The Woman Hidden

by Lucas Mattias

  From the stairs, Clarice sneaked and tried to look for him again. He was almost at the door and, once there, she would have no chances. For some reason, Marco seemed to argue with someone on the phone. She noticed when he lowered his head for some moments, while shoving his phone into the coat pocket. Just like a snake, she slid from the last step and jumped in long steps to the living room.

  The glass door was flanked by a wall, which blocked direct eyes towards the fireplace and the living room. That same wall stood behind a small desk, the same small desk everyone kept their keys when they arrived home. And Clarice knew that, she had learned enough.

  Carefully, she stretched herself to the fireplace and removed one of the fire pokers from the stand. As she did, the metal tinkled and she froze.

  The tinkling hadn’t come from her poker, but from door, where Marco had taken his keys to open it. She moved back to the wall that separated her from him and waited, silently.

  She noticed when a strong blow of freezing air entered the house and noticed the exact moment Marco stepped in. He was tall, strong and his weight had a different sound against the wooden floor. She lifted the poker, placing herself into attack position.

  “Hey!” He called, while his feet moved forward into the living room.

  Now she could see his back, his large coat and the snowflakes over his shoulders and his frizzy hair, leaving traces behind as he walked. Marco was being careful, but so was she.

  For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was that one coming from the fireplace, creaking. Marco turned to watch the flames and Clarice flinched against the brick wall, trying not to be captured by the peripheral sight she suspected him not to have.

  She risked one more step, her feet barely bothered the wood on the floor. She risked another step, still watching Marco, who was too focused in noticing any sounds that should come from the kitchen or upstairs. When Marco moved, she also moved, fearing he could turn and see her, but he took a step forward.

  And so did she.

  This time, however, the floor creaked under her foot.

  Marco still gave one more step forward, just then realizing he was not the reason of the sound. He halted and took a deep breath, she noticed the movement of his shoulders. Still holding the iron poker, Clarice twisted her body as if ready to swing and hit a curved ball and held on.

  “Clarice?”

  She took another step and Marco turned.

  It only took her a quick and coordinated swing for the poker to hit Marco’s face with a thud, in full. Clarice remembered the golf classes with her husband. The strength was not in the object itself, but in your movement. She just had to direct the strength to her arms and swing on the right frequency and potency, not only the hips but the shoulders too, to achieve full power.

  Marco closed his eyes in reflex and fell to the floor, on his knees. The phone, which was in his hand, got loose and bounced, sliding on the flat floor and stopping only when it reached the carpet.

  Unfortunately, Marco was strong, a sportsman. The blow had been strong, but she was still smaller and weaker. Maybe the effect of that would come soon; she was not willing to wait, though. She got ready for another strike, when his body fell hard to the floor, sideways. He tried to open his eyes, covered by blood and the cut to his temple. The phone was lit, right there, near him, with Laura’s face on it.

  Marco’s left side of the face was basically completely open where she had hit him. Blood flowed out, running across his eyes and nose in small streams, dripping onto the floor and already settling itself into a small puddle under his face.

  And still he was not ready to give up. She heard his heard breathing when Marco gathered all his strengths and placed himself onto his knees and hands, trying to come up again.

  Except he didn’t want to come up. He didn’t have energy for that. He wanted to crawl… to the phone. As soon as he tried to reach out for the phone, Clarice raced three steps forward, approaching him more.

  And he heard the wood creaking again. And he turned.

  In one second of pure adrenaline, Clarice raised the wood poker above her own head and brought it all with all forces she had, the solid metal rod striking the center of Marco’s face as if it had a bullseye. She felt the cracking, the thud, the tearing of the skin and all the pain that would dominate the boy’s body.

  Such a shame.

  Marco fell, this time as a dead weight. He wasn’t dead, yet, which had a good and bad side to it. She could still get what she wanted.

  The phone was still on with the girl’s face shining on it. The blood coming out of Marco kept on running, spreading across the smooth floor in a thick and crimson puddle, engulfing the device in a bloody hug.

  Clarice sighed. That part, at least, was done.

  She crossed the living room, warming her feet on the animal rug, and placed the poker back to the stand with the others. She used a few more seconds in there to warm her hands up a little and, finally, she turned to Marco.

  The phone was still shining, although it was almost completely immersed in blood. With ease, she moved down and lifted it with the tips of her thumb and middle finger, shaking the device over Marco to get rid of the dripping blood. The call was running, but she didn’t want to taint herself with the boy’s fluids. Careful not to stain her hair, she approached the phone to her face.

  “It’s all under control,” she told the girl on the other side of the call “just be ready and wait. The storm’s arrived.”

  And she turned it off. Marco would take a while to wake up, she still had time. In a matter of seconds, Clarice ran to the kitchen and grabbed one of the cloths from the counter, cleaning the phone while she went back to the living room, removing her fingerprints from it. She couldn’t leave traces behind. With the same care of when she took the phone from the floor, she put herself on top of Marco and shove the phone deep inside his pants pocket, being attentive on placing it really deep so that it would escape from it.

