The Woman Hidden

by Lucas Mattias

  “Anthon…”

  “Monica, let me finish.” He made a pause and took a deep breath, his eyes still shut. “None of that will possible if you keep on clinging to the past. Whatever happened from this moment behind does not matter, what matters is the promise I’m making now.”

  Monica, however, remained silent. That silence he knew meant a storm was about to hit, a silence that anticipated the worst yet to come, what he feared the most. Although silent, her eyes were lively burning, holding behind them all the anger she was boiling in there, ready to serve him.

  And when Monica opened her lips, he was surprised.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?” He repeated, trying to make sure he heard it right.

  “Fine. Come with me to our camp house, we take the week off to think all of this over and…”

  “I can’t.”

  Monica sneered, rolling her eyes to the irony of that. She slid her hand across her face, trying to realign her hair from the brow line, ignoring the whole mess caused by her makeup, tears and sweat. She was exhausted and he could see that.

  “Of course you can’t. How could you leave the mistress in warm sheets in such a cold moment?”

  “I don’t have a mistress.”

  “I know, Anthon. I know you’ll use work as an excuse, put the department between us to run from me again. The only think I do not know is the value this marriage has to you.”

  “You know pretty well that I’ve told you how much I value what we have.”

  “So leave it all, Anthon. One week is all I ask you. One week away, just us, the camp house. One week and we come back, fresh minds, and then we can settle on what to do from now on just like two sober and sufficiently mature adults.”

  “Monica…” He knew that his face exuded supplication, as well as his posture, but by now it no longer mattered what others thought. He was giving no shit anymore to the humiliation or to the judgmental eyes, he just wanted her to not only understand that he was indeed willing to leave it all just for her, but also that he had an investigation to conclude. Just one before going.

  She turned away and moved along, barely giving him a chance to explain himself.

  “I just need your comprehension, Monica. I’m on my knees.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  She was right, though she hadn’t even turned to look at him to confirm that. He didn’t even had the time to chase after her and beg her to listen to him and to stay by his side; when he tried to do something about it, Monica was already requesting help from one of the police officers, probably trying to get a cab or something. No, she didn’t need help, she was fine, and she would be better after a good night’s sleep.

  He wouldn’t.

  He could drink, shove his face into work or punch the asphalt until he could see his bones through the open skin. Or he could just dive into that investigation and just leave after he got some satisfactory result. He needed a win now he had lost the battle for his relationship.

  Anthon put his jacket back, which had been laying on the back of the ambulance that had helped him, and walked to his car, ignoring the scenes he'd starred minutes ago and trying to assess the damage in the vehicle.

  “Uber is today’s option, detective.” One of the officers joked, while helping one of the technicians to photograph the places where the car had been hit.

  That, for sure, would cost him a warning, perhaps a suspension. He was not under the influence, but his recklessness had caused an accident, putting a civilian’s life in danger. It was something likely to happen to anybody, but he was an important figure that should impose respect, not fear to the citizens. Luckily enough he would be able to avoid a damage lawsuit and else, and with even more luck he would avoid an order from above for him to be suspended or lose his badge and gun.

  The captain had already suggested him – in a bright shade of demand – a tox screen to be immediately done and the sample had also been already taken and after listening to Anthon’s apologies about his state of mind, the man let him go. Anthon knew that most of that compassion was about the drama they had all witnessed between him and his wife. There was this secret code between men, a common sense amongst them and almost all of them were able to feel compassion in specific situations. Threat of divorce, losing the children or having one’s life destroyed by their wives were only a few of these situations that could cut him some slack and, in that case, it had been extremely efficient.

  He would look for a cab and he would go to… the hotel? He didn’t know where to go.

  As he reached the main avenue again, he felt his phone ringing in his jacket’s pocket. Removing the device from it, the name on the screen shook his heart, giving it that cold blow he knew well and feared the most.

  Georgia.

  He answered, the phone creaking, tight between his angered fingers.

  “What you think you’re doing?” He grunted between his teeth, putting himself further from the police circle before anyone witnesses another unnecessary play.

  “Anthon, I…”

  “I know those photos could only have come from you, Georgia. What do you want from me, uh? What are you looking for? Who the fuck are you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that, honestly.”

  “You think I’m stupid, then.”

  “About what, Anthon?”

  He exhaled hard, trying to pull himself together and chill out again. His heart pumped fast and he felt his face burning.

  “You were the one who sent her the photos, weren’t you?”

  There was silence on the other side. He could hear her breathing, who didn’t bother to answer. He wanted one, he wanted the confirmation. The only sign he needed to leave her and forget about that adventure, along with the risk of losing his career and his wife in the tide.

  “Anthon, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve just returned to the hotel, I’ve been in a meeting for the past few hours.”

  “You said you were meeting a friend.”

  “Yes, a friend who needed my advice as a lawyer. Anthon, why are you interrogating me? I’m not your wife.”

