Quiver (31 page)
“You’ve got that thing on all the time! You’ve watched enough now,” said Julie, the nurse who worked nights. She eased the remote out of my hand and shut off the TV. Every report mentioned the “alleged cult” or “the alleged suspect.” Alleged allowed for a better story. I wondered how Sloane and Abbas were handling Foster’s assessment now.
The police interviewed me repeatedly.
“You say this woman’s name is Maria, and she was working on contract at the Museum of London?” The detective flipped his notepad open. “According to our investigation, the Museum of London did not have any such person working for them, either on contract or as full- or part-time staff. Are you sure?”
“Yes, I heard her on the phone with them once. In her flat, beside the Barbican.”
“Yes, that. We checked it out. Owners were subletting the place, but to someone named Pieter. Arranged over Craigslist while they were away, so they didn’t meet their tenant in person. We couldn’t find anything that indicated the name of the occupant, no mail, no computer.”
“No computer?”
“Is there anything else you can tell us? Did you see any of her credentials, any sort of alias she might have used?”
They found partial trails of her, different names, no full record. Not here, not in Budapest.
“Are you quite sure you are remembering the facts correctly?” asked the detective. “Did you ever see any identification, did you visit her at a workplace?”
I was in her flat. I visited her in Hungary. But the texts, the calls, the meetings. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that everything she told me was a lie. I’d never seen her at work, she didn’t present a paper at the conference. All the jobs, the contracts, they didn’t exist. The Museum of London letterhead, probably stolen or photoshopped. All the people I met, cabal members backing up each other’s stories. The conferences, every time I had a chance meeting with her at a reception, the timetables were online. She’d said she tracked me down in London through Carl, but Carl said he’d never been contacted by her. All the information she had she got from my staff webpage, the phone directory, Google or good guesswork. And I didn’t see it. She’d fabricated it all and I’d believed her.
After a few days, Henry came to the hospital and dropped off some of my things. “They say you’ll be out soon,” he said. “I’m staying in Wilson’s spare room for now.” He looked down at the scruffy floor tiles.
“What,” I said, unable to keep an edge out of my voice, “Nicola wouldn’t put you up?” At least, I thought, Henry was taken in too.
He shifted in his chair, kicked at the floor with his thick, rubber-soled boots. “She and I, well. You know. We’re moving into a bigger place, the two of us, the beginning of next month.”
“You’re serious?” I almost yelled. “When you know she’s hooked up with Maria? After all she did?” The cereal I had for breakfast an hour before threatens to come up.
“Maria,” he said. “Maria, or whoever she really is, is genius.”
“What? She’s a killer. She’s the reason I’m in here.”
“You’ve been through a lot. But I’m sure she didn’t intend for things to get this out of hand.” He leaned forward, lowered his head. “And I mean, the news is making everything sound so sensational. We don’t really know the whole story.”
I used to think Henry was beautiful. Now, I saw his thinning hair, his shiny, oily forehead. His eyes, which I used to tell myself were intense, I now recognized as small, too close-set. Feral. The colour of shit. I used to tell myself that his art was brilliant. Now I saw it for what it was. That throne, overgrown dollhouse furniture. All of it, the work of a child playing with Plasticine and crayons. A weak puppet.
“And it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea, you know,” he said, “to be a bit more discreet with the police.”
I sat up, the stitches in my arm puckering as I moved. “Have you heard from her?”
He stood, dropped a folded piece of paper on my lap and left the room.
Danica,
I have, often, a talent for picking girls. You were there, in Vienna, tucked away in that corner with your titian hair and clear eyes and skin without any freckles. But you did not appreciate what I did for you. Without me, you were a pretty little girl, but you had no muscle. Without me, you were ordinary, your beauty a false promise of something rare. I thought you were something stronger, but you broke like all the others. You never saw who I am.
You know now how powerful I am. And that I no longer want you. If you try to follow me, persist to speak about me, you will understand how much my previous affection was worth in terms of your physical safety.
I felt like a gardenia plucked and crushed under a pestle, oil for her perfume. I crumpled the paper, shoved it under my pillow. I rolled over, pressed the button to release more painkillers into my IV and waited for sleep.