  Now she had to think of the best way of getting him out from there. The basement, obviously, was the best choice and it hadn’t been locked. She walked to its door, underneath the staircase, and tried the knob. Open. She pushed the door, revealing another set of stairs that would take her to the underground floor. Clarice turned the lights on and confirmed it – it would be a long descend.

  She couldn’t carry Marco and she couldn’t ask for help. The nearest, Martha, was dead. She couldn’t afford leaving loose ends that could easily give her away. All she had to do was to trust herself and in the strength she gained after some shots of scotch.

  Clarice took advantage of her bare feet and used them as a support when she held Marco by his ankles and dragged him for a few inches. He was heavy, too heavy for a sixteen-year-old. Just by looking and guessing, he was probably 6-foot-tall, give it or take it, with something around 170 pounds distributed in muscles and bones, she’d say. She would have to use some more strength. And some more strength she would use.

  Clarice planted her feet down hard and dragged Marco again. This time, with him straightened towards the door, the movement became more fluid, she just had to get the grip of it and adapt herself to the right way of doing it. After a couple of minutes, she already had him dragged to the basement door, now she had to carry him down.

  After such work and such violence, what was a sudden descent of stairs?

  Clarice turned Marco’s legs to the basement staircase and, using her own legs under his back as a lever, she pulled him up until he was sitting by the door. Now all it needed was a push.

  And that push was enough for him to roll down the stairs until he had reached the underground in safety. Not actual safety, she thought, but it also didn’t matter. He was strong, he would recover from that with maybe one or two broken ribs.

  She would take care of him later. She closed the door and walked back to the kitchen. A tablecloth would do the service and her brain reminded her of a heinous one she had seen once, made of flannel and pastel tones, som
ething she would never had in her own house. Just as composed and calm as ever, she headed to the cabinet beside the fridge and, on her tiptoes, she removed the first-aid kit only to reveal the tablecloth, hidden behind it.

  Clarice dropped the towel on the floor and returned the kit to its original place, closing the cabinet door as if just finishing another house chore.

  As she returned to the living room, she dropped the towel onto the sofa and, with the same dishcloth she had cleaned the phone, she tried to absorb as much pooled blood as possible. She loathed how blood would be stubborn and thick, how it would prevent itself from being absorbed with ease, putting on resistance. Using her patience, more than she actually had, Clarice soaked the excess of it, finishing the cleaning with the table towel of Jason’s. It was not perfect, but it was clean enough. She would just need some bleach and water to remove the rest, something she would do after she got rid of the amount of blood from the cloths and finished with burning them on the fireplace.

  Clarice didn’t know the basement as well as she knew the rest of the house. She had tried her way in there a few times, but only when they were all asleep, to avoid explanations. She had avoided venturing herself too much when Jason and Marco were out, afraid they would return amidst her investigations. She already knew the house and the area as the back of her hand and knowing how much they had trusted in her during that whole time made her proud. And sorry.

  The further she had gone so far was when she needed the dog and, even for that task, she had taken the night. Jason would be asleep, doped, while Marco could barely hear to any sounds, sleeping at the furthest room in the house. She knew the dog would offer little to no resistance, mainly after she had it doped too with the sleeping pills Jason had – pills he had given her after she cried about not being able to sleep at night – soaked in some piece of meat, and she had preferred the night for being more silent and offering her more time to do anything. She recalled when Jason asked her about nocturnal noises and she smiled while walking across the underground floor.

  The place, although pretty nice, was abandoned and she knew why. Jason had left his crossbow there, probably forgotten when he came looking for something to drink and found it, but she didn’t dare touching the object. She knew how to use it now, Jason had been a great teacher, but there was no need of it.

  She was already becoming impatient when Marco gave the first signs of waking up. Although he seemed willing to wake up, his spirit hadn’t yet returned totally to his body. He moaned and tried to lift the heavy head, which wasn’t bleeding anymore, but that looked like the one of a boxer at the end of a fight.

  As she heard Marco’s noises, Clarice grabbed the glass of water in hands, along with the painkiller she had taken from Jason’s room. He muttered again and she risked a few steps towards the boy.

  Marco wouldn’t attack her; her caution was that of a zoo visitor truing to approach a drugged tiger. Even though she was sure nothing would happen, there was still that fear of someone who’s at disadvantage.

  Marco sat at the center of the basement, on the floor and leaned against the central wooden column which supported the ceiling. His arms were firmly tied behind the pole, preventing him from moving a lot.

  Marco groaned louder, this time not only for realizing he was finally waking up, but for feeling the headaches. She knew he was in a pain, a whole lot of it, and she didn’t want to extend such misery.

  “I hope you’re comfortable,” she whispered, taking a few more steps.

  Marco’s legs wavered abruptly and angered, trying to set the woman away from him and trying to put himself away from her. It, though, was just not possible, the beam offered quite an endurance and, on trying to put on a struggle, Marco let a roar out, a bellow muffled by his inability to completely open his mouth due to the wounds and the swollen lips that echoed around Clarice.

  “I know barbwire is not comfortable, but that was the most practical and taming option I found in here.” She moved down, placing herself at his height. “If you don’t move, it won’t hurt you.”

