The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  “Okay,” she said. “Goodbye.”

  Fred didn’t move. He kept looking at her. And then, suddenly, he said, “Wait.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a few pages of folded paper. “I was going to give you this later, but—take it now.”

  He held it out to her. She didn’t take it.

  “What is it?”

  “A letter. It’s for you—it explains my feelings better than I can in person. Read it. Then you’ll understand.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  He thrust it at her again. “Mariana. Take it.”

  “No. Stop. I will not be bullied.”

  “Mariana—”

  But she turned and left. As she made her way down the street, she felt anger at first, then a surprising twinge of sadness—then regret. Not at having hurt him, but at having rejected him, having closed the door to this other narrative that might have been.

  Was it possible? Could Mariana ever have grown to love him, this serious young man? Could she hold him at night, and tell him her stories? Even as she thought this, she knew it was impossible.

  How could she?

  She had too much to tell. And it was for Sebastian’s ears alone.

  * * *

  When Mariana returned to St. Christopher’s, she didn’t immediately go to her room. Instead, she drifted through Main Court … and into the building that housed the buttery.

  She wandered along the darkened passage until she was face-to-face with the painting.

  The portrait of Tennyson.

  The picture had been on her mind—and she kept thinking about it, without quite knowing why. Sad, handsome Tennyson.

  No—not sad—that wasn’t the right word to describe the look in his eyes. What was it?

  She searched his face, trying to read the expression. Again, she had the strange feeling he was looking past her, just over her shoulder—staring at something … something just out of sight.

  But what?

  And then, suddenly, Mariana understood. She understood what he was looking at; or, rather, who.

  It was Hallam.

  Tennyson was staring at Hallam—at Hallam, standing just beyond the light … behind the veil. That was the look in his eyes. The eyes of a man communing with the dead.

  Tennyson was lost … He was in love with a ghost. He had turned his back on life. Had Mariana?

  Once, she thought she had.

  And now—?

  Now, perhaps … she wasn’t so sure.

  Mariana stood there for a moment longer, thinking. Then, as she turned to walk away … she heard some footsteps. She stopped.

  A man’s hard-soled shoes were slowly walking along the stone floor of the long gloomy passage …

  And he was getting closer.

  At first, Mariana couldn’t see anyone. But then … as he drew nearer, she saw something moving in the shadows … and the glint of a knife.

  She stood there, frozen, scarcely daring to breathe, trying to see who it was. And then, slowly … Henry emerged from the darkness.

  He stared at her.

  He had a horrible look in his eyes; not entirely rational, slightly manic. He’d been in a fight, and his nose was bleeding. There was blood smeared on his face and spattered on his shirt. He was holding a knife, about seven or eight inches long.

  Mariana tried to sound calm and unafraid. But she couldn’t keep a slight tremor out of her voice.

  “Henry? Please put down the knife.”

  He didn’t answer. He just stared at her. His eyes were huge, like lamps, and he was clearly high on something.

  “What are you doing here?” she said.

  Henry didn’t reply for a moment. “Needed to see you, didn’t I? You won’t see me in London, so I had to come all the way here.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Saw you on the telly. You were standing with the police.”

  Mariana spoke cautiously. “I don’t recall that. I’ve done my best to avoid being caught on camera.”

  “You think I’m lying? You think I followed you here?”

  “Henry, it was you who broke into my room, wasn’t it?”

  A hysterical tone crept into his voice. “You abandoned me, Mariana. You—you sacrificed me—”

  “What?” Mariana stared at him, unnerved. “Why—did you use that word?”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  He raised the knife, and took a step toward her. But Mariana held her ground.

  “Put down the knife, Henry.”

  He kept walking. “I can’t go on like this. I need to free myself. I need to cut myself free.”

  “Henry, please stop—”

  He held up the knife, as if preparing to strike. Mariana felt her heart racing.

  “I’m going to kill myself right now, in front of you,” he said. “And you’re going to watch.”

  “Henry—”

  Henry raised the knife higher, and then—

  “Oi!”

