Rex Richards The New Prophet Book 1 in The Heat series

his is a fast moving and adult thriller which may or may not have a supernatural twist. You decide. T I used to work in TV news. I met a lot of celebs and other TV people. Some were fabulous. But most of them were narcissistic, insecure and mean. All of them are the inspiration for this book! RRx © the author, all rights reserved

2 The New Prophet

1 10.56pm

o you hear voices in your head? “Have you got your shit together, Jack?” DThere it goes again. “Rock and roll. Last few minutes now.” It wasn’t the sort of voice you’d want to confide in. It was a scraping voice, an annoyingly excitable buzz which dispensed not cosmic wisdom, but relentless instructions. “Nod, let me know you’re picking me up.” I sighed and dutifully complied. The voice always seemed to interrupt at the most inopportune moments - I had been thinking up anagrams. I’d come up with a couple of good ones based on last night’s news. One of the top stories, according to CNN, was that Donald Trump had been caught dying his hair. Never mind fake news, he was a fake blond! Had Putin hacked his hairdresser? I’d figured out that an anagram of ‘Donald Trump hair dyes’ was in fact; No, hairy muddled prat! Which wasn’t bad. Also, yesterday, September 11th, 2021, had been the twentieth anniversary of the Twin Towers attack in New York. And I had discovered that an anagram for ‘Mr. Osama bin Laden’ was in fact: Slam on main beard. “Two minutes Jack and Najida. Audio level check, c'mon, get your arse in gear.” Through my earpiece Max’s voice sounded like a cat slowly losing its battle to cling on to a blackboard. The worst thing was that I couldn't talk back. So, there was nothing left to do except sit in my chair and suck it up. “Najida, you look lovely as always. I hope you’re not feeling nervous? A big night for you, millions of people watching your first show as lead.” Max’s voice shifted into something resembling week-old oil from a Glasgow chip shop. “Don’t

3 Rex Richards worry, you’ve got our veteran Jack backing you up.” Veteran? I was pretty sure Max thought of veterans as people dribbling in wheelchairs and covered in medals who he could pat on the head once a year while they were wearing paper hats from cheap Christmas crackers. I sneaked a glance at Najida. Her immaculate long black hair poured down impossibly straight, framing her high cheekbones. She had wide, magnetic almond eyes, paintbrush eyebrows and thick, plumped out lips smeared in plum-coloured lipstick. She was sitting bolt upright, which made her stunning young bosom stick out like the prow of a ship. She looked terrified. Bearing in mind she was ruthlessly going after my job, I could’ve let her just fuck it up. But, well, I might be a ‘veteran’ but I still remembered what it was like doing your first show. I leaned over and whispered to her. “Hey, did you know your name translates into English as Brave Princess?” She stared straight ahead into the blackness. “You’ve done this show a hundred times as weather girl. You’ll be great. If Max annoys you, just imagine him on the loo.” “Stop fucking twittering, Jack. Thirty seconds.” But it had worked, I saw her smile.

4 The New Prophet 2 Midnight

he church has a back door that is always open, just like a gay whore, The New Prophet tells himself. It is an T imposing gothic mass of sand coloured stone, corpse grey this late at night. He walks up the path, tapping His Victorian walking cane on the wind-lashed gravestones. He finds the unlocked door. He steps into the church. It feels cavernous inside, the stale air making it more like a forgotten entrance to hell than a house of God. There is a dankness to the warm air. In the belfry are four snake-like bell ropes, bat-black in the midnight light. Behind them is a ladder leading to a trapdoor in the ceiling, a maintenance hatch giving access to the beautiful and forgotten bells. Behind the bells, is a smaller ladder leading up to a platform at the top of the steeple. It offers spectacular views of the crushed streets of west London. He sits on the platform, aware of the caress of the autumn breeze. The rusty glow of shielded streetlights mingles with the flashes of prowling cabs. It is a clear night, the moon is full. He holds His walking cane by its black polished wooden shaft and grasps the silver handle. He twists it. The mechanism clicks, revealing the hidden blade within. He slides the swordstick free to catch the moonlight. An intricate carving of a dragon breathing fire twists down the wicked slender blade. He feels potent beyond measure. For a second, He thinks he sees a flash of light from behind the bushes which are slowly drowning the gravestones at the edge of the graveyard. A shadow retreats and is gone. The Heat, the all-powerful living fire that burns within Him, is whispering in His mind, telling Him of the glory ahead. The New Prophet opens His mouth and sees yellow and green flames lick out of it, bursting into the night sky. He looks at the flames as they cavort around Him. He marvels at the power and beauty of The Heat, and He feels humbled by it.

