‘I underestimated you. You are good, Captain. I’ll give you that.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘What do you want me to say? There are too many buttons in this world. So what if I pushed a few? Weaklings, the lot of them. Coming in here, crying bout this and that. They were practically begging for someone to offer them a way out. Life was too much for them to handle.’
‘Oh, cut the crap, Ariadne. So righteous, aren’t you? Is that what your sick mind tells you? Why these seven? Huh? Tell me that!’
‘As I said, weaklings...’
‘Bullshit! You love your sick, manipulating games. They were all religious. You loved that. And you chose them because of their names. Random killings, just like a heartless sociopath with a gun.’
Her jaw dropped slightly. I was yelling; my face colored red by anger. I waved the gun up and down. I stood up, taking small steps towards her. With every step, I yelled a name.
‘Agatha. Rita. Idalia. Anastasia. Demetris. Nikolas. Eftichia. A-R-I-A-D-N-E. Ariadne!’ With the sound of her name, I raised the gun to her eye level.
‘Going to shoot me, Costa?’
‘I should. Would be doing this world a favor.’
Her hands jumped and grabbed the end of my pistol. She placed her forehead at the end of the barrel.
‘Kill me then. I’ve been dead inside since I was born.’
‘Ariadne Metaxa, you are under arrest for conspiracy to murder...’
‘I promised myself, I’ll never be locked up again. And think of this, mighty Captain. How many out there have I triggered? How many are out there as we speak, ready to do the unthinkable? You cannot even begin to comprehend my elaborate plans; how deep my network goes. You dare arrest me and you will never be safe. Tracy will never be safe. I have patients ready to rape and kill at my suggestion.’ An evil smile decorated her face. Her green eyes glowing with passion.
‘Don’t you dare threaten Tracy...’
‘Or what? Come on, macho man. Shoot me, shoot me!’ she yelled, standing up.
‘Turn around and place your hands behind your back. Now!’
She turned slowly. My handcuffs and I approached her arms. Ariadne let out a small wild scream and ran straight for the glass wall, throwing herself at it. The glass shattered and out Ariadne went. I ran and looked down. She fell with a smile. She fell taking her demons with her. Her pale skin became one with the hot, grey pavement below. Her blood oozed out, filling in the gaps left by her brains and parts of skin tissue.
Chapter 47
Maria’s (Ariadne’s) story
Trikala 1975
‘My water just broke,’ Irene shouted over the sports announcer who was screaming ecstatically from the TV set. She stood in the doorway, hand on belly, puddle forming between her bare feet.
‘Can it wait ten minutes? The game is almost over and…’
‘No, Andrea, it can’t fucking wait. You serious? Get your fat ass up and take me to the hospital. Now!’
‘You’re lucky you’re pregnant or I…’
‘Yeah, yeah. You’re the man. Now, let’s go get this kid of yours out.’
He reluctantly forced himself up from the ripped brown couch, switched off the TV and looked around for his pants. He pulled up his old jeans, scratched his balls, lit a cigarette and headed for the car, leaving his wife to carry her bag.
‘What about the kids?’ he asked as the car’s engine came to life.
‘I locked all three of them in Gianni’s bedroom with a bunch of toys. My sister will come by later. I left them food and water,’ she said casually. It was not the first time the kids were left unattended.
A few hours and a bunch of curse words later, their fourth child and first girl came into the world.
Little Maria was sickly pale with a patch of ginger hair stuck on top of her head. Her eyes a rather dull shade of grey.
‘Little ugly, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, shut up, Andrea.’
That was the first of a long line of insults, Maria would hear.
Both her parents kept busy with their farm all day and spent most of the night watching trash TV and drinking a combination of cheap beers and homemade wine. Her three older brothers never paid much attention to her either. Used to their own violent games, they needed no girl to disturb them with girlie things.
Maria did not utter a single word until the age of two and she did not walk properly until the age of three, having no one to encourage or support her for either important task.