  The rude answer came to the tip of his lips, but returned to his core when the wind blew again and soothed him. He realized he was not in one of those police movies that portrayed his job thrillingly and, at times, wrongly. He was not in a suspense story, whose end would result in a huge life turnaround caused by a casual meeting. Georgia was a woman he had met and who as fun to be with, why was he trying to also destroy that relationship? Maybe was something about his destructive nature, something intrinsic and stronger than him. First his marriage, then his job and, now, Georgia, one of the few good things that had happened to him in the last years.

  Anthon’s head buzzed again, this time making him lose his rhythm and balance a little. He leaned against a parking meter nearby, trying to catch his breath and stability. His eyes were still blurry, which he believed that soon would pass. Too many things to process.

  “We need to talk, Georgia.”

  “About?”

  “Us. I need to put an end to this.”

  For a few seconds, he didn’t hear her voice, just the breathing and the distance sound of cars from the other side. Then a sigh came, followed by a far laugh.

  “I cannot lose you, Anthon. I need you.”

  “Georgia… I need my marriage.”

  “You need something that completes you. I complete you.”

  He didn’t know what say. Not only because he had not seen that answer coming, but also because he felt his voice had abandoned him. And then he felt a severe pinch in his head as an excruciating pain crossed his body as if he was being slowly impaled. The same feeling he had back at the bar. The same feeling of losing control.

  The phone slipped from his hand and fell to the ground, something he couldn’t help with because he saw nothing but the darkness that settled in his eyes. He tried to scream, tried to ask for help, but he felt his body go in a series of spams and co
ntortions and before he could suffer with the impact of his own body falling to the ground, he didn’t see or feel anything else.

  Everything went back to the darkness or nothingness he already knew.

  “Anthon?” She called again, hearing nothing besides the sounds of cars and traffic.

  She also got to hear the sound of someone screaming for help, but before it could intensify or someone could find the phone and call her as the emergency contact, she turned it off and tossed the phone to the bed.

  Georgia inhaled again and let the smoke out upwards, as she enjoyed the cold breeze that entered the hotel room through the wide-open doors to the balcony. The night outside was calm, the snow had ceased and there was nothing that could take her focus away in that moment.

  Refreshed by the freshly-taken bath and in one of the hotel robes, Georgia walked with the cigarette in hands to the small table at the balcony and lifted the laptop lid, that immediately lit up and showed her the page she was seeing before. On the table, she saw the stacks of papers around, the papers from the files Anthon had brought, about his case.

  Oh, so many unnecessary things.

  She put the cigarette on the crystal ashtray and pulled one of the stapled files, attentively reading the official report made about the crime scene.

  “The first body found on scene… completely charred… young male about…” She stopped reading and ripped the sheet from it, placing it inside the tin garbage can from the hotel. “Unnecessary.”

  She inhaled again and returned the cigarette back to the ashtray, going back to reading. That file didn’t seem so important anymore, so she moved on to the next block, this time stamped with the picture of the man found on the woods. Nothing interesting. She sighed to the image, as if looking for recollections and cleaning them afterwards. Nothing important. The picture was left intact and she returned the page to the table.

  “Witnesses reports.” She read in a low voice, while her eyes ran through the page. “Woman found near a road…”

  The page was basically a description of a woman found on the woods, apparently made by one of the witnesses of the case, a paramedic. The text described in details the state of the unknown woman, from the most superficial wounds to the deep ones – an arrow stuck in her shoulder – and it also dwelt on her physical description. The red hair, the eyes, skin, approximate age and average weight. Georgia smiled and ripped that page too, throwing it on the same bin from before.

  Those pages were disposable. The others… Cheap print. With the help of an ordinary erases, she started to rub it against the pages, making it more difficult to read and, in some places, impossible. There were many things to be read there and Anthon needed some help about it.

  When she finished it, with a surgical care, she cleaned the table, gathering all the rubber remains and tossing them into the trash can. With extreme precision, she grabbed the papers and spread them across the room with the others, placing them inside other files and into manila files, covering her tracks.

  Finally, she took the garbage bin to the balcony and used her own cigarette to start the flame in one of the papers. It took her a while, but giving it time, the fragile ember spread, starting a frail flame that, seconds later, became death to all those papers and traces of tampering with evidence. She didn’t stay to watch it all burn, she had time, but she also needed to deal with other stuff.

  She picked her phone again and dialed a number, once more sitting in front of the computer. On the screen, an airline company and an already defined destination.

  “Hey, hi. I’m trying to book two tickets to Ireland.” She held on, confirming the date and the values on screen. “I tried it through the website, but something occurred…”

  Georgia took a last drag from the cigarette and put it out on the ashtray, her eyes lost on the smoke that came out of the trash can and vanished slowly through the balcony, carried by the strong and unceasing wind. She would never finish the reservation on the computer, for they would easily track the IP and the time it happened soon, which wouldn’t stand for her plan. A search, however, would make sense. All she needed now was to conclude that phase and she would soon be one step closer to success.

  “Two. No, they’re not for me, I’m just doing my job. The card? Sure. Anthon Gilles. G-I-L-L-E-S.”

