The Woman Hidden

by Lucas Mattias

  The trek home was easy, until Jason decided they should take a secondary road, which would lead them straight to the back of the cabin. He chose that path because he knew it to be more secluded and protected from foreign eyes. Even if Clarice’s husband were anywhere around, it would be rather impossible for him to find them out through that track he was leading them, once it was extremely treacherous and much less traveled, which offered them some advantage. The trail was easy for him, but Michelle’s presence came back to disturb him, not visually, but unconsciously. It was if her memory were all around him, maybe because once he had walked that same path with her many times, a trail that even had witnessed one of the arguments they had previous to her death. And Jason was not sure he was ready to face those memories, even when three years had already passed.

  It was kind of ironic that, while Clarice fought to have her memories back, he fought them away. Memories, he thought, are dubious beings that might bring pleasure or suffering, sometimes both at the same time, sometimes in a way that only hurts and can even make sense until your own mind tries to make them disappear. Clarice, in a certain way, was a lucky person. He, well, he didn’t want to think about that.

  They could already see the roof of the cabin, covered by the dim light of the afternoon sun, when Marco took a turn and got himself away from them. Something had drawn his attention and Jason followed him with his eyes, while he approached a bush of middle height, with large and green leaves, covered by ice and sprinkled with black berries and some rare purple flowers. Marco was about to remove one of the small rounded and dark fruits when Jason ran in hurry to reach for him.

  “Do not touch it!” He yelled, still far from his son.

  Clarice, who smoothly followed her way, halted.

  “What happened?”

  “Nightshade.” Jason told her, not facing neither of them, extremely hypnotized by the bush.

  “Nightshade?” Marco asked, puzzled.

  “Deadly nightshade.” Clarice responded, apparently aware of the name.

  “Extremely poisonous.”

  “I thought they were blueberries.”

  “Common mistakes,” Jason continued to say. “though blueberries come in bunches. Be careful. People die by ingesting those.”

  “Touching the leaves could kill you.”

  “You seem obsessed.” Clarice commented, probably noticing Jason’s cold stare at the grown bush.

  “Yes… I mean, nightshades are not common around here. I had never seen one. Maybe… it could be the dormancy state.”

  Clarice sighed with a smile, which caught Jason’s attention, who was still kneeling down, observing the attractive black fruits.

  “What?”

  “You hunt, you’re a known writer, knows Botany. What other secrets do you keep inside?”

  Jason put on a partially faked smirk and put himself up again, showing them the way home with a nod.

  “Many.”

  II

  When he received the message from Laura saying she had returned earlier from her trip, Marco smiled. He missed letting it off and talking to his friend and, considering the changes from the past few weeks, he could really use someone to whom he could openly talk to. Clarice seemed pleasant and they were getting along quite well and the father, well, they were overcoming their own barriers little by little; Laura, however, was his friend, someone he could tell it all and all he wanted to say without fearing judgements or repressions.

  His father was not going to leave so soon, so he decided to take the car. Laura lived in Derby, but during the winter, she also used to spend her days on the mountains, in a chalet from her parents, up the mountains. The house was almost as beautiful as his own, however it was placed in a more upscale area and surrounded by absurdly utmost mansions that there were over there, just as some resorts, fine deluxe hotels and, of course, the house where Clarice may have come from.

  Laura said she had returned a few days before, but she decided not to bother believing him to be busy with his studies. Yes, he had been, but it was not important. He needed to talk to her, to see her.

  At the same time, he didn’t. He knew, deep inside, he was using Laura as an excuse to visit Clarice’s possible origins. By that point he had already seen some Facebook posts and some news reporting the mysterious disappearance and the probable murder that had occurred at the mountains. Nothing ever happened around there, so any little odd thing was enough to make a fuss.

  And they didn’t even know about Mrs. Allembert slaughtered dog.

  He still had a couple of hours before sunset, so he tranquilly drove through the tricky and snow and salt covered road, treasuring the view and the open window, because now the snow wouldn’t be falling so soon. Maybe it would, but while it was up there, he would enjoy the cold wind against his face. That was a feeling he nurtured, it made him feel more alive.

  And he was feeling more alive. Since his mother’s departure, his life had become a little less fun, a little less pleasurable. It all felt grey, covered by a mysterious soot that, although allowing him to move, didn’t allow him to breath freely. His mother’s accident was still a heavy large weight on his shoulders, an excruciating ache in his head that would go away so soon. That was the result of many poorly solved traumas, problems he didn’t want to talk and couldn’t talk about with anyone.

  When he felt the soft sound of the wheels on the dirt change to the cracks of a stone paved road, he knew he was arriving. He was already into the wealthy zone, with the antique and beautiful buildings from the resort already on sight, in the roads that would take him directly towards the noble village of manors and mansions on the mountains.