5 Rex Richards

He remembers the time of His creation. All those years ago, when the Heat gave birth to Him in the darkest recesses of a young boy’s mind. The New Prophet watches as golden flames formed into shapes in the air as The Heat told the story once more. “When I was first created it was just to love and protect the child, who was my Vessel. He was so young. He needed a chance to be free of Her Tyranny, the Great Whore who ruined him. So, I made you. To be our soldier.” But as the Vessel had left the horrors of his childhood behind him and became a man, he forgot all about The Heat and his soldier The New Prophet. But The Heat and The New Prophet had not forgotten him. For years now, when the Vessel had been sleeping, The Heat had burned a little brighter and The New Prophet had slowly regained his strength, piece by piece. And now, at last, The New Prophet is so powerful He can take control of the Vessel’s body. It is a glorious feeling. To be physical, alive, in the body of a man. “Tonight is a special night.” The Heat tells him, its voice a crackle of sparks that floods his mind. “The road to Liberation is ahead of us. The first step is the death of the innocent.”

6 The New Prophet 3 Lenses and lights

saw a pudgy outline hunched behind his camera. The man with that weighty responsibility was Derek. ‘Big D’ to his I pals. Although he took a few minutes to squeeze his water balloon body into the controls of his camera, once in, he had a touch as light as a fairy. Not that he was a fairy in the sexual sense. Far from it. He was a sexual rapier, if a morbidly obese one. I suppose you might call him a Love Blimp. It was impossible to see what was going on beyond the cameramen. Burning white lights blasted down from the pitch- black studio ceiling. All I could really see was a monitor placed in front of us, showing the current camera view. I looked at myself. At first glance I thought I looked pretty good: short, chemically enhanced dark hair, cheekbones that a young Richard Gere would have been proud of, a slightly thin face that seemed wider on camera, dark blue eyes that gave the lie of compassion. My dark grey suit, white shirt and grapefruit tie contrasted nicely with Najida’s tight cream-coloured dress and that epic coffee-coloured cleavage. She was wearing a silver brooch designed with what looked like an Arabic symbol. In its middle was a red ruby, and I wondered idly if it was a magical charm. I practiced smiling, and checked out how it looked in the monitor. Was it my imagination, or did I look a little pale? Najida looked immaculate, aside from the deer in headlights look she was still sporting a little. I was trying not to sniff too hard. About ten minutes ago I'd done a huge line of coke that had tasted a bit rough, and now a sparkle of snot was threatening to pop its head out of my nose and say howdy. My heart was bumping up a bit more than normal and I took a long slow breath to try and calm it down. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t have a drug problem. I can handle a shit load of the stuff, no problem. Aside from the fact that tonight’s little helper had come from a new dealer, drug-wise, it was business as normal.