  Henry heard the voice behind him and turned around—as Morris charged out of the shadows—and lunged at Henry. They wrestled for the knife—and Morris easily overpowered him, throwing him aside as if he were made of straw. Henry landed in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  “Leave him alone,” Mariana said to Morris. “Don’t hurt him.”

  She went over to Henry, to help him up—but he shoved away her hand.

  “I hate you,” he said, sounding like a little boy. His red eyes filled with tears. “I hate you.”

  Morris called for the police, and Henry was then arrested, but Mariana insisted he needed psychiatric care—and he was taken to the hospital, where he was sectioned. He was prescribed antipsychotic medication and Mariana arranged to speak to the consultant psychiatrist in the morning.

  She blamed herself for what had happened, of course.

  Henry was right: she had sacrificed him, and the other vulnerable people in her care. If she had been available, as Henry needed her to be, it might not have come to this. That was the truth.

  And now Mariana had to make sure this enormous sacrifice was not in vain … whatever the cost.

  18

  It was nearly one in the morning by the time Mariana got back to her room. She was exhausted, but too wide awake to sleep, too anxious and wound up.

  The room was cold, so she turned on the old electric heater attached to the wall. It couldn’t have been used since the previous winter—as it heated up, there was the heavy smell of burning dust. Mariana sat there, on the hard, upright wooden chair, staring at the electric bar glowing red in the dark, feeling its heat, listening to it hum. She sat there, thinking—thinking about Edward Fosca.

  He was so smug, so sure of himself. He thinks he’s got away with it, she thought. He thought he had won.

  But he hadn’t. Not yet. And Mariana was determined to outsmart him. She had to. She would sit up all night and think, and work it out.

  She sat there for hours, in a vigil, a kind of trance—thinking, thinking—going over everything that had happened since Zoe first called her on Monday night. She went over every event of the story, all the various strands—examining it all from every angle, trying to make sense of it—trying to see clearly.

  It must be obvious—the answer must be right there in front of her. But still, she couldn’t grasp it—it was like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle in the dark.

  Fred would say that in some other universe, Mariana had already figured it out. In some other universe, she was smarter.

  But not this one, unfortunately.

  She sat there until her head hurt. Then, at dawn, exhausted and depressed, she gave up. She crawled into bed, and immediately fell fast asleep.

  As Mariana slept, she had a nightmare. She dreamed that she was searching for Sebastian through desolate landscapes, trudging through wind and snow. She finally found him—in a shabby hotel bar, in a remote Alpine mountain hotel, during a snowstorm. She greeted him, overjoyed—but, to her horror, Sebastian didn
’t recognize her. He said she had changed—that she was a different person. Mariana swore over and over that she was the same: It’s me, it’s me, she cried. But when she tried to kiss him, he pulled away. Sebastian left her, and went out into the snowstorm. Mariana broke down, weeping, inconsolable—and Zoe appeared, wrapping her in a blue blanket. Mariana told Zoe how much she loved Sebastian—more than breathing, more than life. Zoe shook her head, and said that love only brings sorrow, and that Mariana should wake up. “Wake up, Mariana.”

  “What?”

  “Wake up … Wake up!”

  Then, suddenly, Mariana woke up with a start—in a cold sweat, with her heart racing.

  Someone was banging on the door.

  19

  Mariana sat up in bed, her heart pounding. The banging continued.

  “Wait,” she called out, “I’m coming.”

  What time is it? Bright sunlight was creeping around the edges of the curtains. Eight? Nine?

  “Who’s there?”

  There was no reply. The banging got louder—as did the banging in her head. She had a throbbing headache; she must have drunk a lot more than she thought.

  “Okay. Just a second.”

  Mariana pulled herself out of bed. She was disorientated and groggy. She dragged herself to the door. She unlocked and opened it.

  Elsie was standing there, poised to knock again. She smiled brightly.

  “Good morning, dear.”

