The Maidens Page 2

  Henry looked at her blankly. Mariana knew he didn’t understand. Boundaries, by definition, are the first thing to go when a child is abused. All Henry’s boundaries had been torn to shreds when he was just a little boy. Consequently, he didn’t understand the concept. Nor did he know when he was making someone uncomfortable, as he usually was, by invading their personal or psychological space—he would stand too near when he spoke to you, and exhibited a level of neediness Mariana had never experienced in a patient before. Nothing was enough. He would have moved in with her if she’d let him. It was up to her to maintain the boundary between them: to define the parameters of their relationship in a healthy way. That was her job as his therapist.

  But Henry was always pushing at her, needling at her, trying to get under her skin … and in ways she was finding increasingly hard to handle.

  4

  Henry hung around afterward, after the others had left—ostensibly to help clean up the mess. But Mariana knew there was more to it; there always was with him. He hovered silently, watching her. She gave him some encouragement:

  “Come on, Henry. Time to go … Is there something you want?”

  Henry nodded but didn’t answer. Then he reached into his pocket.

  “Here,” he said. “I got you something.”

  He pulled out a ring. A red gaudy plastic thing. It looked like it had come out of a cereal box.

  “It’s for you. A present.”

  Mariana shook her head. “You know I can’t accept that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You need to stop bringing me things, Henry. Okay? You should really go home now.”

  But he didn’t move. Mariana thought for a moment. She hadn’t been planning on confronting him like this, not now—but somehow it felt right.

  “Listen, Henry,” she said. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

  “What?”

  “On Thursday night—after my evening group finished, I looked out of the window. And I saw you, outside. Across the street, by the lamppost. Watching the house.”

  “It wasn’t me, mate.”

  “Yes, it was. I saw your face. And it’s not the first time I’ve seen you there.”

  Henry went bright red and evaded eye contact. He shook his head. “Not me, not—”

  “Listen. It’s okay for you to be curious about the other groups I conduct. But that’s something we talk about here, in the group. It’s not okay to act on it. It’s not okay to spy on me. That kind of behavior makes me feel invaded and threatened, and—”

  “I’m not spying! I was just standing there. So fucking what?”

  “So you admit you were there?”

  Henry took a step toward her. “Why can’t it just be us? Why can’t you see me without them?”

  “You know why. Because I see you as part of a group—I can’t see you individually as well. If you need individual therapy, I can recommend a colleague—”

  “No, I want you—”

  Henry made another, sudden move toward her. Mariana stood her ground. She held up her hand.

  “No. Stop. Okay? That’s way too close. Henry—”

  “Wait. Look—”

  Before she could prevent him, Henry lifted up his heavy black sweater—and there, on his pale, hairless torso, was a grisly sight.

  A razor blade had been used, and deep crosses carved into his skin. Bloodred crosses, different sizes, cut into his chest and abdomen. Some of the crosses were wet, still bleeding, dripping blood; others were scabby, and weeping hard red beads—like congealed, bloody tears.

  Mariana felt her stomach turn. She felt sick with repulsion, and wanted to look away, but wouldn’t let herself. This was a cry for help, of course it was, an attempt to elicit a caregiving response—but it was more than that: it was also an emotional attack, a psychological assault upon her senses. Henry at last had managed to get under Mariana’s guard, under her skin, and she hated him for it.

  “What have you done, Henry?”

  “I—I couldn’t help it. I had to do it. And you—had to see it.”

  “And now I’ve seen it, how do you think it makes me feel? Can you conceive of how upset I am? I want to help you but—”

  “But what?” He laughed. “What’s stopping you?”

  “The appropriate time for me to give you support is during the group. You had that opportunity this evening, but you didn’t take it. We all could have helped. We are all here to help you—”

  “I don’t want their help—I want you. Mariana, I need you—”

  Mariana knew she should make him leave. It wasn’t her job to clean his wounds. He needed medical attention. She should be firm, for his sake as well as her own. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to throw him out, and not for the first time, Mariana’s empathy prevailed over her common sense.

  “Wait—wait a second.”

  She went to the dresser, opened a drawer, rummaged around. She pulled out a first aid kit. She was about to open it when her phone rang.

  She checked the number. It was Zoe. She answered.

  “Zoe?”

  “Can you talk? It’s important.”

  “Give me a sec. I’ll call you back.” Mariana ended the call and turned to Henry. She thrust the first aid kit at him.

  “Henry—take this. Clean yourself up. See your GP if you need to. Okay? I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “That’s it? And you call yourself a fucking therapist?”

  “Enough. Stop. You have to go.”

  Ignoring his protestations, Mariana firmly guided Henry into the hallway, and out of the front door. She shut the door behind him. She felt an impulse to lock it, which she resisted.

  Then she went to the kitchen. She opened the fridge and took out a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

  She felt quite shaken. She had to pull herself together before she called Zoe back. She didn’t want to burden that girl more than she already had. Their relationship had been imbalanced ever since Sebastian’s death—and from now on, Mariana was determined to correct that balance. She took a deep breath to calm down. Then she poured herself a large glass of wine, and made the call.