7 Rex Richards

I started going through the list of what was on the show tonight. Death by earthquake, Brexit economic gloom, more death, and other assorted events such as ‘post-life updates’ i.e. death, thrown in for good measure. Death in all its forms was typically my main contribution to the glory of your day. I had another look at the monitor. Vain, I know, but the consequences of not being vain could be a disaster - millions of people would see me with a nose powdered in all the wrong ways. I knew Max would be prowling around the director’s gallery, completely unable to sit still. His skinny frame would be sheathed in a tacky, overpriced suit and his moustache would be dripping sweat, as would his lank brown hair. He was the youngest primetime TV news editor in London. He seemed to use his youth as an excuse for his irritating behaviour. The director’s gallery was a darkened room which looked like the bastard crossbreed of an ancient spaceship and the security room of drug dealer's mansion. It was a twilight techno-world inhabited by people high on drugs ranging from caffeine to crack, who spoke a strange hi-tech TV code as the numbers ticked over. There was always a weird smell up there; a brew of boiling electronic circuits, overboiled coffee and boiling over tempers, which all mixed up in the ancient aircon which howled in fury from the ceiling. “Najida, shoulders back. Jack, wipe your nose. You’re sweating. Make-up, get over there! Ten seconds!” I saw a background shadow turn into lolloping lard as Brenda, the spectacularly obese make-up girl was suddenly right in front of me rubbing my face clean as if I was a naughty schoolboy covered in chocolate. Then she disappeared into the gloom. I took a risk and leaned over towards Najida again. “You’ll be great.” This time she did look over at me. I winked at her and gave her a thumbs up. It was a pathetic attempt to be encouraging but it was all my middle-aged, white supremacist mind could come up with. I knew everyone up in the gallery would be readying themselves. Max, Ben, Jo, Suze, Victor, and new-ish researcher

8 The New Prophet

Mary. They would fiercely monitor every little step from here to the end of the show. The different script links, the video feeds, live interviews and the pre-recorded items from some of the most extreme deprived and dangerous corners off the earth - Lagos, Laos, Liverpool. They were the ones who made the show happen, and without them, I’d be just a chemically enhanced goldfish, gawping at the camera. A chill ran down my spine. It wasn’t the thrill of the impending show, it was a genuine chill, a cold feeling in my bones like a voodoo witch doctor had just stuck a needle in my arse. My eyes were too sensitive. What was going on? An uneasy thought levered its way into my mind. This felt a lot like the first tickle of a bad trip. But JRock my usual dealer had been sure that the new guy was okay. But I hadn’t met the new guy, he’d just stuffed the gear up behind the toilet as normal and … well, it couldn’t be that much of a problem, could it? “Counting down from five …” yakked Max. “For fuck’s sake Jack, wipe your face again. You look like the non-scary skeleton out of a shit Haunted House ride. Okay people! Rock and roll!” The music rose to a throbbing crescendo, and studio lights came on. As they pulsed into life, a jungle of cables, props, monitor screens and people came into view on the studio floor. The autocue came to life in front of Camera 1, and I heard the big booming bong of Big Ben over the music. “It’s ten o clock, and this is ITN news. I’m Najida Islam.” BONG! “And I’m Jack Donaldson.” BOOONG! Najida hit the headline at pace. “Tonight, as another Islamist terror attack is foiled in London, the Leader of the Opposition Barry Corbinite asks, are we protecting the Muslim community enough.” BONGGG! I followed it up. “An earthquake in Albania kills hundreds. And is Lord Luton really the right man to represent the United Kingdom as a business ambassador? But first, Najida with our

9 Rex Richards lead story, that latest terror foiled attack in London.” There was a crackle in my ear. “It’s foiled terror attack, not terror foiled attack. It’s not a fucking takeaway!” My mind was banging like a bluebottle on a window, and a needle of panic jabbed me before I forced it back down. I’d been high while presenting the news before, hadn’t I? Like, every night for the last ten years? JRock had said the guy was okay? Hadn’t he? But then, the narcotic tsunami hit me, and I was massively, overwhelmingly tripping out. For a second I imagined Max as a demon flying at me from the sky and I looked up, terrified I’d see him coming for me and … wait … what’s that up there? In the sky? No, not in the sky, in the ceiling. It wasn’t Max, but it was … amazing! I found myself staring at one of the big, orb-esque studio lights beaming down from the ceiling. It was majestic, hypnotic, spiritual. Of course, I knew, deep down it was just one of a hundred studio lights. But was it? Was it just a light? Or something more? Was it really a gateway to heaven? I could hear a foggy voice screeching in the background. “What the shitting buggery fuck are you staring at?” I ignored the voice. The light was the important thing. And at that moment, I had a revelation. Just like a prophet like Moses or Mohammed. Religion. Of course, it was all so obvious. News was a religion. The TV audience was a congregation. As I looked into the light I realized the truth of it. All religions have been designed to control people by telling them what to believe and what to fear. That was exactly what we did on the news. But with us, instead of making you scared about what happens after you die, we made you shit-scared about your life right now. I was dimly aware of Najida next to me. I wanted to grab her and tell her to forget all about Allah, because at 10pm every night, for 30 minutes, we were our own Gods.