  He knew what house to look for. It was a huge, Victorian three-stored house. A quick search on the news had offered him images, what he needed now was to see it up close. He knew the surrounding area would be protected by the local police, but at least he would have the chance of being near it. Maybe he would even take some pictures to show Clarice later, it could help her memory. At the same time, he hoped he could find anyone to offer him some opinion or who had witnesses any of the facts.

  He wanted to help.

  As soon as he saw the manor he looked for appear, he stopped the car. The mansion spread along a like and it had an opulent and fine mood, although covered by the shadows of the cloudy day and by a funereal breeze Marco couldn’t explain.

  He climbed out of his sedan and barely had a moment to enjoy the view and photograph the distant mansion when someone jumped onto his back.

  Laura.

  She looked so untouched he even doubted she had travelled and been away. South America, he recalled, not sure exactly where. However, after a better look, he noticed some freckles and a light tan on the face that used to be as pale as porcelain. Her brown hair was still partially wavy, pulled up on a clumsy ponytail with her usual bangs over her eyes. She was excessively dressed, as if ready for a snowstorm that supposedly arrived.

  “Laura.”

  “What up?” She said, casting a light punch on his shoulder. “Enjoying the snow and the nothingness?”

  “As usual. How was the visit to the exciting Machu Picchu mountains?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I was in Chile, Peru was the other trip.”

  “Oh… so, ceviche?”

  “You’re so racist for a black guy. You cannot summarize a whole culture to a single dish.”

  “I’m offended. And, second, you didn’t even speak to me during your trip, so I have no idea what you were up to.”

  “I learned about wines.” She then noticed his gaze to the house from above her shoulders. “Horror house?”

  “What?”

  “You. All nuts about the death house.”

  “I’ve heard about it.”

  “Everybody has, apparently. You should see the parade of people coming in and out, some just here to check what’s going on.”

  “What’s going on, exactly? Did you hear anything?”

  Laura
shrugged and leaned against the car.

  “Nope. Everybody’s disappeared, but rumor has it was a massacre. Nobody escaped. Child, butler, husband, wife… not necessarily, but that’s what is seems.”

  “Nobody was found, though.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you know who lived there?”

  Laura shook her head, shoving her hands even deeper into the front pockets of her parka.

  “I’ve gotten used to the heat down in the south. Anyway, I’m not quite sure. All I know is that the owner was a random tycoon with a trophy wife. They’d always come here during vacation, parading the family jewels and expensive clothes.”

  “Did you get to know them?”

  “No. My mom exchanged a few words with the lady once, Claire or Carice, I don’t--"

  “Clarice.” He corrected her, promptly noting his mistake. “I saw something about her on the internet.”

  “Yeah. But I never spoke to any of them. There was also a guy, their child. I think she was one of those ladies who get lucky and marry the rich silver fox, you know?”

  “He was older?”

  “A bit. Or she looked younger. You never know, with so many surgical procedures we have nowadays. Folks are saying the lady got mad, killed everybody and disappeared, cheated wife old story, you know.”

  “You don’t agree, I sense.”

  “No. It’s fucked up thinking like that. Haven’t you noticed how it’s always the woman’s fault?”

  “But you just said you think she was a gold digger who got married for the money.”

  “I did not say that. A woman can be independent and well settled and fall in love to a wealthy guy. It happens.”

  “So, what do you happened in here, then?” Marco teased, taking the fun moment to go deeper into the case.

  “I don’t know. It’s weird, you know. I don’t think there’s a serial killer around, so I think is just one of those mysterious cases. X Files. They haven’t found the husband, nor the wife. Somebody got fucked in this thing, I guess it caught fire and it all burned the hell down.”

  “There was a fire?”

  Laura laughed and put her arm around Marco’s neck.

  “I missed you, you bastard. And why are you so interested anyway?”

  “Dunno.” He tried to conceal it, leaning back onto his friend. “Nothing ever happens around here, it’s funny when something does.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She replied, although not sounding too much of a believer. “So, did you bring it?”

  Marco nodded and, ignoring the sight of the manor, started to move towards the lake that separated them from the building. A beautiful building that had been the stage of a tragedy, house that held many sorrows around itself.

  Just like his own home.

  Marco and Laura sat at the short wall that surrounded the protected area of the lake and he removed from his jacket’s front pocket a pack of cigarettes he had stolen from his father. Something he usually did whenever meeting Laura, often when the nights were colder. After they both served themselves and lit the cigarettes up, Marco waited for the first drag to leave his lungs and cause him that gentle and fun lightheadedness before going back on talking.

  “What about your dad? It’s been a while since you talked about him.”

  She shrugged again and sighed.

  “I don’t have to talk about him.”

  Alright, it still hurt Laura to talk about that particular subject and he decided he wouldn’t push her into doing it.

  “Mom said there’s a chance he might leave on good behavior.” She suddenly said, going back to the issue in between the puffs. “My shrink told me I have nothing to worry about.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “But…” She softly exhaled, the cigarette trembling between her fingers. “He’s still my father, Marco. Despite the horrors and the years of therapy yet to come, he’s my father. You know,” she laid her head on his shoulder. “sometimes I think you’re lucky.”

