Girl in the Dark (27 page)

“I just don't get it,” I said to Mo. He moved up a little closer and touched my hand. It was sweet of him to come right over after I called. Though it was strange to see him sitting here on the stained couch in my living room. Aaron had already gone to bed. Luckily he'd fallen asleep with no problem this time. “Why would Ray not want to see me anymore?”

“Yeah, hard to understand.”

“Did something happen? In the unit? In his session with the shrink?”

“Not that I know of. On the contrary, he seemed to be over the moon about getting transferred to another floor.”

“Which floor?”

“The autism unit. You'll see, he'll be much happier there. The residents are much calmer there; they keep to themselves more. Besides, Ray can keep his aquarium in his room.”

“That's great! But maybe that's why he wrote the letter. He doesn't feel the need to be a free man anymore now that he's finally getting his fish back.”

“Possibly. But why would that make him want to stop commu
nicating with you? I had the impression he was starting to enjoy your visits.”

I felt myself blushing, even though it wasn't a real compliment. So I focused on rereading the letter Ray had sent me; it still didn't add up. After insisting all along that he was innocent, here, suddenly, was his confession to the murders in black and white, on a sheet of A4 paper, with the request never to contact him again. “Do you think I did something wrong?”

“Of course not. You were great. I thought the way you talked to him was just right. He was trying so hard to relate to you and answer your questions, even though it was very hard for him. In all these months, you're the only one who's come to see him. That's something he won't soon forget, believe me.”

“But I failed.” It came out sounding more dramatic than I'd intended, and to make matters worse I felt my eyes well up. Crying in Mo's presence was the last thing I wanted to do.

You could tell this was someone who was used to dealing with emotional people. He shook his head and patted my arm. “You haven't failed. Why would you even think that?”

I let out a tremulous sigh. “I guess I'm just tired.” I hadn't realized how stressed out Ray's case had made me.

“Who wouldn't be? Look at what you're dealing with. It's a lot to take in. Can I make you a cup of tea or something?”

“That would be great!” I think my exclamation embarrassed us both. I felt the blood rush up to my cheeks again, and Mo suddenly wasn't looking my way. “Uh, I'm sorry,”

He cleared his throat. “No need to excuse yourself. I . . .”

I don't know
what
came over me. Whether it was because it was the first time I heard some uncertainty in his voice, or because it occurred to me this might be the last time I'd ever see him, I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

For a moment we just stared at each other. Then he took me in his arms and kissed me back. It felt good. We kissed some more and for the first time in years I felt like I was someone different than a stressed-out, single, working mother.

“Mommy?” We both looked up to see Aaron standing in the room with a teddy bear in his arms. “What you doing?”

I didn't have a clue what to say. “I . . . uh” was all that came out of my mouth.

“You must be Aaron,” said Mo. “My name is Mo. I was just going to make Mommy some tea. Would you like something to drink, too?”

Aaron didn't say anything. He just stared at him.

Mo stood up and went to the kitchen as if it was the most normal thing in the world. A little while later he returned with a pot of tea, two mugs, and a glass of apple juice on the hideous plastic tray my mother brought back for me from her last spa vacation.

“Here you go,” he said to Aaron, handing over the juice.

Aaron accepted it, and seemed perfectly happy sipping his drink next to me on the couch, with my arm around his shoulder.

“The autism unit, huh? So Ray has a social disorder?” I asked, to get the conversation going again.

“That's one way of looking at it. Autism is a complicated thing. Recent studies show that people with autism aren't able to filter the way we are. Imagine what it would be like if you were constantly aware of the clock ticking, the neighbor's television blaring, the bright color of that pillow there, that that vase over there contains exactly twenty-three flowers, and . . .”

“Twenty-seven,” said Aaron. “I want to go back to bed.” He got up and started walking back to his bedroom, so I followed and tucked him in. I wondered if I should say something about Mo,
but Aaron's eyes were already shut and his breathing was getting heavy and slow. I looked at his sweet face and realized that I really, really loved him, and whatever happened I would never let him go. I didn't care anymore if I would lose my job or what the girls at the day care thought. We belonged together. I touched his soft hair and hoped he was dreaming a happy dream.

When I came back, Mo was sitting on the couch again. I sat down next to him. “Sorry about that,” I said.

“He seems like a great kid,” Mo said.

“He really is.”

Then he leaned over and stroked my cheek. “I'm not in the habit of making house calls, you know.”

I felt myself blush. “I understand that. But you know what's so ironic? I never had any concrete evidence of Ray's innocence. No matter who I spoke to, no matter what I found out, everything still pointed to Ray as the likely culprit. But the moment I stumble on a lead, or, rather, my boss does, Ray changes his mind and I have to stop.”

