by Lauren White
He could be off on a murder weekend, Bim jokes, darkly.
I hadn't even thought of that! He might have left a trail of corpses right around the world for all we know.
When we reach the desk we discover he is booked on a flight to Madrid, and from there to Granada.
Goody, goody, Bim chimes, immediately. I adore skiing.
There probably won't be much snow in the Sierra Nevada yet, Kerry warns her. It’s too early in the season. The ski station will have only just opened.
She is having a geography moment; Bim makes a show of explaining to me. I bet she knows the major industries of the region too. Won't that be a treat? I can hardly wait.
I was hoping for a beach, myself, I fancy doing some snorkelling. Can we swim?
The other two examine me with curiosity.
Spirits, I mean. Can we move under water?
Ignore her. She is joking; Bim advises Kerry, before naming her top ten skiing destinations.
I assume she doesn't know.
We hear Gordon's voice for the first time when he starts to chat to the middle-aged couple behind us, in the queue, to pass through Security. It is not high-pitched, exactly, but there is a thin querulous whine running through it, which gives him a nerdy feel. It is at once gratifying and mortifying to hear.
As Bim says for us all: How could a berk like that kill us?
I'm staying at my mother's house, he explains to his captive audience. She spent her final years there until she died from a stroke, a few months back. I did wonder about selling it, after she passed, but I've fallen in love with the place. I feel closest to her there.
Bim who is pretending to serenade him with a violin, comments: They'll be ready to hand over their life savings to him, if he keeps this up. Do you think his mother's death could have changed anything, Kate? He said it was a few months ago. What if he has stopped killing? Does that happen with serial killers?
Sometimes they do stop, either for years, at a time, or forever.
Would it make a difference to you if his killing spree were over?
I’d feel relieved but it wouldn’t stop me wanting him to go to jail for the murders he has committed, already.
Kerry is looking agitated. We don't have to sit with him on the plane, do we?
No, not if you don't want to. Why don't we go up front with the pilots? That might be fun.
What will happen if we crash?
Just what we want - a nervous flier, Bim mutters. And, better still, a dead one.
What exactly are you worried about, Kerry?
If the plane exploded would we survive as we are now or would we be dispersed?
Triffid, Bim mouths at me.
I give her my I-know-how-to-handle-this-because-I’m-an-aunt look. You will never have to find that out, Kerry, I say, with exaggerated firmness. Bim and I aren't going to let anything else happen to you. Okay? It must be frightening to be around the man who murdered you but you are completely safe from him now. I don’t think it’s possible for us to die twice.
She’s right, Kerry, Bim says. It's him who should fear us now because together, we are going to stop him from harming anyone else.
Do you think we could get him to crash the car? It would solve everything, if he were dead, Bim tempts, once we join the dual carriage way, after leaving Granada airport, in the Toyota Aygo, the Weasel has hired - the cheapest car he could get.
She and Kerry are in the back but I drew the short straw and am riding up front, beside him. I can't decide whether she is serious, or not.
All we would have to do is scare him so he drives himself into the path of an oncoming car, she continues.
That would make us as bad as he is, Kerry says, disapprovingly.
Why? How do you know it's not what we're meant to do?
We could end up killing the other driver too!
Then, we’ll drive him off the road into a tree. What about you, Kate? Are you up for a murderous experiment?
I have to admit I'm curious to see what would happen. As long as it doesn’t affect anyone else, do your worst.
She leans over the Weasel's shoulder and almost immediately an image of her appears in the rear view mirror. Not the Bim we're used to but a putrefying approximation of her rotting corpse. Peels of bluish-grey skin hang from the cheek bones of her bloated face and her eye sockets are filled with two heaving globs of maggots. Her upper lip has decomposed, revealing a row of spindly gum-less teeth, and fixing her mouth in a sinister Elvis Presley sneer.
The Weasel glances at the mirror and looks away without appearing to register what he has seen. It is only after his eyes have returned to the road, I notice him stiffen. Then, a rash of sweat beads explodes on his brow and his breathing quickens. Given the stimulus, his reaction is shockingly muted. I can only imagine he has become immune to atrocities which would sicken the rest of us. I have the impression he is torn about what to do next. He desperately wants to check on his sanity back in that mirror. Is she really there? Or did he imagine her? But, he is worried he'll find himself out. We watch as he struggles to get himself in check. Only then, does he look into the mirror, again. He stares, defiantly, into it and, as he holds Bim's wriggling orbs with his own eyes, I see him growing stronger, while she fades under the assault of the malevolence within him, until only his smug smiling face is visible in the mirror.
Enraged, I grab the steering wheel from him, forcing the car to the edge of the road. I can taste his shock but I am not powerful enough to stop him resting it from my grasp and bringing the car back under his control. Exhausted, I give up.
I wish Jackie were here. She could have finished him off!
Do you want to swop places so I can have a go, Bim volunteers.
I’m sorry but I think this should stop right now, Kerry tells us both. We don't kill people. That’s what he does and we're trying to put him in jail for it.