  “Laura, my mom died three years ago.”

  “But you still have your dad. And good memories of your mother. Despite what happened, of course.”

  He felt an uneasy shiver rise on the pit of his stomach, making him stiff.

  “What you mean?”

  “The accident, dude.”

  Marco sighed and ignored his anxiety. He would always react that way whenever people talked about it and, although it had been a while since he started to live with that feeling, he still hadn’t learned how to control it.

  “My shrink,” she continued, engulfed by her thoughts. “recently told me about this online anonymous group for women and girls… like me.”

  “A support group? Seriously?” Marco questioned in disbelief. It was totally unlike Laura to participate in such things or to give herself into conventional and rather boring treatments.

  “Yes. It sounds stupid, but it helps. Knowing about other experiences and seeing that not all is lost. You know I’ve already thought about killing myself and that he almost took me to that line. At the same time, I can’t hate him.”

  “Stop thinking about him as your father. He’s a monster.”

  “Aren’t we all, in some level?”

  “Not in the level of…”

  He refrained. He had never used that word when talking to Laura, not even when she opened herself up to him for the first time to tell him about her father’s abuses.

  Rape. That word in particular had always caused Marco a monstrous discomfort and saying it felt even heavier. It was one of those words, his father used to say, that carried much more than a simple meaning, they brought with them a face and a load that reproduced everything it represented. You didn’t need flourishing or figures of speech, you only needed to write it or say it.

  At the same time, he knew Laura to be right. He knew he was also a monster deep down, just like his father. He knew very well that his father’s monsters, although well hidden, could be as terrifying as her father’s.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Chill. You can say it. I’m used to it. Therapy, home… the only thing I cannot get used to is the pity looks. I mean…”

  “I know. People still look at me like that when they greet me. That look--

  “’Oh’. The worst. ‘Oh, Laura’ or ‘Oh, Marco’ followed by that theatrical sigh in consternation that are faker than my mom’s boobs.”

  They laughed together and lingered on the moment, tasting the very cold night and the calmness that emanated from that place.

  Marco faced his cigarette, watching as it slowly burned, the living ember slowly moving quarters of inches towards his fingers. That made him realize how ephemeral life was to be taken so seriously. Laura had taught him that.

  And he wanted to tell her about Clarice. He wanted to tell her about his father’s crisis and the sightings, the fears of his alcoholism having come back, about how their relationship was gradually evolving now. He even wanted to tell her everything, everything, and say that he had finally started to accept life as it was and that, in addition to forgiving his father, he had also forgiven himself.

  But he couldn’t.

  “Maybe there’s an only group for motherless boys.”

  “Maybe.”

  He thought of the idea, but he realized it wouldn’t be appropriate. He also considered that the group he should really be a part of hardly existed. Marco hit the cigarette with a quick movement of his thumb, getting rid of the excess ash and watched the skies as the night arrived, and he inhaled again before he said, unintentionally, more than he should or could.

  III

  The hotel room, that once had been his spiritual – and sexual – refuge, was now more alike one of the precinct rooms. Papers and files scattered all around, brown folders and evidence boxes on tables and armchairs. The floor was like a battlefield, a profusion of wine glasses, leftovers from the hotel meals and more and more papers; there was also Georgia, obviously, who represented the Helen of his Troy war. Wearing only
one of his shirts and laying on the carpet, she read some information, almost effectively trying to help him among so many unnecessary details.

  The trip to Derby had been fast and unsatisfying. He returned with thousands of files and more problems, not even sure on where to start. Georgia, with all her lawyer wisdom, suggested him start – surely enough – from the start. Outlining all that had happened so that, finally, they could gather the best of it. They’d use the hotel room, since Anthon had no home anymore and the department had granted him some time away from his office after that unexplained seizure, allegedly caused by excessive amount of work and stress which, maybe, could even be the real reason behind that.

  Everything was fine. During his trip, he feared it could happened again and, even worse, it could happen during his way to the town, but there was no disturbance or nausea whatsoever. That was the moment he realized it all had been just an escape valve his organism found, working under so much turbulence.

  Now there he was, stuck in the middle of stacks of original files from the original case, trying to find connections to past cases and even to random deaths that came to happen around the same time and that, at first, didn’t seem connected.

  “Is this your original victim?” Georgia asked, waving a sheet of paper with a picture printed on it.

  Anthon nodded silently, watching the picture of the unknown guy with dark hair, now dead and disposed on the medical examiner’s table in that picture. A vase with no contents, the shadow of what that man had once been. Merely a body, partially burned, partially wounded by other things. An empty glass and without a culprit to blame it on. Anthon knew it not to be his place, but often he created some empathy and compassion towards the victims who allowed him a stable job. That man right there, in the ME’s picture, had a life once, perhaps a happy family, a complete past, suddenly ended and without any answers. The answers wouldn’t bring any of that back, but would, at least, give it some closure… to someone.