10 The New Prophet 4 First steps

hese are the hours before dawn, and people are sleeping. The September sun that has been baking the pavements T has given a still lingering warmth to the air. It is silent, save the tap of his cane. Soon He has reached his destination, Ravenscourt Park. He climbs the fence to get inside. In the park, dead concrete paths meander along. In the distance, He can see, like broken bones from a crushed dinosaur, children’s swings reflecting in the low light. Playing fields stretch off into the distance on either side, humiliated by years of ferocious play. He approaches a large kidney shaped pond, The Heat is around him, a playful child tugging at his sleeve. And then He hears it. The sound of a kiss, followed by a long drawn in breath. And the smell - sweet burning flowers. She is maybe twenty-two. Sitting there, hugging her knees, back arched like a sleeping cat. She is fragile, beautiful. Flames burst out from His eyes. As she pulls back the sickly marijuana smoke, He can see she has a half smile on her face. She exhales, a long smoky breath, creating a miniature storm in the air which quickly loses heart and dissipates. He steps closer, and sees she is wearing a lilac blouse that stops above her belly, exposing the flesh. She has a pierced bellybutton, surrounded by a tattoo of a sun's flames. He silently unscrews his swordstick and raises His arms. The Heat bursts from it, whirls in the air in blue flames. He drops the swordstick. It nestles silently in the grass. He is close enough to reach out and brush her hair. Which is what He does, gently, like a leaf falling from the sky.

11 Rex Richards 5 Park life

he nearly jumps out of her skin. He smiles and offers a sheepish wave. “Hi,” he says. “Ok to join you?” S He squats down beside her. Her eyes are like saucers. He guesses a mixture of ecstasy and weed. Her long legs kick out in front of her signalling she's okay about it. He sits down. She's wearing tight leather trousers. She's not afraid. Her drugs and youth have seen to that. “Have you had a good night?” “Mmm, yeah it was great.” Her speech is lilting and serene, a northern accent. An angel on ecstasy. He knows she is sweeping up and down on the waves of her drugs, invisible music and lights still flitting in and out of her mind. “Apart from some sleazeball hassling me.” She peers into his face, putting her hand on his arm. “Hey, don't I know you? You won something, or …?” Inside He laughs. She is looking at the Vessel, seeing his face, his body. She could not possibly understand who The New Prophet is, or that this is the first step to His Liberation. He holds out His hand and introduces Himself as the Vessel. She giggles and takes his hand, a little awestruck. “What's your name?” She shuffles over to sit next to Him. “I'm Star. Named after the night I was conceived on a beach in Egypt. Mum says she got a good view of the stars that night.” “What do you do, Star? Student?” “Just finished. I want to get into pre-school teaching.” Soon, everything begins to take on a dreamlike quality. He tries some of her joint. She leans over Him murmuring to give it back to her. He feels her hair drag across His neck. His hand rests on her warm flesh, enveloping it. He feels her breath quicken. They are perilously close to kissing. So, they do.