She quickly regretted learning how to walk. It signaled the start of slavery for the little girl. As she got older, her parents forced to sweep, dust, mop, help with the cooking, scrub the toilets and do the laundry. All the boys had to do was help out with the animals. They got to play and watch television for the rest of the day, while Maria carried out her chores until the owls awoke and hooted, much to Andreas’ annoyance. He often threatened to shoot them, but as with most of his talk, it remained just that.
The only times Maria relaxed were on Sunday mornings when the family played pretend. They all wore their best outfits and headed over to their local church. It was the only time, her mother combed her hair. It was the only time, mother smiled at her. She knew it was fake and for others to see, but it still warmed her little heart. Yes, Sundays were the best. She even got to bathe Saturday night and enjoy the feeling of waking up shiny and new. Father still did not pay any attention to her, but even that came as great news. It was far better than being ordered to do this and that all day, being smacked with every excuse and listening to his whining about how girls were worthless and hard to get rid of.
‘Where are we going to find money to marry off a girl?’ he whined as he drank his fifth beer.
At age nine, Maria decided to ask her parents if she could stay on after church and attend katixitiko, the Sunday school run by the priest.
‘No way in hell,’ her father grunted. ‘Who will help your mother with Sunday dinner? Clean up afterwards? Sunday is a man’s rest day, if you aren’t here, your mother will have to do everything on her own. Are you that spoiled and ungrateful? You will never find a husband with that attitude!’
‘It finishes by half eleven, daddy.’ She hated using that word, but she needed to sweeten him up. ‘I promise, I’ll run straight home and help out. Please, daddy, please.’
He paused and took on his thinking pose. She had started to win him over.
‘Oh, Andrea, let her go,’ her mother stuck up for her. A rare occasion. ‘It’s church. And besides, today, Maria’s teacher told me that she is excellent in class. Her best pupil!’
Andrea groaned something about women not needing a brain, before reluctantly agreeing she went to katixitiko. In the heat of the moment, Maria leaped forward and for the first time in her life, she hugged her father. Andrea was caught off guard and patted her on the head, calling her a good girl.
‘She isn’t a dog, Andrea,’ his wife laughed.
Next Sunday and every Sunday after that, Maria eagerly awaited for the liturgy to be over and Sunday school to start. Her brothers picked on her and called her a number of names ranging from ‘religious nerd’ to ‘virgin Mary, the ugly version’.
Maria did not care.
She cherished the moments she sat in a circle with another fifteen kids and listened to Father Anastasios retell stories from the Bible and from the life of Greek Saints.
She glowed with joy, knowing that there was someone in her life that truly loved her, and that was Jesus. He became the one she turned to, late at night, when after a tiring day of chores and put downs, she needed a release. Someone to talk to.
She loved Father Anastasio for introducing her to a new world of endless love and kindness. Used to cleaning up, she would stay for another ten minutes, after school was out, and tidy up the small room beside the elderly man’s chambers. She tidied their books neatly back on their shelves, pushed chairs back into position and washed the plastic cups left by the children in
the dirty sink. She wished she had more time to stay on. The whole place begged for a good scrub. Father Anastasio was left a widower, many years back and as a man from a different era, he did not maintain his humble home well.
One rainy spring day, the kind with bright rainbows, Maria was busy washing up the same plastic cups she had washed so many times before, over the last two years. She stood by the sink, enjoying the view outside. Maria had turned into a fine, young lady. Beautiful porcelain skin, red, straight hair and emerald eyes full of life.
‘Anything else I can do, Father?’
‘Oh, my dear. You have done plenty. Now it’s my turn to repay you,’ he smiled.
It had become Maria’s favorite part of the day. She rushed and picked up a brand new picture Bible from the top shelf and passed it on to Father Anastasio, who was sitting in his large, green armchair. She sat on his lap and placed her head on his chest.
‘David and Goliath,’ he said, giving weight to his voice. Maria gazed at the picture of the skinny youth with the slingshot, standing so brave opposite the enormous, menacing giant.