  Zoe answered on the first ring.

  “Mariana?”

  Mariana knew at once something was wrong. There was a tension in Zoe’s voice, an urgency that Mariana associated with moments of crisis. She sounds afraid, she thought. She felt her heart beat a little faster.

  “Darling, is—is everything all right? What’s happened?”

  There was a second’s pause before Zoe answered. She spoke in a small voice. “Turn on the TV,” she said. “Turn on the news.”

  5

  Mariana reached for the remote control.

  She switched on the old, battered portable TV sitting upon the microwave—one of Sebastian’s sacred possessions, bought when he was still a student, used for watching cricket and rugby while he pretended to help Mariana prepare weekend meals. It was rather temperamental, and it flickered for a moment before coming to life.

  Mariana turned on the BBC news channel. A middle-aged male journalist was delivering a report. He was standing outside; it was getting dark and hard to see exactly where—a field, perhaps, or a meadow. He was speaking directly to the camera.

  “—and it was found in Cambridge, in the nature reserve known as Paradise. I’m here with the man who made the discovery … Can you tell me what happened?”

  The question was addressed to someone off camera—and the camera swung around to a short, nervous, red-faced man in his mid-sixties. He blinked in the light, looking dazzled. He spoke hesitantly.

  “It was a few hours ago … I always take the dog out at four, so it must have been about then—maybe quarter past, twenty past. I take him down by the river, along the path … We were walking through Paradise—and…”

  He stumbled for a moment, and didn’t complete the sentence. He tried again: “It was the dog—he disappeared in the tall grass, by the marsh. He wouldn’t come when I called.
I thought he’d found a bird or a fox or something—so I went to have a look. I walked through the trees … to the edge of the marsh, by the water … and there, there it was…”

  A strange look came into the man’s eyes. A look Mariana recognized all too well. He’s seen something horrible, she thought. I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to know what it is.

  The man went on, relentlessly, faster now, as if he needed to expel it.

  “It was a girl—she couldn’t have been more than twenty. She had long red hair. At least, I think it was red. There was blood everywhere, so much of it…” He trailed off, and the journalist prompted him.

  “She was dead?”

  “That’s right.” The man nodded. “She’d been stabbed. Many times. And … her face … God, it was horrible—her eyes—her eyes were open … staring … staring—”

  He broke off, and tears filled his eyes. He’s in shock, thought Mariana. They shouldn’t be interviewing him—someone should stop this.

  Sure enough, at that moment—perhaps recognizing it had gone too far—the journalist cut short the interview, and the camera panned back to him.

  “Breaking news here in Cambridge—police are investigating the discovery of a body. The victim of a frenzied knife attack is believed to be a young woman in her early twenties—”

  Mariana turned off the television. She stared at it for a second, stunned, unable to move. Then she remembered the phone in her hand. She held it up to her ear.

  “Zoe? Are you still there?”

  “I—I think it’s Tara.”

  “What?”

  Tara was a close friend of Zoe’s. They were in the same year at St. Christopher’s College at Cambridge University. Mariana hesitated, trying not to sound anxious.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It sounds like Tara—and no one’s seen her—not since yesterday—I keep asking everyone, and I—I’m so scared, I don’t know what to—”

  “Slow down. When was the last time you saw Tara?”

  “Last night.” Zoe paused. “And Mariana, she—she was being so weird, I—”

  “What do you mean, weird?”

  “She said things—crazy things.”

  “What do you mean, crazy?”

  There was a pause, and Zoe replied in a whisper, “I can’t get into it now. But will you come?”

  “Of course I will. But Zoe, listen. Have you spoken to the college? You must tell them—tell the dean.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Tell them what you just said to me. That you’re worried about her. They’ll contact the police, and Tara’s parents—”

  “Her parents? But—what if I’m wrong?”

  “I’m sure you are wrong,” Mariana said, sounding a lot more confident than she felt. “I’m sure Tara’s fine, but we need to make sure. You understand that, don’t you? Do you want me to call them for you?”

  “No, no, it’s okay … I’ll do it.”

  “Good. Then go to bed, okay? I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Mariana. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Mariana ended the call. The white wine she had poured was sitting on the counter untouched. She picked it up, and drained it in one go.

  Her hand was trembling as she reached for the bottle and poured herself another glass.

  6

  Mariana went upstairs and began packing a small bag, in case she had to stay a night or two in Cambridge.

  She tried not to let her thoughts run away with her—but it was difficult—she was feeling incredibly anxious. Somewhere out there was a man—presumably it was a man, given the extreme violence of the attack—who was dangerously ill, and had horrifically murdered a young woman … a young woman who possibly lived a few feet away from where her beloved Zoe slept.

  The possibility the victim might have been Zoe instead was a thought Mariana tried to ignore, but couldn’t entirely repress. She was feeling sick with a kind of fear she had only felt once before in her life—the day Sebastian died. A feeling of impotence; a powerlessness, a horrible inability to protect those you love.