12 The New Prophet 6 Park love

or a moment, He thinks of the deception running through her mind, that in her innocence she thinks He is F the Vessel. Then He kisses her neck and can feel her heartbeat pulsing under the skin. She groans, and He feels her hand slide down His back. Then the Heat leaves him and floats up into the air above them. He can feel it expand into an immense ball of purple fire, then drop down over them, a bubble of energy enveloping them. There is a sudden urgency. It is out of both of their control. The New Prophet rolls His hand up inside Star's top, scratching lightly at her stomach, making her squirm and giggle. Her breasts are warm and full and as He pulls up her top and kisses them in the beckoning moonlight, He starts to become frighteningly aroused. For now, He just wants to possess her, to see the depth of her innocence. She is tugging at His belt, getting His trousers down and He is pulling at hers. Which are ridiculously tight. They both laugh as they tumble over and finally He frees her. Her pierced belly button glints dully in the semi light. He bends down and kisses it, tugging at her knickers with His teeth. He licks across her stomach and blows on the wet skin, making her shiver. He reveals blond hair, neatly shaved into a heart. He glides a hand over her stomach and slides a finger into her. He feels her hand reach up and tug at His boxers, her fingers making their way in, pulling Him towards her. He hears her gasp at the size of Him, a delicate breath of nervousness and excitement. “I’ve never done it with a …“ she murmurs. But then He enters her, and she pulls Him towards her, grunting in His ear. He feels her passion rising, there is a musky scent in the air. Soon she is moaning “fuck, fuck, I'm gonna come.” And she does. He feels His own orgasm coming almost immediately, and as He comes, the bubble of energy explodes, raining down in drops

13 Rex Richards of flame, of pure power. He stands up and looks down at her, deep in thought. So, this is what the Vessel can experience in the physical world? He finds it both carnal, brutal and easy. A flicker of envy dances through Him as He sees her happiness. She is lying back, relaxed, on her back. He hears The Heat speaking to him. “She is unbeaten by the world. Just like he was. She is Innocence.” The New Prophet reaches over and finds His swordstick. He looks at the blade. The Heat rises up around Him and He hears its voice again. “The time is now.”

14 The New Prophet 7 10.10pm

was staring at the light, when a phrase popped into my mind. Mad Arab’s loin men. What did it mean? Was it a I message from beyond? Wait, it was … an anagram. Of course, it was another anagram of Mr. Osama bin Laden. Why had I been thinking about him? It was before I’d seen the light, and I’d been getting ready to read the news. The news! Fuck! We must be close to me presenting my piece on the earthquake in Albania. I yanked my eyes away from the light, and just like that, one two three, I was back in the room. The crazy trippy rush of the drug, whatever it was, drained away as quickly as it had come up. My heartbeat was banging, and my mind was spinning, but in a good way - a coked up, flying into space, ultra-focus, I feel fucking amazing, bring on the dancing girls kind of way. In other words, I felt completely normal. Max was screeching away, and Najida was staring at the monitor next to Camera 3, smiling and nodding. I glanced over and saw a jumpy looking Michael Beresford, our political correspondent, doing a piece to camera from outside Big Ben with the Commons in view behind him. Somehow, I’d zoned out and missed most of the first story, the latest Ramadan-inspired Muslim terror attack, this time on a London bus-stop. Apparently, the attacker was Eritrean, an ex- ISIS soldier, living in a council flat and working as a postman. Beards on mail man. Flashed into my overheated noggin. Did it work? Mr. Osama … My god, yes it did. I was on fire! Najida was interviewing Michael about the heated political argument going on about the attack. The Leader of the Opposition, a cocky old communist granddad who had captured the youth vote after a right-on speech at Glastonbury, Barry Corbinite, was shouting about Islamophobia and racism. Fuck knows how he had the nerve to do that. Everyone knew he was more anti-semite than dear old Adolph.