Father Anastasio was a great storyteller. A natural, with a voice that would be envied by the most experienced CNN news reporters. She had sat on his lap countless times before and listened to how Adam and Eve lost paradise, Moses parted the sea, Abraham nearly killed his son, Samson lost his hair, and of course, about her hero, Jesus.
This time, they held the book together. Father with his left hand and Maria with her right.
‘… Then David rushed forth, slingshot in hand…’ Father Anastasio read, while placing his right hand upon Maria’s leg. She thought nothing of it, at first. She even curled up more into his arms.
She did not feel as comfortable, when his hand travelled slightly up her thigh. Neither did she feel comfortable, when at the end of the story, Father Anastasio’s hand brushed against her breast as she stood up.
‘Have a nice day, child,’ he said as if nothing had happened.
Maria ran home that day.
Reaching the gate to her home, she wiped her tears and shook off her confused state. She had chores to do.
Late at night, she lay in her bed wondering if she had mistaken Father Anastasio’s intentions. He was rather old and he did love her like a daughter. She must have misjudged him. She could not accept that Father Anastasio, her Father Anastasio was one of those men.
Next Sunday took its time to arrive.
Her anticipation prolonged its arrival. Preoccupied with her thoughts, she sat through mass and Sunday school staring at the clock. Half past eleven. Finally, everyone left and she was alone with him. She tidied up in a rush and quickly picked up the colorful children’s Bible. She hopped on his lap and opened the book. She held the book with both her hands, leaving his hands free. She needed to test her theory. She needed to prove he was her saintly guardian.
As Noah finished the ark, she felt his hands on her thighs. She wore a blue dress, knee high. Soon, his hand had managed to find its way under her skirt. A tear fell from her eye as she felt his dirty fingers journey up her leg. Just before reaching his intended destination, Maria screamed at the top of her lungs. It was a wild scream, animal like.
‘How dare you? You filthy, old man,’ she yelled, jumping up. She swung the Bible hard round and hit him on the head.
‘My child, you misunderstood…’
‘Fuck you!’ she screamed the words she had heard many times before by her parents and ran out the door.
She ran faster than ever before. The mountain landscape around her fading into a blur as the wind blew directly at her, wiping her continuous flow of tears. She did not stop running until she reached her garden’s green gate. She had to gather herself. Unsure what to say, unsure how and what to explain, she decided to pause her ordeal. With maturity beyond her years, she acted as if nothing had happened and went on with helping her mother with Sunday dinner. Chicken and potatoes again.
Bedtime came quickly and soon she was alone, able to think. She felt disgusted by Father Anastasio’s actions. She always hated the way her father groped her mother. Love seemed very cheap to her. She curled up, pushing back her filthy sheets. She could still feel his hands on her.
Suddenly, her door flew open. Her dad stormed into her room, anger flashing in his eyes. He was huffing and puffing; his hands clenched into a punch. Her mother stood behind him. Her worried look caused shivers down Maria’s spine.
‘You little whore. You little bitch…’ The words colored with hate, coming out one by one with heavy breathing.
‘Dad, what…’
‘Don’t you play innocent with me!’ he yelled. ‘There I was, with my mates at the coffee shop and I get pulled aside by Father Anastasio…’ Her eyes opened wide, her jaw in free fall. ‘… And he tells me that you stay after school and ask him to read stories for you and you ask to sit on his lap and rub yourself against him…’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘Shut it,’ he screamed.
‘No,’ she yelled back. ‘He touched me. I did nothing.’ Her mother started to sob.
‘You disgusting, little slut. You have shamed this family…’ He did not continue his sentence. He just unloosened his black leather belt and approached her slowly.
The first strike hurt the worst. The belt slapped against her white, tender skin, cutting into it.
The shock of being beaten like one of his farm animals, as if a stubborn donkey refusing to move, blocked out the pain of the next eight strikes. Her skinny arms tried to cover her face, only causing more anger to her father. He lifted her up by the hair and threw her bleeding body to the hard, cold floor.