“You don't still think he's innocent, do you?”

“Yes. I still do. I just can't imagine he lied to me. I don't think he's even
capable
of lying. What do you think?”

“Maybe he wasn't lying; maybe he truly did believe he was innocent. But just think it through a sec, Iris. Of
course
he did it. It does all add up, doesn't it? A man who's developmentally delayed, a neighbor who drives him off his rocker, and a mean mother who keeps tormenting him, to this day.”

“What do you mean? My mother hasn't had any contact with Ray in years.”

“Actually, she did visit him just recently.”

“What? Why wasn't I told about that?”

“Why, what's so strange about that?”

“Everything, believe me. But how did you hear she was such a terror? Who told you?”

He shrugged. “Stephen, my colleague, gave me that idea.”

“What did he say exactly?”

“I just remember the general drift. Which was that Ray's mother—your mother, too—is an awful witch. Sorry.”

“What makes him think that?”

“I believe he was there when she came to see Ray.”

“But why would he say my mother's a witch? Wasn't she being nice?”

“We didn't discuss it, really; we're not that close, to tell you the truth. But Stephen made it pretty clear that your mother was bad news. In his eyes, anyway.”

I wondered what my mother could have done to give him that impression. She was normally every inch the lady. It was what lay beneath the surface that was unsettling. “Could my mother have said something to Ray to make him not want to see me anymore?”

“It's possible. Why not?”

“Do you think the visit was recorded? There are security cameras everywhere, aren't there?”

“They get erased after twenty-four hours, I'm afraid.”

I jumped off the couch. My mind was racing. Something had definitely happened between my mother and Ray—for sure. I grabbed my phone and pushed it into Mo's hand. “Can you please call security?”

“It's too late. Really, there's no point.”

“Call them anyway. Maybe they still have the tapes.”

The phone call took a few minutes. Mo explained the situation and then all I heard on my end were things like, “Ah, I see,” “So . . . ,” and “Okay.”

When he hung up I could hardly contain myself. “What did they say?”

“You'd better come back to this couch,” he said, “because you're an extraordinarily lucky lady.”

“Really?” I sat down next to him.

“It seems that there's an ongoing investigation into Stephen's activities because of his possible involvement in drug smuggling, so they've been saving every tape he's in.”

“Fantastic! When can we pick them up?”

“That's a problem. They can't release them. But they will let me ‘drop in' tomorrow when they ‘happen to be' reviewing the tapes.”

“Great!” I cried.

“Why? To be honest, I don't really understand what you're after.”

“I think my mother made Ray stop talking to me,” I said. “And I hope the tapes will show that's what happened.”

“There's no audio on the tapes, though.”

“Then I'll hire a lip reader.”

“Nothing's going to stop you, is it?”

I was sitting in front of my aquarium looking at the fish. Watching Venus and Peanut sticking their heads out of their grotto every once in a while and then darting back inside. Watching Margie swimming around and around in her little circles. Watching François, who'd grown quite a bit bigger since the last time—nearly nine years—I'd seen him. It's lucky that fish live a long time when you take good care of them. We were going to have many more years together.

“You'll get used to it,” I told them. “It's hard at first, but you'll see, you'll start liking it in here eventually.”

I could stay here all day if I wanted, the autism unit's social worker had told me. This time they wouldn't come and take me away, the way they did the last time I saw my fish. I remembered being pushed into the police car still calling out their names.

It happened just after I had found Rosita and Anna. I tried not to think about what I saw when I pushed the door open and saw them lying in the hallway. So still. Dead.

“Hey, Anna. Hi, Rosita,” I whispered anyway. “We were almost a family. Weren't we?” But Rosita didn't say anything back to me.
She just lay there staring at the ceiling. She'd finally found a way to shut me out for good. It made me very sad.

I touched Rosita. I put my fingers on the hollow of her collarbone, the
fossa supraclavicularis,
and the most beautiful spot in the whole entire world. Her skin was still warm. I don't know how long I sat there. I do know that at some point the smell of blood went up my nostrils and made me gag.

I ran back to my own house. When I stepped into the hallway, I saw a garbage bag that I hadn't left there. I heard the water running.

“
Ray!
” My mother was washing up. She was shocked to see me and I was shocked to see her. She let something fall into the sink and wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “What are you doing here?”

I stared at her and wanted to say something, but couldn't find my words.

“Why aren't you at your work?”

“I couldn't do it anymore,” I said.

