Bernhard Aichner - Woman of the Dead - A Thriller

‘What did he find?’

‘I don’t know. He just said I wasn’t to worry.’

‘Nonsense, that wasn’t on the phone. It can’t be true.’

‘He’d already switched off his phone, he didn’t want anyone to hear. No one, you understand. It was the last thing he said to me. Then he left. And didn’t come back. I hated him for that.’

‘But they wore masks, didn’t they? All the time? You said you never saw their faces all those years.’

‘No, only the masks.’

‘Then how could he have found the man? How, tell me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘There are hundreds of photographers in the Tyrol. And no one says he has to come from the Tyrol anyway. No one knows where that cellar is. You could have been in Bavaria, or in Italy. You were found just by the Italian border.’

‘I’m so sorry. I can only tell you what I told him myself.’

‘Now you must tell me everything, one last time.’

‘I can’t go through it all again.’

‘Please. Do it for Mark.’

‘My story killed him. And it will kill you too.’

Blum steps on the gas again. She is wearing a helmet, she has bought herself leathers. She keeps reminding herself that she has children; that she doesn’t want to die. Hence the helmet, hence the leathers. But still she rides fast. Along the autobahn, over the bridge into the Ötz Valley. There are many bends in the road but it’s only twenty minutes before she reaches the village where she may find answers. Everything that Dunya has told her began there. In the staff hostel five years ago. Someone must know something, someone must have noticed that Dunya was missing.

Blum is riding twice as fast as she should. She races through Ötz, a little Tyrolean village. Ignoring the disapproving looks of people by the road, she swiftly leaves the village behind her, she must go on, she must get to Sölden quickly. Mark found something, Blum knows it. She now knows that Dunya is right and there can be no doubt about that, none at all. She speeds past roadside shrines as the road winds upwards. Everything that has happened lies ahead of her. Blum spent almost all night trying to soothe her fears, stroking her hair and listening to her story. Dunya told her things she hadn’t told Mark, terrible things that made her weep, that brought her to seek protection in Blum’s arms. An evil fairy tale in which Dunya plays the starring role. A horror film about five men, including this photographer.

Five men. The photographer, the priest, the huntsman, the cook and the clown. Dunya has described each of them. She tried to remember everything they did, she wanted to help Blum. She told her all about the pictures the photographer took. How enthusiastic he was, how passionately he spoke of his work. His photographs would make him famous, they were unique. Compositions on the subject of pain. How he talked to the others about his projects, his achievements, taking photos like a man possessed. Then Youn’s face while the priest smashed into him from behind. Youn’s screams, his gaping mouth, his desperation. And Ilena, her eyes vacant because nothing could hurt her any more. There was only a void, never mind how hard they struck, how often they thrust into her, how often the clown hit her, pummelling her belly. Only those dazed, empty eyes. The photographer enthused about that effect for minutes on end, saying how unique they were, these moments recorded in pictures. How authentic and true to life, how extraordinarily honest. He tied Dunya down to the table and raped her, taking photographs all the time. If she turned her head away he hit her.

‘He photographed you while he was doing that to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you naked?’

‘He only took pictures of our faces.’

‘Only your faces?’

‘He thought it was art. He thought he’d be very successful with it.’

‘Only faces?’

‘Yes, whether or not we were naked.’

‘So not pornography?’

‘No, only pain.’

‘What a bastard. And the others went along with that? They didn’t object?’

‘No, they all liked keeping a record of what they did to us.’

‘How old is this man?’

‘Not yet forty.’

‘His voice?’

‘Gentle. Pleasant. Only his voice, though.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘Thousands of things.’

‘Such as?’

‘That he’d photograph me as I lay dying.’

‘What did he mean?’

‘Exactly what he said.’

‘He was going to kill you?’

‘He said he’d fuck me up the arse till I died. Then he was going to take a photo of my lips. He thought my lips were very beautiful. He wanted to take pictures of them when I was dead. After he’d fucked me to death, when my lips weren’t touching any longer.’

‘You’re safe here, Dunya.’

‘There’s nothing left of me.’

‘I’m so sorry about it all. But I’m so glad that you got away, that you’re here.’

‘It’s because of me that you’re on your own now.’

‘They killed him, you didn’t.’

‘Do you believe me now?’

‘Yes. I’ll look after you, Dunya.’

Blum took Dunya in her arms. No one in the world needed her more than Dunya; no one was more helpless, more wounded, had more tears. Suddenly there was no room left for Blum’s own grief, only this woman, ragged and wounded. Dunya was trembling all over, fear dripped from every word she said. Blum held her firmly. Dunya whimpered. Then, still trembling, she fell asleep.

Blum is on the motorbike; she has to find the photographer. He is one of the five men who are guilty of Mark’s death. And he is the key that will open the door to the truth. Mark had started a stone rolling and the stone had rolled over him. It was no coincidence, Dunya said. The Rover was no coincidence. Mark had to die, he had tracked down the man with the camera, the man who had pressed the shutter thousands of times. This man had recorded the horror for five years, recorded their despair in print, and that was evidence. Evidence that Dunya didn’t have. The horror urges Blum on. Never mind how fast she rides, she can’t escape it.

Along the mountain road at a hundred and sixty kph. She feels no fear, only rage. No fear of death, no fear of those men, only hatred and the road beneath her, the tyres and all that lies ahead. What lies behind her is Mark, and everything they did to Dunya. Blum will find them. Blum will find out who was driving that Rover. She won’t stop asking questions, she will dig her teeth into her quarry and refuse to let go.

Blum rides into Sölden. The hotels are closed for the summer. Where crowds will be thronging the pavements in winter, all is quiet now. Like many other resorts in the Tyrol, this village only comes alive in the ski season. However hard they try to attract summer tourists, the streets stay empty. Many hoteliers would rather close than cook for a mere handful of people. Sölden is a Mecca for skiing, and for some years now a destination for rich Russians. But there’s no trace of them today, no golden ski-suits, no three-figure tips, no après-ski bars with music and people getting drunk. Only grass on the pistes, only empty eyesores as far as the eye can see, hiding the mountains. Closed bars, signs pointing to hotels with names suggesting mountain views and Alpine flowers: the Alpenblick, Edelweiss, Bergblick, Alpenrose, Felseneck, Zirbenhof, Lerchenhof, Rosenhof. And then the Annenhof, behind the car park for the ski lift. How abandoned it all is, how dismal. She tries to imagine living here, waiting for winter, living only half a life. The two hill walkers coming towards Blum look lost but then she sees them go up steps – to the Annenhof, one of the few hotels still open. The hotel where it all began. Blum parks the bike. She goes through the lobby to the bar. First she’ll try the waiter. She’ll talk to him casually over a beer, maybe flirt with him. Whatever it takes. Blum isn’t going to leave this hotel until she knows more. Blum wants gossip, rumour, she wants a look behind the scenes. That’s where you find things out, Mark always said. She sits down with a smile at the empty bar and orders. She feels almost as though she’s alone in the hotel. The waiter is polishing glasses; there’s nothing for him to do but talk to Blum about the past.