‘Mama, please help…’ she started to say, only to be kicked hard in the mouth. Blood shot out and her mother screamed.
‘Andrea, you are killing her.’
Andrea knelt on top of Maria and whispered evilly into her ear.
‘You are grounded for life. No school, no church, no friends, nothing.’
The next morning, Maria awoke, bruised and sore on the floor. She had passed out and her parents had left her there. It was her first day as an animal. She did not feel human anymore. She did not get treated like one anymore. Both her parents looked upon her in utter disgust. They barked orders at her and took joy removing the demon from inside her as they said, by having her scrub the entire house with a bar of soap and an old toothbrush. They both took turns in beating her at night. She was not allowed to talk, look them in the eyes, shower or eat with the family. She served them all dinner and stood silently in the corner. When the family had finished, only then was she allowed to eat their leftovers. Her brothers quickly picked up on what was going on and joined the family fun. They pushed her around and called her names and ordered her around. Once, she tried to ask her older brother for help, only to receive his spit on her face, followed by the line ‘Do not speak to me, whore.’
She hated them for everything. She hated Father Anastasio. She hated her life.
The fatal night arrived on a sweet summer day.
She lay in bed, bones aching from a tiring day. Her eyelids journeyed down and began to cover her eyes. That was when she heard her window open. She sat up and watched in terror as a stranger stood in her room. She opened her mouth, ready to scream and the young man leaped upon her. His hand covered her mouth. She recognized him now. He was their neighbor’s sixteen year old son.
‘Shh, don’t move or I will hurt you,’ he whispered uneasily. More of a pep talk for his ears than a threat. ‘I paid your brother for a good time.’ His free hand fell upon her breast. Maria bit down hard and did not let go. She felt his blood drip into her mouth. He pulled back in pain, leaving skin behind.
‘Get out!’
‘Now, listen here, whore. I paid good money…’
He did not finish his sentence. The doorknob rattled and the youth ran to the window. Her father entered the room, just in time to see the lad flee the scene.
‘You dirty cunt. You dare bring men unde
r my roof?’
She had no time to react, to explain. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out of the house and into the barn. The rough and rocky ground cut into her body and animal manure stuck to her body and hair. Andrea picked her up, slapped her around and kicked her back down to the dirt. He fell on top of her, ripping off her clothes. He, then, stood up and lifted her up by her hair, ignoring her screams. He walked over to the pigsty and, without a second thought, he threw her in the mud.
‘Welcome to your new home,’ he said, spat on the floor and left.
Maria stood up, covered in mud. The pigs began to surround her. She jumped out of the muddy environment and sat down in the pile of hay. She promised not to cry. She sat there still, for over an hour, thoughts running freely inside her mind’s darkest corners. This had to end.
The red gasoline tank was heavy, but her anger provided her with extra strength. The house opposite her stood silent, everyone was asleep. She strolled around the house wearing only mud, pig feces and an evil, twisted smile. Gasoline leaked out as she went. She walked up the porch steps, leaving fuel puddles behind. A snake-like line of gasoline followed her into the kitchen. She quietly opened the top drawer and took out a pack of matches. She emptied the ten-liter tank outside her parent’s door, said her goodbyes and exited the house. She took the tank back to its place in the barn, took a deep breath and went back to the house. She stood outside and lit a match. She used it to light the whole box and dropped the box on the wooden porch steps.
Blue flames rose alive and red fire ran around the house. Maria took a few steps back and sat down in the dirt, the flames reflecting in her hollow eyes. The corners of her smile moved upwards at the sound of the first screams. Thick, black smoke climbed out of open windows and gaps in the roof. A loud bang came from the fire reaching the kitchen and the small, wooden house collapsed, burying all her problems.
Maria did not move a muscle. Not even when the fire truck arrived. Not even when the tall policeman tried to get answers from her. Not even when the paramedics picked her up. She did not even speak or show any kind of emotion when two days later she was informed that none of her family had survived.
The Church Murders: A stand-alone thriller (Greek Island Mysteries Book 2) Page 19