  In her hands, Anthon’s credit card danced through her fingers, shining under the dim light of the apartment.

  VII

  The fireplace crackled slowly and he stood there watching it as if he was a part of the flames, as if he was in there, slowly burning in his own fears and worries. The silence which flooded the house beyond the sound of the flames was staggering; it comforted him at the same time, alerting him about the fear that haunted him. Fear for himself, for his son, for Clarice… Mainly Clarice.

  That was not the first time he had to deal with a suicide attempt. Marco also seemed to remember, perhaps not so well as him, who had to deal with that face to face for the months that followed. The scars from it, however, were still imprinted on the boy, who carried with him all the bruises of a lost relationship and a broke marriage.

  What he surely knew was that he would have to watch Clarice closely and help her. That attempt could be the indication of a deep depression, maybe even a scream for help… had she recalled it all? That could be something extremely hurtful and deep. Once more Jason found himself lost between having been saved or having saved someone. That was a confusing game in which the roles kept on changing and, although he wanted to believe it was for a common good, the thoughts made him much more disturbed.

  It was not fair he could get something so good just to lose it. It was not fair that life would give him a second chance and that the same life would take the opportunity from his hands, reminding him that the other people involved in his life also have demons and unknown baggage that can be more painful and heavier than his. He just wanted to grab that second chance by its neck and never let it go. He knew it was too premature to think that way, but Clarice already represented such a safe and sheltered harbor to him he was afraid of letting go. It could all be a mere result from his writer’s mind – well, actually, sometimes he caught himself wondering if it all, all indeed, was not just fruit of imagination -, but he felt that the reverse could very well be true and that that disturbed beginning could reveal itself as the start of something much more imposing and incredible.

  At least that’s what he wanted to believe.

  By his side, Clarice slept. Huddled in blankets, wrists protected and wounds covered. If only he could cover all the wounds that woman carried. It was the vision of a sleeping angel. She laid with her head on a pillow, hands near her face in such a peaceful sleep that Jason even forgot sometimes there was a world outside, being flooded by layers and layers of snow.

  After the incident, Clarice’s temperature had dropped significantly and, ever since they had saved her from the tub, she hadn’t woken up. Jason decided then to put her near the fireplace in a way to keep her warm, comfortable and under his watch. He was not ready to sleep, anyway, and he didn’t even know if he could sleep without knowing she wouldn’t try to find death a second time. Third, if he considered the day they found her.

  Seeing Michelle in the bathroom still freaked him out, raising many other questions in his mind. Had it been a sheer delusion caused by the connection between those two moments? Was it a vague memory activated by the fear of losing Clarice, someone Marco and Michelle herself accused of trying to steal her place? Was it only Michelle’s ghost trying to help him? Was it possible that Michelle, wherever she was, was still looking after and caring for him, even after all they had been through?

  Maybe.

  Oh, and there was the kitchen. He thought about eating something, but when he tried to think of something to chew on, the memory of the mug breaking apart hit his head. He had to clean the kitchen, and it didn’t matter he had spent some minutes scrubbing the blood out of the bathroom floor with those forever stained towels. That would be
a great time for another unannounced visit from Aubry.

  Clarice was well, she was just soothingly sleeping. He could go to the kitchen and organize the stuff, maybe just to make it less messy. He could ask Marco for help, but the son had been avoiding him since the argument in the bathroom, hours ago, locking himself in his bedroom and refusing to leave. The stew, in the end, got ready and cold. And it was reheated, only to cool again on the stove. And now his stomach complained, demanding anything to digest.

  Jason stood up and, although he knew the house like the back of his hand, having helped to plan the building since the first blueprint sketch, he calculated in his mind the visual field between the kitchen and the sofa Clarice was asleep on, just to make sure he would be able to see it in case she moved. Just after he reassured what he knew three times, he removed the blanket from around his legs and moved on, heading to the kitchen.

  The floor was as cold as the mood in the house, though the air had a slight warm note. The temperature outside was dropping drastically, which increasingly indicated the snowstorm was real and about to come. Before going for his late night snack, Jason took a moment to watch the deck beyond the shut glass doors, where the flakes of snow slowly and peacefully piled up, creating small dunes on the windowsills, the tables, the wooden deck, the grass a little beyond around the covered pool. Each falling and stacked up flake was just like his memories that, little by little, came back strongly, just like Clarice, creating those undesired gatherings on the corners of his brains.

  Memory was, in fact, a threatening artifact. Jason knew most part of that was already on his mind, boxed under a “do not open again” label. But Clarice and the circumstances were so overwhelming he couldn’t help flipping those boxes and finding things he’d rather forget. Much had been forgotten as the years passed, pretty much like an optional amnesia, but those things now also attempted to return. He contemplated the possibility that all those memories were just a rite of passage, a process in which he would work those things with himself so that in the future he could live a truly enlightened and peaceful life. That moment, perhaps, was already coming. After the storm, they said, comes the calm.