  It truly hadn’t been something previously thought. After bringing Marco’s body down, Clarice didn’t know what to use to tie him up, she had never thought it would come to that. On the basement, after scavenging around, she found the barbed wire roll that ought to belong to Jason for reason’s she couldn’t understand. It only took a plier and protection for her hands and she had something to hold Marco tight against that column. She was careful enough to also remove his coat and leave the skin exposed, thus avoiding he could escape in case he decided to use his brains for once.

  Marco, however, didn’t seem pleased. He kept on struggling and fighting and she noticed when the sharp edges of the wire sank a little deeper into his forearm. She pressed her eyes and extended her hand towards him with the pill in it.

  “I won’t make a lot of difference, but it helps.”

  “I…” the voice was almost inaudible coming behind the swollen lip and, certainly enough, some broken tooth. Or teeth. “…don’t want… help.”

  “You may not want it, Marco, but you need it. We still have a lot to talk about.”

  “What…” He wailed, his painful sighs becoming more intense, almost a concealed cry. “what…”

  “I cannot understand, Marco.”

  “You.”

  He retreated and coughed, blood being tossed out with the sudden blow of air. A few drops even fell onto Clarice’s face, who remained still, watching him.

  “I…?”

  “What do you want?” He shot with no pauses, using all the air he could inhale, in a spastic voice.

  “Right now, you to take this painkiller. Some water could help as well.”

  Marco tried to move his head away, but he was so pressed against the beam that even that was made impossible. With trembling lips and still finding it difficult to move his jaw, Marco slowly opened his mouth, showing his tongue.

  Only then Clarice realized one of his frontal teeth was hanging from the gum, violently shattered. It was not only the nose fracture, where the skin had burst open, or the temple on, he would also lose a couple of teeth after that game.

  Holding the painkiller with the tip of her fingers, Clarice lifted it and let it drop on the bloodied tongue of Marco, who pulled it in his mouth and tried to swallow it, finding it too hard to do. He also needed to use his mouth to breath, once the nose didn’t allow him such simple and mechanic job.

  Guided by the constant serenity, Clarice leaned on his shoulder when she offered him the glass of water so that he could sip from it. He was thirsty, but he couldn’t swallow large amounts of it without needing a moment to breath. After almost drowning with a small gulp from the liquid, Marco shut his mouth, satisfied.

  “What do you want?” He asked again, water, saliva and blood dripping from his large and injured lips.

  “I wonder how much pain you’re in right now.” She said, standing up and placing the glass of water once more near the cocked crossbow. That arrow did look threatening up close, triggered and ready to shoot. “Now, imagine how it must feel falling from a cliff inside a SUV.”

  When she looked at him again, Clarice noticed his eyebrow lift, showing he had understood it.

  “You… you know.”

  Marco’s voice was not the smooth and charming one from before, even a little too grave for a boy of sixteen years of age. Now it sounded guttural, a long rumble somewhat hoarse, somewhat humid.

  “I do.”

  Clarice walked towards him again, embarking on that half-light and stifled scenario. The dim light in the basement came from the gaps from the upper floor and also from the small window pointed to the backyard, now almost entirely covered by snow. There was also a flashlight she had brought along, lonely lit beside the crossbow. She didn’t want lights on, in case Jason got home before she expected him to, she wouldn’t want to call his attention to the part of the house, not yet.

  She moved down gently, sitting on the floor with her legs cro
ssed under her body, facing Marco. Her hair was now pulled up in a tight bun, preventing the strands from getting touched by the dirtiness around. She cleaned her face from Marco’s spilled blood and smiled, removing her disposable phone from her pocket and placing it by her side, the screen bright. Marco wouldn’t understand, but she didn’t need him to.

  “What happened, Marco, on that night, three years ago?”

  He shut his lips, his eyes wavering as the ones of a caged animal. He didn’t want to speak. He wouldn’t speak.

  “Say it, Marco. I need to hear it from you.”

  With the strength he still had, he shook his head, denying the favor.

  “You know the reason of being here, right now, don’t you?”

  Clarice’s voice echoed through the basement as a soft song, such was the calmness in her breath. Marco didn’t seem to respond well to that soft tone, at least not anymore, and that was starting to bother her.

  “You know, don’t you?” The same delicate and velvety voice resonated, accelerating Marco’s breathing a little more. Clarice giggled. “I’m patient.”

  Marco’s breath was wrong, off pace, his chest coming up and down in a wrong and fast way, trying to absorb more oxygen than his wounds allowed him to get. The nostrils oscillated, blood and mucus running down while he tried to breathe in a freer way. It ought to be suffocating.

  It was suffocating. She knew that too well.

  “You… you already know.” He mumbled, to what she pretended not to hear.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You know!” He shouted with the remainder of energy he still had, thrusting his body against her in an unbridled male impulse.

  That, though, only granted him with a sudden dizziness, possibly caused by the extreme pain the wire was causing around his arms. Marco let his body rest against the wood again, trying to recover his air.

  “The painkiller must be doing its thing, already. And I’m not even sure if it was an analgesic or an antiallergic, I frequently get confused as the incapable woman I am. Wasn’t it what he used to tell her?”