My mother looked at my feet. Her face turned pale. “There's
blood
all over the floor!” My mother ran into the hall and opened the front door. “Oh, Christ, you've left footprints all the way from their house to yours. Oh my God!” Back in the kitchen she started wrapping up whatever it was that she'd dropped into the sink in some newspaper.

“Why didn't you stay at work? You should have stayed at work today. Jesus Christ, Ray!” She had tears in her eyes. She took the newspaper-wrapped package from the sink and took it out into the hall. I followed her and saw her toss it in the garbage bag.

“I can't stay. I'm sorry. I . . .” My mother was hardly ever at a loss for words. “You just shouldn't have shown up here.” She shook her head. “Now I won't be able to help you. Sorry, but you're on your own.” She picked up the garbage bag and walked through
the living room to the back door. “I've got to go. I'm sorry. I didn't want it to end like this.”

Just before stepping outside, she turned and grabbed me by the shoulders. “You can't tell
anyone
you saw me today, you hear, Ray? No matter what they ask you.” She was hurting my arms with her grip; she was very strong, my mother. “Look at me, Ray. Focus. They are going to come and get you, Ray. I wish they wouldn't, but you only have yourself to blame for it. You should never have come home this morning. But if you tell them I was here, I won't be able to take care of your fish, and then who knows what will happen to them. Do you understand? You have not seen me here. Don't even mention my name.”

After she left I went back to my aquarium and sat there reciting the fishes' names until I was calm again. And then they came and took me away, just like my mother had told me.

Now that I had my fish with me in my cell, I no longer needed to say their names over and over again. I felt at peace. Nothing bad could happen to me. I was safe at last.

I shut my eyes and listened to the drone of the pump. At home the aquarium had been downstairs, so I couldn't hear it when I was in bed. I was glad that, in here, the aquarium was less than five feet from my bed, so we could see each other all the time, my fish and I. I loved the noise the aquarium's equipment made. I loved the gentle metallic glow it cast.

Daylight, Van de Akker once told me. The aquarium's lightbulbs mimic the daylight filtered through the water on a sunny day—fifteen feet under the surface of the ocean. I liked it so much better than ordinary light that I decided never to open the curtains again.

Not ringing the doorbell at my mother's house was starting to be a habit with me. The only difference between this visit and the last one was that it was broad daylight. I stuck my key in the lock and pushed the door open. No sooner had I done so than I heard my mother call out, “Who's there?” It pleased me to hear the uncertainty in her voice.

I walked down the hall to the living room, where I found my mother sitting on the sofa with a newspaper she must have been reading spread out beside her. She stared up at me, startled.

“It isn't very nice to have someone just come walking into your house, is it, Mother?” I said. “It must be pretty scary to hear a key turn in the lock when you're home alone and not expecting anybody. Or have you never had that feeling? Do you even
have
any feelings?”

“Jesus, Iris.” My mother pressed her hand to her heart in a theatrical gesture. “You just gave me a heart attack! What were you thinking, waltzing in here right in the middle of the day? You know I want you to ring the doorbell before you come in.”

“I do know that. Actually, there are lots of things I know about you.”

“Excuse me? Are you starting that again? You've got to stop, do you hear me, Iris? I've had enough of this nonsense. I'd appreciate it if you'd leave. Now.”

I heard a noise in the kitchen, as if something were being shoved aside. I froze, and listened. Silence. I must have been mistaken. The empty space where the aquarium had stood all those years caught my eye. You could still see the outline of it; the wall would have to be repainted. “Isn't it great, Mother, that Ray has his aquarium again?”

My mother didn't answer.

“So noble of you to let him have it. I know how fond you were of those fish. Especially the dead ones. I do wonder, though—how did you persuade the lab in Utrecht to send them back to you? What did you tell them? That you wanted to bury them in your backyard, with a nice little gravestone and flowers?”

“What are you talking about?” My mother picked up her newspaper and pretended to read. But I could see her eyes drifting emptily down the page.

“Or did you tell them the truth? That you needed those poor fish to trick your own son?”

She lowered the newspaper. “Now you're going too far. I've had enough of this nonsense. You may be my own flesh and blood, but don't think I'll hesitate to call the police if you don't leave my house.”

“No, you wouldn't hesitate to turn in your own flesh and blood. We know that now.”

“I'm calling the police.” But she didn't move.

“You do that. You and I can have a nice little chat while waiting for them to show up. Because I've come to know some interesting things about you these past few months. I found out you have a son. And that that son has a father. And that the
father's name is Antoine van Benschop. And that when you got pregnant, Antoine van Benschop paid you off with a nice nest egg. And that he also—and I must thank you, Mother—did me a favor when
I
got pregnant, by arranging a convenient little job for me. Have you two stayed in contact this whole time? Do you still see each other?”

