Bernhard Aichner - Woman of the Dead - A Thriller

‘This is a hearse, right?’

‘Yes, the Blum Funerary Institute, Innsbruck.’

‘A white hearse?’

‘Yes, my father really wanted it.’

‘So your father is the undertaker?’

‘I’m sorry to say my father is dead. Now I run the business.’

‘But you’re a woman.’

‘And?’

‘That’s no job for a woman.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Why is the music so loud?’

‘As a woman, I find it distressing to drive corpses around. The music helps.’

‘Don’t you think that’s disrespectful to the dead?’

‘That hadn’t occurred to me, but I’ll give it some thought.’

‘You should.’

‘Can’t you turn a blind eye? Leave me my driving licence? I’ll happily pay the fine, but I really must get this corpse to Innsbruck. The family is expecting it.’

‘Who’s in the box?’

‘An old lady. She’s been in the water a long time.’

‘A drowned body?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ve never seen one of those.’

‘You’re not missing out, believe me.’

‘I’d like to see a drowned body. May I take a peek inside?’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘I’m used to all sorts, mark my word. Just the other day we picked up a body from the railway tracks. The head was mush. And there was that accident on the Attersee four days ago. Seven dead.’

‘What a difficult job you do.’

‘It doesn’t bother me. You can show me what’s inside the box.’

‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Of course I’m serious. How often do I get a chance to see a drowned body? This must be my lucky day.’

‘It’s really not a good idea.’

‘Come now – you show me the body and we’ll forget your little misdemeanour.’

‘But it stinks. And there are little bits of skin everywhere, and that face. That face!’

‘Doesn’t bother me. Come on, let’s have a look.’

‘Please understand. As a woman it isn’t easy for me to look at these things. I actually threw up when I loaded it in. I just want to get the body properly buried.’

‘An undertaker who’s afraid of bodies?’

‘Please. Don’t do this to me.’

‘Women. I’ve always said they should stay in the kitchen.’

‘Yes.’

‘I can make you open up.’

‘Please don’t. Not today.’

‘When?’

‘Well, I have photos.’

‘What sort of photos?’

‘Pictures of bodies. Lots and lots of bodies. Beheadings, hanged bodies, bodies that got crushed, corpses after autopsies, amputees. Everything, believe me. I have thousands of photos and you can study them at your leisure. Come to Innsbruck and I’ll show you things you’ve never seen before.’

‘That sounds good. That sounds very good indeed. And you definitely have pictures of drowning victims?’

‘Several, yes. We keep records of everything. And the best thing is that pictures don’t stink.’

‘I’ll come and see you in Innsbruck.’

‘The Blum Funerary Institute. You’re welcome to drop by any time.’

‘Let’s forget about the fine, why don’t we?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Drive carefully.’

‘I will.’

‘And think about what I said.’

‘What?’

‘About staying in the kitchen.’

Blum stands, fixed to the spot, as the grinning psychopath gets into his car and drives away. She is burning with terror. He almost opened the boot, he already had his finger on the button. One second more and he would have heard the cries for help. She’d have lost everything: her life, her children. The idea of leaving them alone is the worst thing of all and it had very nearly come to that. Deep down, Blum is screaming. Her life almost slipped away from her grasp and she has no one to blame but herself: she had abducted a man in broad daylight without knocking him out. She had been driving too fast, she had turned up the music too loud. She hates herself and longs to be back in control. She mustn’t take any more risks. And that is why she needs to do it, this instant. She must silence him.

She hits him five times in close succession, allowing herself no time to calm down. She is out of control now, she is hitting him on the head with the jack, striking with all her might. She hits him before he realises what is going on. Then she hits him a second time and a third time. She feels no pity as she swings her arm back and hits him a fourth time, as hard as she can. There is a dull crunch, metal on skin and bone. A fifth time. His head is covered with blood; the smell is horrible. Blum quickly lowers the lid of the coffin and screws it shut. Bertl Puch has stopped screaming. For a moment, calm descends. She closes the boot and turns around. She is in a small lay-by just off the autobahn. Her heart is racing as she stares straight ahead. She is not alone.

You can see it all from above. The parking place, the hearse, a woman on the ground beside it. She is lying face down on the asphalt, she doesn’t move. Her mouth is open, the sun is shining. She doesn’t move, she can’t, she doesn’t want to, it simply won’t work. Her eyes are open but they can’t settle, her vision is dissolving. Her body is doubled up. She can’t move an inch, she just lies where she is. She lies by the autobahn like a child feeling cold, waiting for an adult to bring her a blanket. Blum is helpless and alone.

Down and down she goes into the abyss. All of a sudden he was there. Blum hadn’t seen him arrive but he had seen it all. He saw her silencing Bertl Puch, then he jumped into his car and sped away. There was no chance to react; there was nothing more she could do. The fact that a man saw her killing Bertl Puch hits her. She has killed a man, violently, without hesitation, and she was caught in the act.

Was the driver just stopping for a rest, answering a call of nature, or did he know what was going to happen all along? Now he has driven away, leaving her alone but for a bloodied Bertl Puch, and a terrible sense of helplessness in the pit of her stomach. Blum doesn’t know her right hand from her left, doesn’t know what to do, what would be good for her and what would not. Her mind is spinning out of control. She falls to her knees as though she has been dealt an actual blow. Her vehicle is conspicuous; in a couple of hours, the police could be at her door. Uma and Nela would scream as she got into the patrol car. She pictures their faces, the questions in their eyes, their flailing arms trying to help her, to halt her departure. Blum sees what is going to happen. The real world is dissolving and scenes of horror are swimming before her eyes.

Blum is trembling. She remembers the mess that was Bertl Puch, his pulpy head, his blood, his shit, his urine. She must get up, she must drive away from here. She must limit the damage, turn back the clock as best she can, dispose of him in a grave. She must go to the children, hold them in her arms, tell them she loves them, kiss them, laugh with them, act as if everything is all right. At least one last time. She must hope that nothing will separate them. She’d give everything for that, do anything for it, tell lies, deny accusations, kill for it too. Blum will stand up now and get into her car. She will ignore the smell, drive back to Innsbruck and take refuge in the preparation room. Bertl Puch will disappear. She will clean the coffin and reset her life.

She emerges from her fainting fit and gets back into the hearse. She drives away from the lay-by and on to the autobahn, from Salzburg on to Innsbruck. Blum holds the strings in her own hands. She is hanging from them herself but she is also the puppet master. She forces herself to get up, raises her arm, puts her hand on the steering wheel, presses her foot on the accelerator. Then she taps a number into her phone.