When I got out, the authorities told me I had to stay in the country indefinitely. Reporters were waiting for me outside the hospital. Press followed me everywhere for over two weeks, to the pharmacy, to the grocery. TV crews, cameras.
I did not enjoy the spotlight.
The police looked at my emails with Maria, trying to find clues, to decide if I was her accomplice or if she had tricked me, used me. Dr. Abbas supported me, told them that I did report my suspicions to him. Said he believed I had good intentions. Was under a lot of stress. New job, new country, relationship troubles. Even Dr. Sloane spoke on my behalf, said I never properly adjusted to the stress of my position at Stowmoor. I am not sure whether they or the police believed what they were saying. Six months went by and they had no leads on her whereabouts.
I didn’t have a work permit, refused to take a loan from my family. I lived in a tiny bedsit in Hackney and helped one of my neighbours staff her stall at Petticoat Lane market on Sundays for a bit of money under the table. I cut my hair short, wore a lot of scarves, baggy tops, trainers. Tried to look as plain, as inconspicuous, as possible. I stayed home as much as I could. The few times I did go out, I kept an eye on store windows, on mirrors and glass doors, for a flash of blonde. Finally, they told me I could go home.
It’s been over a year. For a while, Carl called, tried to convince me I could go back to work someplace. Finally I emailed him, told him I’d moved cities, was going to enroll in a fashion design course at community college. He doesn’t call anymore.
Maria. I still fantasize about her. Mashing her blonde head against pavement, her perfect waves matted and rusty.
Chasing her through a field of snow. I cut her leg, hit an artery, she’s hemorrhaging through her white silk slip, deep red sinking into icy ground. Her bare feet, her arms, are raw from the cold. I crouch, press a glass shard against her smooth neck.
She’s bruised, tangled in thick vines, a laceration on her temple. A trail of blood runs down her pale cheek, drips onto her breasts. The thorns of the vines prick her each time she writhes to get free. A lion, leashed, circles her. He hasn’t eaten for a day, swipes the vines with his claws, strains to lunge at her. I hold his chain.
I know I’m on a threshold between what you might call normalcy and disorder. Since her, something’s closing inside me, some room in my mind that housed possibility, that let me love the sparkle of icicles in the sun, the delicate fur of a newborn kitten. Now a new room is opening, a place that sees the power in that ice shard, the weakness of a baby animal. A place that wouldn’t stop you from killing something weaker, more beautiful, than you.
I’m fighting to stay out of this room. Most days, I can get through half a cup of coffee, draw a serrated knife through the rind of a grapefruit before I remember that I’m tainted, her bruises under my skin. I’m searching for a host of leeches, a bloodletting, to draw her stain away.
I extend heartfelt gratitude to my agent, Samantha Haywood. A deep and sincere thank you to insightful editors Jennifer Lambert and Alex Schultz, and to everyone at HarperCollins Canada. Thanks also to Claiborne Hancock and Jessica Case at Pegasus Books, U.S.
Many people lent their energy and support to this novel; my gratitude to everyone who contributed to its development. In particular, thank you to Robert Kroetsch, Jeanette Lynes, Alice Kuipers, David Carpenter, Leona Theis, Jennifer Still, Katia Grubisic, Mari-Lou Rowley, Noelle Gallagher, Mark Anthony Jarman, Ross Leckie, Steven Galloway. Thank you to psychologists Dr. Don Sharpe and Dr. Andrew Lubusko for sharing their expertise and patiently answering my many questions. To the many helpful people I met during my time in London and Eastern Europe. Also, Tony Thome’s and Raymond T. McNally’s research on Báthory was extremely helpful. For financial support, thank you to the Saskatchewan Arts Board. Also to the Sage Hill Writing Experience, the Emma Lake writers and artists retreat, the Burney Centre, the Banff Centre and my fellow writers and colleagues at each of these places/programs.
Love and appreciation to my amazing, supportive friends and family.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 2011 by Holly Luhning
interior design by Maria Fernandez
978-1-4532-1806-8
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