The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  She stood there, thinking about Henry.

  And for the first time, she felt afraid of him.

  11

  I was just thinking about time.

  About how maybe nothing ever really goes away. It’s been here the whole time—my past, I mean—and the reason it’s catching up with me is because it never went anywhere.

  In some weird way I’ll always be there, always twelve years old—trapped in time, on that terrible day, the day after my birthday, when everything changed.

  It feels like it’s happening to me right now as I write this.

  My mother is sitting me down to tell me the news. I know something is wrong because she has brought me into the front sitting room, the one we never use, and sat me down on the uncomfortable wooden chair to break it to me.

  I thought she was going to say she was dying, that she was terminally ill—that’s what the look on her face led me to believe.

  But it was much worse than that.

  She said she was leaving. Things with my father had been particularly bad—she was sporting a black eye and split lip to prove it. And she finally had found the courage to leave him.

  I felt such a rush of happiness—“joy” is the only word that approximates it.

  But my grin quickly faded as I listened to my mother rattle off her immediate plans, involving staying on a cousin’s couch, then visiting her parents until she got on her feet—and it became obvious by the way she was avoiding my eye, and by what was not being said, that she was not taking me with her.

  I stared at her in a state of shock.

  I was unable to feel or think—I don’t remember much else of what she said. But she ended with a promise to send for me when she was settled in her new home. Which might as well have been on another planet, for all the reality that held for me. She was leaving me behind. Leaving me here. With him.

  I was being sacrificed. Damned to hell.

  And then, with that strange crass ineptitude she sometimes had, she mentioned she hadn’t yet told my father she was leaving. She wanted to tell me first.

  I don’t believe she intended to tell him. This was her only goodbye—to me, here and now. Then, if she had any sense at all, she’d pack a bag and flee in the night.

  That’s what I would have done.

  She asked me to keep her secret, and promise not to tell. My beautiful, foolhardy, trusting mother—in many ways I was much older and wiser than she was. I was certainly more devious. All I had to do was tell him. Tell that raging madman of her plan to abandon ship. And then she would be prevented from going. I wouldn’t lose her. And I didn’t want to lose her.

  Did I?

  I loved her—didn’t I?

  Something was happening to me—to my thinking. It began during that conversation with my mother, and the hours afterward—a kind of slow, creeping awareness—a weird epiphany.

  I thought she loved me.

  But it turns out, there was more than one of her.

  And now I started to see this other person, suddenly—I started to see her, there, in the background, watching while my father tortured me. Why didn’t she stop him? Why didn’t she protect me?

  Why didn’t she teach me I was worth protecting?

  She stood up for Rex—she held a knife to my father’s chest and threatened to stab him. But she never did that for me.

  I could feel a fire burning—a rising anger, a rage that would not go out. I knew it was wrong—I knew I should curb it before it overwhelmed me. But instead, I fanned the flames. And I burned.

  All the horrors I endured—I put up with them for her sake, to keep her safe. But she never put me first. It was every man for himself, it seemed. My father was right—she was selfish, spoiled, thoughtless. Cruel.

  She needed to be punished.

  I never could have said this to her then. I didn’t have the vocabulary. But years later I might have confronted her—in my early twenties, perhaps—when age had made me more articulate. And after one drink too many, after dinner, I’d turn on her, on this old woman, and try to hurt her, as she had once hurt me. I would list my grievances—and then, in my fantasy, she’d break down, prostrate herself and beg my forgiveness. And benevolently, I would bestow it.

  What a luxury that would be—to forgive. But I never got that chance.

  That night I went to bed, burning, hating … It felt like red-hot magma rising in a volcano. I fell asleep … and I dreamed I went downstairs, took a large carving knife out of the drawer, and used it to cut off my mother’s head. I hacked and sawed through her neck with the knife, until it was severed. Then I hid the head in her red-and-white-striped knitting bag—and put it under my bed, where I knew it would be safe. The body I disposed of—in the pit with the other carcasses—where no one would ever find it.

  When I woke up from this dream, in the horrible yellow light of dawn, I felt groggy, disorientated—and afraid, confused about what happened.

  I felt unsure enough to go downstairs into the kitchen to check. I opened the drawer where the knives were kept.

  I took out the largest knife. I examined it, looking for any traces of blood. There were none. The blade glinted cleanly in the sunlight.

  And then I heard some footsteps. I quickly hid the knife behind my back. My mother walked in, alive and unhurt.

  Weirdly, seeing my mother with her head intact did nothing to reassure me.

  In fact, I was disappointed.

  12

  The next morning, Mariana met Zoe and Clarissa for breakfast in Hall.

  The fellows’ buffet was in an alcove to the side of high table. There was a generous selection of breads, pastries, and pots of butter, jams, and marmalades; and large silver terrines containing hot dishes, such as scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausages.

  Clarissa was extolling the virtues of a big breakfast as they queued for the buffet. “It sets you up for the day,” she said. “Nothing more important, to my mind. Kippers, usually, whenever possible.”

