Bernhard Aichner - Woman of the Dead - A Thriller

Eight years ago, they touched each other for the first time. He put his arms around her on the boat. He was a wonderful man, right from the very first moment when he was there, taking care of her. Mark waited with her until the coastguard arrived, until she had answered hundreds of questions. He simply stayed by her side. Talking to the police officers on the case, he described how he had found Blum, assuring them that he did not doubt her version of the story. Everything went to show that she was telling the truth. Her sunburn, her desperation, her tears: Blum had lost her parents in a tragic accident. And Mark had found her. A cop on holiday, a criminal investigation officer and an Austrian like Blum. A bachelor with a passion for sailing. It all fitted together, they had found one another, and to this day they haven’t let each other go.

Their bodies are intertwined, skin against skin as they touch. They are very close, their mouths whisper Good morning before they begin playing with their children, growling playfully. Everything feels good. They lie happily beside each other, watching the little girls get out of bed and set off to visit their grandfather. I want some cocoa, Papa. I want some salami, Mama. We’re going to see Grandpa. You two are boring . Blum laughs. Mark holds her lovingly in his arms, he won’t let her go, she nestles close to him, purring. I want to stay with you in this bed for ever . Blum enjoys every day, every hour of her whole life. His fingers have danced over her for eight years, they’ve been married for six, they have been a family for five. They plunged into their love passionately, and it still intoxicates them.

‘Mark?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can’t you just stay at home?’

‘I’m afraid not, but I’ll be back. There’s a lot going on at the moment.’

‘Like what?’

‘You don’t want to know, my lovely.’

‘We could just pretend the world wasn’t there.’

‘Well, yes, we could.’

‘But?’

‘But I have to catch the villains.’

‘You don’t have to. You want to.’

‘And you want to play with your dead people. I know you. You wouldn’t last here long. In ten minutes’ time you’d be jumping up and telling me there’s something you have to do, the old lady brought in last night can’t wait any longer.’

‘Would I?’

‘Yes, you would.’

‘Two more minutes, OK?’

‘Ten if you like.’

Even on the boat, she had sensed that this man would make her happy. She knew from the way he embraced her and consoled her, even though he was a stranger. A criminal investigator in the police force, how absurd. He’d surely have been able to see through her, tear off her mask and get her imprisoned, he could have ended her new life before it had even begun. But it had turned out so differently. Blum wanted the embrace that had begun so suddenly never to end, she wanted to become acquainted with those arms, those hands. She wanted him, for the first time ever she wanted a man, for the first time she thought such a thing possible. She was ready to let him come close to her without hesitation or fear. Very close. And he wasn’t deterred by her profession, he was not afraid of the dead.

She met him again. Back in the harbour in Trieste, back in Austria. They understood one another and came together without many words. He was her friend, her protector, he was there when she buried her parents, he was there when she converted the Funerary Institute, he helped in any way he could. And after a while they shared their first kiss. They were sitting in the cool room drinking beer, tired and happy. They had been retiling the preparation room, it was late summer, they were sweating and laughing as they sat on beer crates.

‘Blum?’

‘Yes?’

‘This is the sexiest fridge I’ve ever sat in.’

‘Do you often sit in fridges?’

‘Well, I’m a cop.’

‘So cops sit in fridges?’

‘Of course.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘No crazier than you. I mean, it was your idea to have our first beer in here.’

‘This is our fourth beer.’

‘Stop counting, Blum.’

‘It really doesn’t bother you that this place is normally filled with dead bodies?’

‘No.’

‘I spent a lot of time in this room when I was a child.’

‘With the bodies or without them?’

‘With them.’

‘Doors open or closed?’

‘Closed.’

‘Why?’

‘It was my hiding place. They didn’t come looking for me, so I often spent hours in here. I just sat and watched the dead.’

‘Pretty cold, wasn’t it, with the door closed?’

‘Not in skiing underwear, a ski suit, gloves and a hat.’

‘Sounds a bit crazy, but I believe you.’

‘You should.’

‘You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re honest with me.’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Can I trust you?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Because I have to kiss you.’

‘Do you?’

‘I can’t help it, I’ve been wanting to for the last two months. I really wanted to when I saw you on the boat. I’m sorry, I really need to.’

‘So you have to trust me to kiss me?’

‘If I kiss you, I’ll want to marry you. And then it’s surely a good thing to trust each other, don’t you think?’

‘But you don’t know me.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘When I was little I played with dead bodies.’

‘And I put cats in a sack and drowned them. I put fireworks in frogs and watched them explode.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘I did.’

‘Why?’

‘I was curious.’

‘Me too. That’s why I have to kiss you.’

‘Don’t I get any say in it?’

‘Certainly not.’

How lovely it was. How close their faces came, their lips. How their mouths met, soft, excited, trembling. Familiar and strange and lovely. Blum and Mark in the cool room. To this day their mouths have gone on touching.

It was a two-storey Jugendstil villa in the middle of Innsbruck, its garden filled with apples. When Hagen and Herta were underground Blum tore everything old out of the house: her parents’ bedroom, the old pine-panelled living room, the kitchen. Nothing was left except the old wooden floor; she kept that and sanded it down. The work took her hours. She scrubbed and painted, and Mark helped her. He offered to, and she thanked him. If you don’t have anything better to do. How can anyone be so friendly and kind? Are you really sure you don’t have a girlfriend? He said no, frowning, and Blum relished it all: the fact that he kept coming back, that he had decided to take care of her. That he thought she was beautiful, and took days off for her. That he even brought his colleagues to lend a hand. Half the province’s police officers helped them to tear down the walls and clear the rubble.

The Blums’ house was gutted and refurbished, the walls were painted in new, bright colours, and the old ghosts were banished. Together with Mark, she wandered all through the house at night, smoking them out. She and Mark went from room to room, and smoke rose; the scent of juniper, cinnamon and orange peel lingered in the air. Whether Mark believed in it or not, he went with her, helping the witch with her exorcism, making an effort to feel the evil within the walls. They went from cellar to attic, flooding every corner with positive thoughts, and all that had been there before disappeared. Blum threw all thoughts of Hagen and Herta, of her old life with them, out with the rubbish. What was left was a dream house, an oasis of peace in the middle of Innsbruck, a modern Funerary Institute in the shade of the apple trees, managed by a young woman who treated both the dead and the mourners with respect. The business began to flourish. Like Blum herself.