Bim rounds on her. What if we can't, Miss Goody-two-shoes? What if the only way to stop him is to kill him? Wouldn't that be better than watching him kill more women?
His hatred is like a virus. Can’t you see that? The more we are exposed to it, the more we catch it. He is dangerous to be around.
What are you talking about! I've never heard such twaddle.
I really think she could be right about this, Bim. I mean he is so full of negative energy, it is as though he actually pollutes the atmosphere around him. Look at us. We’ve only been in his company a few hours and we're already falling out with each other.
The Weasel turns on the radio and sings along, even though the song is in Spanish. He makes as much noise as he can, as he tries to banish us from his head. This is how he understands us, I suppose. We exist only as figments of his imagination.
I stare out of the window but there isn't much to see. It is getting dark, already. The road climbs, steadily, as we turn away from the city of Granada, in the direction of Cordoba. Passing through a small town called, Pinos Puente, brightly lit, with the houses set back from the road, our path rises more steeply, and a natural balcony opens up to the side, from where we can look back over the lights of the city, and behind this, to the shadowy mass of the Sierra Nevada. We enter a tunnel of pine trees and the road becomes narrow and twisting, the Weasel sitting forward, the sooner to catch a glimpse of the headlights of an oncoming car. There are none. Eerie in the full beams of his car, there is only the pine forest and the road. The trees part like a curtain a few kilometres further on and we find ourselves looking out over a small white village. Level with us, a ruin of a castle is perched on top of a craggy mount. It is lit up with large yellow spotlights and, immediately below, there is a church. At the entrance of the village, the Weasel turns the car down into a warren of lanes, threading up and down, in and out, with seemingly random purpose. We pass through a small square dominated by a large ochre mansion, with three flags mounted in front. It reminds me of the opening in the centre of a maze. It should be our journey's end but we switchback further on, round two
or more corners, before we come to a halt outside a three storied terraced house. I look up at it. At a window, on the second floor, I spy a woman, small and thin, her black hair drawn back tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck.
Bim asks: She’s dead isn’t she? Is it his mother?
If she is, she’s nothing like the woman in the photograph we have.
I think she is staring at us from a different era altogether, Kerry says.
When she meets us on the landing, her face is in shadow. I can only just make out the bony profile of a hooked nose.
I'm Maria de las Nieves.
Mary of the snows, what an incredibly beautiful name.
She smiles at me, uncertainly. It is late. I'll show you to your room.
Bim asks her, in surprise: Were you expecting us?
I'm the housekeeper. It is my job to be ready to receive guests.
She walks ahead of us down a narrow passageway, her starched long white nightdress crackling as she moves. Reaching the end, she opens a door that leads into a bedroom. It has a window overlooking the street, which lets in enough lamp light for us to see her more clearly. She is in her late forties, or early fifties, and is striking more than attractive. Her eyes are almond-shaped, with black irises, and her face is as long and narrow as the nose that overhangs it. The room to which she has brought us is dominated by a double bed with a tall iron bedstead. At the foot of this, with barely room to pass between the two, there is a threadbare divan. The only other pieces of furniture are a bedside table, and a single coffin-shaped wardrobe. Above the bed, a plaster figure of Jesus Christ, nailed to a silver cross, hangs. He is wearing a crown of thorns and there are splashes of ketchup-coloured blood on his brow, with more oozing from the wound at the side of his groin. His lips are drawn back in an expression of ecstasy, revealing his tiny white teeth. His eyes, a glassy maniacal blue, bore into the room, uncomfortably. He gives me the creeps. There is no way I want to spend any time in a room with him.
We don't really need a room, I say to Maria.
Of course, you must have a room, she contradicts me, backing towards the door. Now, if you excuse me, Señoritas, I have to see to the master.
The master?
The wig maker, she says proudly, turning to go. If you need anything, please call for me.
The moment she has gone, Bim asks: What's going on?
I've no idea. She must just come with the house. It is obvious she knows nothing about Gordon Richards.
Who is the wig maker?
Maybe we should take a look around and see for ourselves.
We don’t want to run into Maria though. She might not like us prying about the house.
Maybe she disappears when she is not on call, I suggest, hopefully.
We wait until the house is quiet before stealing out of our door. We search every room, except the Weasel's room, and a small one on the ground floor, which we take to be Maria's since we can sense her presence there, but we discover nothing. Disappointed, I leave Bim and Kerry in our room and go up to the third floor of the house, which has been made into a roof terrace, to take a look at the view. It is November, yet the night air is warm and there are crickets singing. The sky is clear and starlit; breathtaking, in truth, because it is so vast. I can't remember ever seeing such a multitude of stars, before. Hearing a noise behind me, I turn around to discover what has made it. I don't quite trust what I see, as I do. The roof terrace has changed. There is a stone floor where there were tiles and it is no longer open to the stars but covered with a wooden roof. Strings of peppers, garlic, and cured hams, are hanging from the rafters. Maria is there. Dressed in her nightdress, she is standing at the top of a rickety staircase, which rises from the floor below. She hangs the lamp she is carrying on a hook and drags a small three legged milking stool to the centre of the floor. I'm less than fifteen metres away from her, yet she is oblivious of me. She climbs on top of the stool and, for the first time, I realise she is carrying a length of rope. This she loops over one of the beams and ties the end tight. With the other end she makes a noose, expertly tying the knot. Then, without hesitation, she slips it over her head and kicks the stool away from under her.