  She had a feather duster under her arm, and was clutching a bucket of cleaning materials. Her eyebrows were painted on in a stern angle that made her look rather frightening—and she had an excited glint in her eye, a glint that struck Mariana as sinister and predatory.

  “What time is it, Elsie?”

  “Just gone eleven, dear. Didn’t wake you, did I?”

  She leaned in, past Mariana, peering at the unmade bed. Mariana could smell cigarette smoke on her, and was that alcohol on her breath? Or was it her own breath she was smelling?

  “I didn’t sleep well,” Mariana said. “I had a nightmare.”

  “Oh, dear.” Elsie tutted sympathetically. “I’m not surprised, with all that’s going on. I’m afraid I have more bad news, dear. But I thought you should know.”

  “What?” Mariana stared at her, her eyes wide. She was suddenly fully awake, and felt scared. “What’s happened?”

  “I’ll tell you if you give me a chance. Aren’t you going to ask Elsie in?”

  Mariana stepped back, and Elsie entered the room. She smiled at Mariana and put down her bucket. “That’s better. Best prepare yourself, dear.”

  “What is it?”

  “They found another body.”

  “What? When?”

  “This morning—by the river. Another girl.”

  It took Mariana a second to find her voice.

  “Zoe—where’s Zoe?”

  Elsie shook her head. “Don’t worry your pretty head about Zoe. She’s safe enough. Probably still lazing in bed, if I know her.” She smiled. “I can see it runs in the family.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Elsie—who is it? Tell me.”

  Elsie smiled. There was something truly ghoulish in her expression. “It was little Serena.”

  “Oh God—” Mariana’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She choked back a sob.

  Elsie tutted sympathetically. “Poor little Serena. Ah, well, the Lord moves in mysterious ways … I’d best get on—no rest for the wicked.”

  She turned to go—then she stopped. “Goodness me. Nearly forgot … This was under your door, dear.”

  Elsie reached into the bucket and pulled something out. She handed it to Mariana.

  “Here—”

  It was a postcard.

  The image on the postcard was one Mariana recognized—a black-and-white Ancient Greek vase, thousands of years old, depicting the sacrifice of Iphigenia by Agamemnon.

  As Mariana turned it over, her hand was trembling. And on the back, as she knew there would be, was a handwritten quotation in Ancient Greek:

  τοιγάρ σέ ποτ᾽οὐρανίδαι

  πέμψουσιν θανάτοις: ἦ σὰν

  ἔτ᾽ ἔτι φόνιον ὑπὸ δέραν

  ὄψομαι αἷμα χυθὲν σιδάρῳ

  Mariana had a strange feeling of vertigo, of dizziness, as she stared at the postcard in her hand; as if she were looking down on it from a great height—and in danger of losing her balance, and falling down … into a deep, dark abyss.

  20

  Mariana didn’t move for a moment. She felt paralyzed, rooted to the spot. She barely noticed Elsie leave the room.

  She kept staring at the postcard in her hands, unable to look away, transfixed; as if the Ancient Greek letters had caught fire in her mind, and were blazing and burning themselves into her brain.

  With some effort, she turned the postcard facedown, breaking its spell. She needed to think clearly—she needed to work out what to do.

  She had to tell the police, of course. Even if they thought she was crazy, which they probably already did, she couldn’t keep these postcards to herself any longer—she had to tell Inspector Sangha.

  She had to find him.

  She slipped the postcard into her back pocket, and left her room.

  It was an overcast morning; the morning sun had yet to penetrate the clouds, and a wispy carpet of mist was still hovering in pools above the ground like smoke. And through the gloom, across the courtyard, Mariana made out the figure of a man.

  Edward Fosca was standing there.

  What was he doing? Waiting to see Mariana’s reaction to the postcard? Getting off on it, relishing her torment? She couldn’t see his expression, but she felt sure he was smiling.

  And Mariana was suddenly very angry.

  It was unlike her to lose control—but now, because she had barely slept, and because she was so upset and scared and angry … she let go. It wasn’t bravery as much as desperation: a violent expulsion of her anguish—directed at Edward Fosca.