“Stop it,” said my mother. “Stop it, stop it,
stop
it.”

“I won't, sorry. I've only begun to scratch the surface of the fascinating secret life of Agatha Antonia Boelens.”

“Which is none of your business.”

“You're wrong about that.
It is
my business. Not because I'm your daughter, but because Ray is my brother.”

“Spare me the sentimental claptrap. You don't know the first thing about Ray.”

“I think I do. And I've come to realize that you and Rosita are two of a kind. Just like her, you fell for the charms of a married man and got knocked up at a very young age. Was that why you despised her so?”

“Amateur psychology.” My mother picked up the newspaper again, but I could see her hands shake.

“Why don't you tell me the truth for once in your life? What do you think you are doing? Bribing the staff at a criminal mental facility? Threatening a patient? Those are punishable offenses. We're talking prison, Mother. Are you still in touch with Antoine van Benschop?”

“Yes.”

“Where, when, how often?”

“Not as often as before. But we're still in touch.” She said it with palpable reluctance.

“Were you sleeping with him while you were married to Dad?”

“Yes.” She stuck out her chin defiantly.

For a moment I was speechless, thinking of my kind-hearted father. He'd worshipped my mother, always did everything she asked of him, to the irritating extreme. “How did you manage it? How long has this been going on?”

“Forty-five years,” said my mother, with a tinge of pride.

“You're mad! What were you thinking? Did you think he'd ever turn his back on the shipping business to be with you?”

“No. I always knew he never would.”

“And yet you went on seeing him.
Why
?”

“Because I love him,” she snapped.

I shook my head. “I find it hard to believe you're capable of loving anyone. You dumped Ray in a home, you never showed me any real affection, you cheated on your adoring husband all those years and . . . oh, I guess there
is
Aaron. You do love Aaron, don't you? If it weren't for that, I'd think you were a robot.”

My mother didn't show any reaction. She didn't even blink. I had the urge to slap her in the face. Hard.

“Fine, don't say anything. I can fill in a great deal of what's missing myself.” I took a deep breath, speaking slowly and stressing every word. “You don't want me looking into Ray's case because you are afraid certain things will come to light that are . . .
inconvenient
. Your affair with Antoine van Benschop, for one. But is that the only reason? You know, killing someone with a Börja knife isn't easy. Ikea quality—not so good, you know? After putting it to the test, the applied sciences research lab has established that it's impossible to stab someone in the chest fourteen times with that knife. By the seventh or eighth jab, the blade will usually snap off. And anyway, Ray's knife had already had its share of action, when he used it to slash the tires of Victor Asscher's Jag. No, Mother. The murder weapon used was probably a top-quality chef's knife similar in size and shape to the Början. Forensic Ser
vices thinks it would have been a Wüsthof, the twenty-three-centimeter Le Cordon Bleu Chef's Knife, to be precise. Forged from a single piece of steel. Indestructible. So when I read the report, I thought to myself, ‘Shit, I
know
someone who owns one of those fancy German knives.' ”

My mother sat on the sofa, motionless.

“Please talk to me. What am I supposed to think? I need your help, Mom. Please explain how this all happened. I know you know. Did you tell Ray to kill Rosita? Did you give him the knife? Or . . .” I could not imagine the alternative.

My mother was still sitting there not blinking an eye. Again, I felt the urge to slap her in her face, if only to make her react.

“We
are
done here.
You're
done.” It wasn't my mother's voice. It was a male voice. I nearly fell backward on the glass coffee table.

Antoine van Benschop stepped out of the kitchen holding the twenty-three-centimeter chef's knife from Wüsthof's Cordon Bleu series. “Is this, perhaps, the knife you mean?”

I tried not to show how startled I was to see Antoine here, in my mother's house.

Antoine stepped closer. I wondered if I should make a run for it, but I couldn't believe the old man would actually attack me, especially with my mother present. I decided to try to stay calm. Cool. Collected. Panicking would only make the situation worse, I decided.

“Listen, Iris, your mother is not a murderer. She just did what she had to do,” Antoine said with an authoritative voice that reminded me of his son Peter's.

“What have you done, Mother?” I asked. “Were you the one who stabbed Rosita? And her little girl, too? Little Anna with the angelic blond curls?”

“I had no choice,” my mother finally said. “I wish it were
different. I wish I could change it all, but Rosita left me no choice.”

My legs started shaking. “
You
killed her. You?”