  She glanced at her right hand. She couldn’t stop it trembling. She clenched it into a fist and squeezed it tight. She would not do this—she would not fall apart. Not now. She would stay calm. She would focus.

  Zoe needed her—that was all that mattered.

  If only Sebastian were here; he’d know what to do. He wouldn’t deliberate, procrastinate, pack an overnight bag. He would have grabbed his keys and run out the door the second he got off the phone with Zoe. That’s what Sebastian would have done. Why hadn’t she?

  Because you’re a coward, she thought.

  That was the truth. If only she had some of Sebastian’s strength. Some of his courage. Come on, love, she could hear him saying, give me your hand and we’ll face the bastards together.

  Mariana climbed into bed and lay there, thinking, drifting to sleep. For the first time in over a year, her last thoughts as she lost consciousness were not about her late husband.

  Instead, she found herself thinking about another man: a shadowy figure with a knife who had wreaked such horror upon that poor girl. Mariana’s mind meditated on him as her eyelids fluttered and closed. She wondered about this man. She wondered what he was doing right now, where he was …

  And what he was thinking.

  7

  7th October

  Once you kill another human being, there’s no going back.

  I see that now. I see I have become altogether a different person.

  It’s a bit like being reborn, I suppose. But no ordinary birth—it’s a metamorphosis. What emerges from the ashes is not a phoenix, but an uglier creature: deformed, incapable of flight, a predator using its claws to cut and rip.

  I feel in control now, writing this. At this moment in time, I am calm, and sane.

  But there is more than one of me.

  It’s only a matter of time before the other me rises, bloodthirsty, mad, and seeking revenge. And he won’t rest until he finds it.

  I am two people in one mind. Part of me keeps my secrets—he alone knows the truth—but he’s kept prisoner, locked up, sedated, denied a voice. He finds an outlet only when his jailer is momentarily distracted. When I am drunk, or falling asleep, he tries to speak. But it’s not easy. Communication comes in fits and starts—a coded escape plan from a POW camp. The moment he gets too close, a guard scrambles the message. A wall comes up. A blankness fills my mind. The memory I was striving for evaporates.

  But I’ll persevere. I must. Somehow, I will find my way through the smoke and darkness and contact him—the sane part of me. The part that doesn’t want to hurt people. There is much he can tell me. Much I need to know. How, and why, I ended up like this—so removed from who I wanted to be—so full of hate and anger—so twisted inside …

  Or am I lying to myself? Was I always this way, and didn’t want to admit it?

  No—I won’t believe that.

  After all, everyone’s entitled to be the hero of their own story. So I must be permitted to be the hero of mine. Even though I’m not.

  I’m the villain.

  8

  The next morning, as Mariana left the house, she thought she saw Henry.

  He was standing across the street, hovering behind a tree.

  But when she looked back, there was no one to be seen. She must have been imagining it, she decided—and even if she weren’t, she had more important things to worry about right now. She banished Henry from her mind, and took the tube to King’s Cross.

  At the station, she got on the fast train to Cambridge. It was a sunny day, and the sky was a perfect blue, streaked with only a few wisps of white cloud. She sat by the window, looking out as the train sped past green hedgerows and expanses of golden wheat swaying in the breeze like a shifting yellow sea.

  Mariana was grateful to have the sun on her face—she was shivering, but from anxiety
, not lack of warmth. She couldn’t stop worrying about what had happened. She’d not heard from Zoe since last night. Mariana had texted her this morning but had yet to receive a reply.

  Perhaps it was all a false alarm; perhaps Zoe had been wrong?

  Mariana sincerely hoped so—and not just because she knew Tara personally: they’d had her to stay for a weekend in London a few months before Sebastian died. But Mariana was mainly, selfishly, concerned with Tara for Zoe’s sake.

  Zoe had had a difficult adolescence for a variety of reasons, which she had managed to overcome, more than overcome—“triumphantly transcend” was how Sebastian put it—culminating with her being offered a place to read English at Cambridge University. Tara was the first friend Zoe made there, and losing Tara, Mariana thought, and in such unimaginably awful circumstances, might well derail Zoe entirely.

  For some reason, Mariana couldn’t stop thinking about their phone call. Something was bothering her.

  She couldn’t quite put her finger on what, exactly.

  Was it Zoe’s tone? Mariana had a feeling Zoe was holding something back. Was it the slight hesitation, even evasion, when she asked Zoe what were the “crazy” things that Tara had said?

  I can’t get into it now.

  Why not?

  What exactly had Tara said to her?

  Perhaps it’s nothing, Mariana thought. Stop it—stop doing this. She had nearly an hour to go on the train; she couldn’t sit here driving herself crazy. She’d be a wreck when she arrived. She needed to distract herself.

  She reached into her bag and pulled out a magazine—the British Journal of Psychiatry. She flicked through it but couldn’t concentrate on any of the articles.

  Inevitably, her mind kept returning to Sebastian. The thought of going back to Cambridge without him filled Mariana with dread. She hadn’t been back since his death.