No, I shout, springing towards her.
Her hands catch at the rope around her neck, her nails tearing her skin, as she struggles to get her fingers under it. Her face is frozen in terror. She has changed her mind. My God, how terrible, because it’s too late, she cannot save herself. I reach out for her with the intention of grasping her legs so I can try to lift her up, enabling her to escape the pressure of the noose but, before I can touch her, she fades to nothing. Confused, I turn about myself to get my bearings. The sky is above me, again. The terrace is as it was. There is no roof. No wooden beams. No peppers hanging. No swinging corpse. I feel shocked, both by what I've seen and by my own gullibility in being taken in by it.
These things have passed, I say, firmly, to myself.
I follow the stairs down to the floor below, opening the door at the bottom which leads into the rest of the house. Maria is standing there in her white nightgown about to ascend the stairs. She is carrying a lamp in one hand and a rope in the other. She looks right through me. I step back to allow her to pass.
Where are you going, Maria?
She doesn't answer me but continues up the stairs.
As I look after her I see that they are made of wood and covered with loose flat stones. The sky at the top is black. There are no stars. No, that is not right, it is covered again. There is a wooden roof.
Maria is moving, slowly towards the top of the stairs.
Please don't, I call after her.
She says nothing in reply but I stay listening until I hear the noise of the milk stool being kicked away from under her, and then, the dull thud of her falling the length of the rope, followed by the creaking it makes as she battles, vainly, to stop it from strangling her. Does this go on every night? And, for how long has she been re-enacting what I assume was the manner of her death? It is impossible for me to tell from looking at her in which century she lived and died, yet I'm consumed with curiosity about her. Why did she feel the need to kill herself?
There is an elderly woman sitting up in the bed, when I burst into our bedroom, in search of the others. Propped up by pillows, she is wearing a pink knitted bed jacket. The room is untidy with an invalid's clutter - a dozen medicine bottles, a jug of orange juice, a box of tissues, and a women's magazine, are crowded onto the bedside table. The mess creates an impression of life but the woman in this bed is emaciated to the point where her bones look as though they might pierce through her skin, at any moment. Turning to face me, she smiles like a Death's head. She is clearly gravely ill. Her eyes, the irises milky, the whites yellow, are sunken deep into the shadowy hollows of the sockets. Her skin is drawn so tautly over the bones of her face, it looks oddly youthful, despite her age. She has no hair, except for a couple of strands which spiral out of the top of her scalp like ectoplasm.
She beckons to me. Come and sit with me, dear. I get so few visitors.
I recognise one of the photographs in the room, as I approach the bed. It is the same one we have in our possession. The man is Gordon Richards but the woman he has his arm around looks very different to the one lying now beside me.
Are you Mrs Richards?
Yes, dear but you can call me, Linda. I know what you’re thinking. Nobody would recognise me now. I have cancer. It is bloody well killing me. She cackles like corn popping.
Who takes care of you?
Gordon is here a lot of the time. He’s my son. He’s such a good boy. Well, I call him a boy but he is thirty-six, next birthday.
Is he married?
She laughs again. There is still plenty of time for that.
Does he have a girlfriend?
He says I'm his girlfriend. He is going make me a wig now the chemo has made my hair fall out. He used to love my hair when he was little - long and blonde it was then.
Oh, I se
e. Is he the wig maker?
It is just a joke, dear. He likes to cheer me up.
What about your husband? Is he around?
He left us, dear. He went off with another woman when Gordon was nine years old.
And, never kept in touch?
No, dear, but we managed just fine on our own.
What kind of child was Gordon? Did he like to play games?
Don’t all children, dear?
Did he play that game...what’s it called? Simon Says. Do you know it?
She lowers her eyes. No, he never played that game.
Never? Are you sure?
She looks towards the door. Is it closed?
I nod.
His brother was called Simon, she whispers to me.
I didn’t know he had a brother.
He died when they were seven, of cancer.
I pause, for a few seconds, as I try to assimilate this. When they were seven? Are you saying they were twins?
Yes, that’s right, dear. Poor Gordon didn't get much of a look in the year before Simon died. We tried to be fair. Well, I did. But Simon was always his dad's favourite. He named him after his own brother, who’d died when they were children. Our Simon died at the same age - in the same month too. June. Imagine that. Steve, my husband, couldn't deal with it. She scratches her bald head. He dressed Simon for his funeral.
Your husband did?
No, Gordon.
But, you said he was only seven years old.
I know but he insisted on doing it. He put him in his own clothes.
I don’t understand. Why?
I've no idea. I never understood it myself. They always had the same clothes because they were identical twins but they liked different colours. Gordon favoured beige but Simon preferred to wear blue. When he died Gordon swopped all his clothes for Simon’s. I suppose it made him feel closer to him.