“Rosita was blackmailing us. Asscher had told her everything about us. She was threatening to tell Antoine's wife
and
his father-in-law. Don't you see that everyone's life would have been ruined? My life, Antoine's life, the Van Benschop family's life. Even your life, Iris. And what about the shipyard? The whole goddamn company would have been ruined! So yes, she needed to be stopped. But what worried me the most . . .” My mother paused for a second, seemingly overcome with emotion. “What worried me the most was the way that dirty little whore was driving Ray up the wall. I could tell it was just a matter of time before he'd snap. And you think you know Ray, but you don't. You don't know what he can be like when he loses it. I just couldn't let that happen.”

“So you did it all for Ray? You honestly expect me to believe that you had his best interests at heart? That's a little hard to believe since he's serving your time, locked up in a mental institution, and . . .” I could hear my voice tremble.

“Enough!” Antoine waved the knife at me. “Your mother warned you to stay out of it, but you just had to go on with your silly investigation, didn't you?”

It crossed my mind that Rosita had been staring at this very knifepoint just before she was killed. I needed to stay cool. Keep talking. I tried to appeal to my mother. “Why are you letting him threaten me? Why did you let Ray take the rap? We are your children!”

My mother shook her head. She looked sad, but it was hard to trust anything about her. “That was never the intention. I did my very best to keep him out of it. How was I to know he'd leave
work early that day? He never came home early.
Never
. But it's too late now. Ray can live in the institution with his fish and be safe. And I know you won't agree, but I promise you that it's better this way.”

“But what about the little girl?” I said. “How could you do that to her? Not only
stab
her, but to put out that cigarette on her . . .”

My mother was crying now. “She should have been at day care, like she always was in the mornings. How was I supposed to know that . . . She just came running out and Antoine . . .”

“Antoine?” I looked at the old man standing next to me. Again the resemblance with his son Peter was striking. “You were there, too? You killed the girl and made that cigarette mark on her?”

“He was trying to protect Ray!” my mother exclaimed. “Since Ray hates smoking, we . . .”

“Enough!” said Antoine. “You are leaving us no choice, Iris. Just as Rosita left us no choice.” Then, suddenly, he pounced, putting me in a stranglehold. He was surprisingly strong for his age. I felt the bent tip of the knife graze my throat. Cold steel cutting my skin. It was sharp. It didn't take much pressure for it to cut. I tried to twist out of Antoine's grip, but I couldn't shake free. I looked at my mother. She wouldn't let this happen—would she? I was still her daughter. Her goddamn daughter.

But my mother was stoically staring straight ahead at the wall.

“Mother?”
I was a bewildered fifteen-year-old again, back in the red-light district crack house. “Mom?” My voice was getting more and more panicked.

“I
begged
you. I begged you several times, Iris. You should have stayed out of this.”

Only then did I realize I was in real danger. I had to try to escape. I jabbed both elbows back into Van Benschop's rib cage. He didn't budge. All it achieved was allowing the knife to dig deeper
into my throat. I felt something warm trickling down my neck. My heart pulsing against the blade.

“
Move.
We're going into the kitchen. So we don't make a mess in your mother's living room. Start walking.”

I looked at my mother. She
had
to intervene. I still could not believe she would let someone kill me. She would step in at the last minute. Just as she had that time in the crack house. But she looked frozen.

Antoine pushed me ahead of him. “Mother?” I pleaded, my voice sounding all choked and teary. “
Say
something! You can't let this happen!”

“Shut up.” Van Benschop kicked me in the back of the knees. “You've got only yourself to blame.”

I looked at my mother, convinced she would save me. Her mouth opened and then closed again.

I felt myself being pushed into the kitchen. I tried to push back, but somehow Antoine knew how to force me to walk ahead of him. I thought about how easy it would be just to slide the blade across my throat, slicing open the artery. I'd be dead in less than a minute.

Who would take care of Aaron? What would happen to Ray? I felt my whole body go into a spasm of shaking.

Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, my mother spoke up. “No, Antoine,” she said. Her voice sounded weepy, barely convincing. But she did say it. “
Stop
.”

It was all I needed. Van Benschop's grip on me slackened for a second. I stomped hard on his foot and managed to slip from his grasp. Then I kicked him in the groin. He crumpled forward, crying like a wounded animal.

I raced out the front door and into the street.

The police arrived within minutes. Neither my mother nor Antoine tried to run.

I stood across the street and watched them being led to a police car by two officers.

My mother looked old and helpless in the bright sunlight. For a second our eyes met. Then she turned away, a final fierce gesture. And with that, the squad car door was closed.

“Are you okay?” asked the policeman who was standing next to me. “The ambulance will be here soon to fix you up. That's quite a nasty cut you've got on your neck there.”