15 Rex Richards

“VT end in 30, link into Albania.” Max was screeching like a baboon being buggered by a rhino. I was on next. “Jack? Are you ready for this?” Right, this was my big story. I had been given the complicated job of handling a live interview with our correspondent Alistair, a small serious looking ginger haired reporter of about thirty-five, known to the team as The Poison Carrot. Camera 2 flicked on its little red light and pointed at me. “Thousands have died in a violent earthquake in Albania,” I said, tracking the autocue with professionally glazed eyes. “The disaster took place in the city of Krokov.” I let out a dry cough. “With disturbing images and exclusive footage from the scene, here is our reporter Alistair Ansa.” As soon as the mic was off, I coughed again. Jesus my fucking throat was killing me. Alistair flicked up on-screen, standing in front of a burning car and surrounded by five or six sad looking locals, all male, all wearing tracksuits. Most of us here wish Alistair had been swallowed up by the earthquake. Unfortunately, at the time he was in bed being swallowed up by his boyfriend Leroy. Alistair’s toy boy had been flown over for free on the spurious claim that Alistair needed someone to carry his camera case when the earth moved (for the local Albanians, not Leroy). I had another five minutes now to relax as the initial tape ran, then I was going to interview Alistair live. Cracks had opened in the streets. Cars had become death-traps – their occupants crushed by moving sheets of rock and tumbling earth. Monumental stone jaws that opened with a rumble of fetid breath swallowed whole buildings into the bowels of the earth. Mother Nature in full effect. The autocue rolled round. “VT end in five, set on Najida please. Najida, I need you to pick up questions.” What? I was stunned. I was being dumped, mid-story on my own script? The Krokov tape came to an end and all I could do was gawp at the monitor. Najida was equally surprised, but she just about managed to stumble out my opening link. “And now Alistair joins us live on

16 The New Prophet the streets of Krokov. Alistair, what can you tell us?” “Well … err … Najida,” Alistair got over it quickly too. “Tragically, seven French students from a Christian charity, have died, caught in a fire.” If there was one thing more callous than a killer, it was a news man. We were like surgeons. So, used to the stink of disease and death, that what was seen as horrific to normal people was standard issue for us. We were dead-eyed impartial observers with a despicable instinct on how to sensationalize misery. Najida segued onto the Lord Luton piece without the cameras even pointing my way. I mean, WTF? Lord Jeremy Luton had been given a role as 'roving business ambassador' for Britain. Apparently, he had been in the USA, trying to sell TV interviews with the Royal Family to the highest bidder, just like Prince Edward had done years before. I sat there, hoping Max was going to bring me in. But he didn’t. I tried not to get paranoid as I watched the new weather girls tell us it was going to rain. One of them, Sandy, was a graduate from the Met Office, so she was actually qualified to talk about the weather. We’d had drunk sex after her welcome drinks in the toilets, but it was hardly a stormy affair. More of a dry patch and a light shower, followed by low visibility and a cold front on both sides. As soon as the show was over, I got out of there. No prawn sandwiches for me. Max would be looking for me, and I didn’t want to deal with him. Like the weather, I had a feeling things were about to get stormy, and I wanted to do anything I could to find some shelter.

17 Rex Richards 8 End of innocence

he New Prophet holds the blade of his swordstick up to the sky. Flames jump out from it. He is kneeling T between Star’s still open thighs, as He pulls the blade back, then pushes it into her, entering her the way He had done just minutes before. He feels the blade as it cuts through her, then, pushing like a fury, He feels it move towards her heart. She is pushed back onto the damp grass by the force, and her eyes widen in surprise then shock and her life begins to leak away. “What have you done?” It was a whisper, a sob. A thousand tiny purple flames spurt from His eyes as He explains. “When he was just a young boy, The Great Whore inflicted great terror upon him. The only way to liberate him is to destroy the innocence in another.” She looks at Him blankly. She thought it was a good thing to do. Isn’t that what Instagram tells you to do? Worship celebrities? But now she panics. What about her life? What about her choices? The drugs aren’t letting her mind accept it, but her body has no choice. Her attempts to scream do not work. As she slips away, He puts His head to her chest, to feel her wounded heart cease. He can feel The Heat becoming stronger as He hugs the dying girl. He sees the flames dance above His head. The Heat whispers to Him. “Three more steps to take.” The New Prophet pulls out the blade. He has to give her the mark of The Heat. He performs the sacred cuts, then the deeper, more bloody ones, the magical wounds. Her wallet and mobile phone fall out of her pockets. He slips the mobile phone into His pocket. The Heat has already whispered a use for it. He drags her across to the pond and pushes her into the water. Now He just has to wait.

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