  She contemplated the various options laid out before them. “But not today. Today, kedgeree, don’t you think? Good old-fashioned comfort food. So reassuring. Haddock, eggs, and rice. Can’t go wrong with that.”

  Clarissa’s pronouncement was soon proved wrong, once they sat down and she took her first mouthful. She went bright red, choked—and pulled out a large fishbone from her mouth. She peered at it in alarm.

  “Good God. It seems the chef is out to kill us. Do be careful, my dears.”

  Clarissa carefully picked through the rest of her fish with her fork, while Mariana gave them a report of her trip to London—relaying Ruth’s suggestion about organizing a group session with the Maidens.

  Mariana saw Zoe raise an eyebrow at this. “Zoe? What do you think?”

  Zoe shot her a wary look. “I don’t have to be there, do I?”

  Mariana hid her amusement. “No, you don’t have to be there, don’t worry.”

  Zoe looked relieved, and shrugged. “Then go ahead. But I don’t think they’ll agree, to be honest. Not unless he tells them to.”

  Mariana nodded. “I think you’re probably right about that.”

  Clarissa nudged her arm. “Speak of the devil.”

  Mariana and Zoe looked up—as Edward Fosca appeared at high table.

  Fosca sat at the other end of the table from the three women. Sensing Mariana’s gaze, he looked up, and his eyes lingered on her for a few seconds. Then he turned away.

  Abruptly, Mariana stood up. Zoe gave her an alarmed look.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “Mariana—”

  But she ignored Zoe, and walked to the other end of the long table, where Professor Fosca was sitting. He was nursing a black coffee, and reading a slim volume of poetry.

  He became conscious of Mariana standing there. He looked up.

  “Good morning.”

  “Professor,” she said, “I have a request for you.”

  “Do y
ou?” Fosca gave her a quizzical look. “And what’s that, Mariana?”

  She met his eyes and held his gaze for a second. “Would you object if I spoke to your students—your special students, I mean? The Maidens?”

  “I thought you already had.”

  “I mean as a group.”

  “A group?”

  “Yes. A therapy group.”

  “Isn’t it up to them, not me?”

  “I don’t think they’ll agree unless you ask them to.”

  Fosca smiled. “So, in fact, you’re asking not for my permission—but my cooperation?”

  “I suppose you could put it like that.”

  Fosca continued to gaze at her, a small smile on his lips. “Have you decided where and when you would like this session to take place?”

  Mariana thought for a second. “How about five o’clock today … in the OCR?”

  “You seem to think I have a great deal of influence over them, Mariana. I assure you, that’s not the case.” He paused. “What, may I ask, is the exact purpose of the group? What do you hope to achieve?”

  “I don’t hope to achieve anything. That’s not really how therapy works. I’m simply aiming to provide a space for these young women to process some of the terrible things they’ve been through recently.”

  Fosca sipped some coffee as he pondered this. “And does the invitation extend to me? As a member of the group?”

  “I’d prefer if you didn’t come. I think your presence might inhibit the girls.”

  “What if I made it a condition of my agreeing to help?”

  Mariana shrugged. “Then I’d have no choice.”

  “In which case I shall attend.”

  He smiled at her. She didn’t smile back.

  “It makes me wonder, Professor,” she said, with a slight frown, “what on earth it is that you’re so desperate to hide?”

  Fosca smiled. “I’m not trying to hide anything. Let’s just say I wish to be there, to protect my students.”

  “Protect them? From what?”

  “From you, Mariana,” he said. “From you.”

  13

  At five o’clock that afternoon, Mariana waited for the Maidens in the OCR.

  She had booked the room from five until six thirty. The OCR—or the Old Combination Room—was a large room used by members of college as a common room: it had several large sofas, low coffee tables, and a long dining table that took up the length of one wall. Old Masters were hanging on the walls; muted, dark paintings against crimson-and-gold flock wallpaper.

  A low fire was burning in the marble fireplace—and its flickering firelight was reflected in the gilded furnishings around the room. There was a comforting and containing atmosphere, and Mariana thought it was perfect for the session.

  She arranged nine upright chairs in a circle.

  Then she sat on one of the chairs, making sure she had a view of the clock on the mantelpiece. It was a couple of minutes after five.

  Mariana wondered if they were going to show up or not. She wouldn’t be remotely surprised if they didn’t.

  But then, a moment later, the door opened.

  And one by one, the five young women filed in. Judging by their stony expressions, they were there under duress.

  “Good afternoon,” Mariana said with a smile. “Thank you for coming. Won’t you sit down?”

  The girls looked at the arrangement of chairs, and then glanced at one another, before apprehensively sitting down. The tall blonde seemed to be the leader; Mariana sensed the others deferring to her. She sat down first, and the others followed suit.

  They sat adjacent to one another, leaving empty chairs on either side, and faced Mariana. She felt a little intimidated suddenly, by this wall of unfriendly young faces.

  How ridiculous, she thought, to feel intimidated by a handful of twenty-year-olds, no matter how beautiful or intelligent they were. Mariana felt like she was back at school again, an ugly duckling on the fringes of the schoolyard, confronted by a gang of popular girls. The very young part of Mariana felt scared, and she wondered, for a second, what the young parts of these young women were like—if their apparent confidence masked similar feelings of inferiority. Beneath their superior manner, did they feel as small as she did? It was hard to imagine somehow.

