ateş. Cavit was a man who not only had a big build, but was overweight with a fat belly to boot. No matter what size it was, it was going to look small in proportion to his body. For God’s sake, didn’t these women ever watch porn, look at pictures, buy a
Playgirl
magazine? Even when you’re buying tomatoes from the market you look, touch, compare, and
then
choose.
    As I walked about conducting my managerial duties, my gaze frequently landed upon Bahadır, and each time it did, our eyes met. Sure, he was holding Gül’s hand, stroking her long blond hair, but he emitted a covert signal that did not escape my attention. Best not to give it a name. I had utmost love and respect for Gül. But I just could not keep my eyes off the lad.
    Later that night Belinda D. and her husband Naim arrived. Belinda D. was an indisputable authority on Turkish pop music, and her most recent book, her most comprehensive to date, was titled
Superstar
. It was she who decreed which songs sank and which songs swam. Some called her the Herodotus of Turkish pop, others a reaper, due to her fine, highly selective taste. My personal favorite nickname for her was Hammurabi, which she was awarded owing to her declaration of the standards and rules of Turkish pop. The singers, composers, and production companies that feared Belinda D.’s malice had their books kept by her invisible husband, and rumor had it that he earned his keep solely from those who’d been touched by the magic wand of his wife.
    I rushed over to greet them.
    Belinda D., always high in spirits, was nervous. She gasped for breath as she spoke.
    “Darling, I just found out, I don’t know what to say. Someone shot Süheyl.”
    Yes, Süheyl, the very same Süheyl Arkın whose program I had been on that night.

3.

    I t was quite natural for Süheyl, who made a habit of probing controversial topics, to have lots of enemies. But it certainly wasn’t natural for him to have been shot. He wasn’t dead, but he was seriously wounded. He had been taken to the hospital, and the shooter had of course fled without leaving a trace.
    I would go visit him with a huge bunch of flowers first thing in the morning. In my mind, I quickly struck a bargain and decided to buy carnations if they were cheap, and if not, anemones.
    I was alone when I woke up. Bahadır had accompanied me in all my dreams. We ran together hand in hand in the countryside, squabbled over games of Scrabble, lit fires on the beach and watched the sunset in each other’s arms, animated
Kama Sutra
positions, sloppily ate spaghetti bolognese out of the same bowl; in brief, we did everything that lovers do together. The strange thing was, I couldn’t recall his face or other important attributes.
    I sat at the computer, coffee in hand. I hadn’t yet pulled myself together, even though it was already past midday. I’d received a slew of messages, as per usual. The group of hackers called the Web-Guerrillas, of which I was an active member, had