  Before she knew it, she was charging across the courtyard toward him. Did he flinch a little? Possibly. It was unexpected, this sudden approach, but he stood his ground—even when she reached him and stopped, inches away from his face, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wild, breathing hard.

  She didn’t say anything. She just stared at him, with mounting anger.

  He gave her an uncertain smile. “Good morning, Mariana.”

  Mariana held up the postcard. “What does it mean?”

  “Hmm?”

  Fosca took the postcard. He glanced at the inscription on the back. He murmured in Greek as he read it. There was a flicker of a smile on his lips.

  “What does it mean?” she repeated.

  “It’s from Electra by Euripides.”

  “Tell me what it says.”

  Fosca smiled, and stared into Mariana’s eyes. “It means: ‘The gods have willed your death—and soon, from your throat, streams of blood shall gush forth at the sword.’”

  As Mariana heard this, her anger erupted—the bubble of burning fury burst forth, and her hands clenched into fists. With all of her strength, she struck him in the face.

  Fosca reeled backward. “Jesus—”

  But before he could catch his breath, Mariana punched him again. And again.

  He raised his hands to protect himself—but she kept hitting him, pummeling him with her fists, shouting.

  “You bastard—you sick bastard—”

  “Mariana—stop! Stop—”

  But Mariana couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop—until she felt a pair of hands grab her from behind, pulling her back.

  A police officer held on to her, forcibly restraining her.

  A crowd of onlookers was gathering. Julian was there, staring at her in disbelief.

  Another officer went over to assist Fosca—but the professor waved him away angrily. Fosca’s nose was bleeding—blood was spattered all over his crisp white shirt. He looked upset and emba
rrassed. It was the first time Mariana had seen him lose his cool, and she drew some small satisfaction from that.

  Chief Inspector Sangha appeared. He stared at Mariana, stunned—as if he were looking at a crazy person.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  21

  Soon afterward, Mariana found herself in the dean’s office, and was asked to explain her actions. She sat across the desk from Chief Inspector Sangha, Julian, the dean—and Edward Fosca.

  It was hard to find the right words. The more she said, the more she sensed she was being disbelieved. Telling her story, saying it all aloud, she was aware how implausible it sounded.

  Edward Fosca had regained his composure; he kept smiling at her the whole time—as if she were telling a long joke and he were anticipating the punch line.

  Mariana had also calmed down, and was making an effort to remain calm. She presented the narrative as simply and clearly as she could, with as little emotion as possible. She explained how, step by step, she had arrived at this incredible deduction—that the professor had murdered three of his students.

  The Maidens first made her suspicious, she said. A group of favorites, all young women. No one knew what went on at these meetings. And as a group therapist, and a woman, Mariana could scarcely fail to be concerned. Professor Fosca had a kind of strange, guru-like control over his pupils, Mariana said. She had witnessed this firsthand—even her own niece had expressed a reticence to betray Fosca and the group.

  “This is typical of unhealthy group behavior—an urge to conform and submit. Voicing opinions contrary to the group, or the group leader, evokes a great deal of anxiety—if they can be voiced at all. I felt it when Zoe spoke about the professor—something wasn’t quite right. I could feel she was afraid of him.”

  Small groups like this, Mariana explained, like the Maidens, were particularly vulnerable to unconscious manipulation, or abuse. Unconsciously the girls might treat the leader of the group the way they treated their father when they were very young—with dependence and acquiescence. “And if you’re a damaged young woman,” she went on, “in denial about your childhood and the suffering you endured—in order to maintain that denial, you might well collude with another abuser—and pretend to yourself that his behavior is perfectly normal. If you were to open your eyes and condemn him, you would have to condemn others in your life also. I don’t know what the childhoods of those girls was like. It’s easy to dismiss Tara as a privileged young woman with no problems. But to me, her abuse of alcohol and drugs suggests she was troubled—and vulnerable. Beautiful, fucked-up Tara—she was his favorite.”