  Serena was the only one she’d had a conversation with, and she seemed to have difficulty looking Mariana in the eye. Morris must have told her about their confrontation. She kept her head down, eyes on her lap, looking embarrassed.

  The others stared at her blankly. They seemed to be waiting for her to speak. She didn’t say anything. They sat in silence.

  Mariana glanced at the clock; it was now ten minutes past five. Professor Fosca wasn’t here—and, with any luck, he had decided not to come.

  “I think we should begin,” she said eventually.

  “What about the professor?” asked the blond girl.

  “He must have been held up. We should start without him. Why don’t we begin with our names? I’m Mariana.”

  There was a slight pause. The blond girl shrugged. “Carla.”

  The others followed suit.

  “Natasha.”

  “Diya.”

  “Lillian.”

  Serena was last to speak. She glanced at Mariana and shrugged. “You know my name.”

  “Yes, Serena, I do.”

  Mariana composed her thoughts. Then she addressed them as a group.

  “I’m wondering how this feels, sitting here together.”

  This was met with silence. No reaction at all, not even a shrug. Mariana could feel their stone-cold hostility toward her. She went on, undiscouraged.

  “I’ll tell you how it feels for me. It’s strange. My eyes keep being drawn to the empty chairs.” She nodded at the three empty chairs in the circle. “The people who should be here but aren’t.”

  “Like the professor,” said Carla.

  “I didn’t just mean the professor. Who else do you think I mean?”

  Carla glanced at the empty chairs and rolled her eyes with derision. “Is that who the other chairs are for? Tara and Veronica? That’s so stupid.”

  “Why is that stupid?”

  “Because they’re not coming. Obviously.”

  Mariana shrugged. “That doesn’t mean they’re not still part of the group. We often talk about that in group therapy, you know—even when people are no longer with us, they can remain a powerful presence.”

  As she said this, she glanced at one of the empty chairs—and saw Sebastian sitting there, looking at her with amusement.

  She banished him, and went on.

  “It makes me wonder,” she said, “what it feels like to be a part of a group like this … What it means to you?”

  None of the girls responded. They looked at her blankly.

  “In group therapy, we often make the group into our family. We assign siblings and parental figures, uncles and aunts. I suppose this is a bit like a family? In a way, you have lost two of your sisters.”

  No response. She went on, cautiously.

  “I suppose Professor Fosca is your ‘father’?” A pause. She tried again. “Is he a good father?”

  Natasha let out a heavy, irritated sigh. “This is such bullshit,” she said with a strong Russian accent. “It’s obvious what you are doing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re trying to make us say something bad about the professor. To trick us. To trap him.”

  “Why do you think I’m trying to trap him?”

  Natasha gave a contemptuous sigh and didn’t bother to respond.

  Carla spoke for her: “Look, Mariana. We know what you think. But the professor had nothing to do with the murders.”

  “Yes.” Natasha nodded forcefully. “We were with him the whole time.”

  There was a sudden passion in her voice, a burning resentment.

  “You’re very angry, Natasha,” she said. “I can feel it.”

  Natasha laughed
. “Good—because it’s directed at you.”

  Mariana nodded. “It’s easy to be angry at me. I’m not threatening. It must be harder to be angry with your ‘father,’—for letting two of his children perish?”

  “For Christ’s sake—it’s not his fault they’re dead,” said Lillian, speaking for the first time.

  “Then whose fault is it?” said Mariana.

  Lillian shrugged. “Theirs.”

  Mariana stared at her. “What? How is it their fault?”

  “They should have been more careful. Tara and Veronica were stupid, both of them.”

  “That’s right,” said Diya.

  Carla and Natasha nodded in agreement.

  Mariana stared at them, momentarily speechless. She knew anger was easier to feel than sadness—but she, who was so sensitively attuned to picking up on emotions, could sense no sadness here. No grief, no remorse or loss. Just disdain. Just contempt.

  It was strange—normally when faced with an attack from the outside, a group like this would close its ranks, come together, unite—but it struck Mariana that the only person at St. Christopher’s who had expressed any real emotion over Tara’s death, or Veronica’s, was Zoe.

  Mariana was sharply reminded of Henry’s therapy group in London. There was something reminiscent of it here—the way Henry’s presence was splitting the group from within, attacking it so it couldn’t function normally.

  Was that happening in this group too? If so, it meant the group wasn’t responding to an outside threat.

  It meant the threat was already here.

  At that moment, there was a knock at the door. It opened—

  And Professor Fosca was standing there.

  He smiled. “May I join you?”

  14

  “Forgive me for being late,” Fosca said. “There was something I had to attend to.”

  Mariana frowned slightly. “I’m afraid we’ve already started.”

  “Well, might I still be allowed in?”

  “That’s not up to me; it’s up to the group.” She glanced at the others. “Who thinks Professor Fosca should be admitted?”