David Cronenberg's The Brood

by Richard Starks

  When he stopped at a corner store for some supplies he needed, she insisted on coming in with him, staying close to his side.

  She followed him round the aisles. “How was Mommy?” he asked her.

  “All right.”

  “You spend all day with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know she still loves you, don’t you? Even though she is only able to see you once a week. Things will be different when Mommy is cured and she’s able to come home to us again.”

  Candy didn’t answer, and Carveth didn’t try to press her.

  “Here,” he said, “how about an ice cream to take home with you. You can eat it in the car.”

  She shook her head.

  “No?”

  “Daddy, I want to go home.”

  “Okay, then. We’ll get you something to eat there, then put you to bed.”

  Carveth fixed a simple meal, which they ate in the kitchen. Afterwards, as he cleared the table, he said, “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll wash up these dishes if you go upstairs and run yourself a bath. If you’re in the bath before I get up there, I’ll read you a story. Okay?”

  He expected Candy to go scurrying up the stairs. But she sat for a moment, then only reluctantly agreed.

  He heard water running, and deliberately took his time, waiting until Candy was splashing around in the bath.

  When he went upstairs, he found her sitting up to her waist in warm, soapy water. She had a sailboat in front of her, and floating at the other end of the bath was her wind-up plastic dolphin.

  “So you won,” Carveth said. “Finished before I did, so you get to hear a story. Any one you like.”

  Candy was silent.

  “You like the one about the trains, don’t you?”

  “It’s okay.”

  He knelt beside the bath and began washing her legs and feet. “What do you mean ‘okay’? You used to keep me up for hours reading that story to you. Sometimes I think you know it by heart and you just want to see if I can really read.”

  He wound up the dolphin and pushed it towards her. “There’s nothing you’re not telling me about, is there?” he asked. “Because if there is, you’d probably feel a whole lot better if you did tell me. That’s what Daddies are for, you know.”

  She looked up at him. “Do I have to go see Mommy again?”

  “Don’t you want to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Carveth splashed water over her legs to wash off the soap. “Well, we don’t have to decide that now. Let’s see how you feel next Sunday, shall we?”

  Candy suddenly picked up the dolphin and threw it to the other end of the bath.

  “Hey,” Carveth protested, “you’ll drown him.” He poked her in the tummy. “Come on, turn round and let’s scrub your back.”

  Candy looked away, avoiding his eyes. Then slowly she turned, kneeling in the bottom of the bath.

  Carveth stared at her. “Oh, my God!”

  Candy’s back was covered with bruises and scratches. Someone had beaten her.

  C H A P T E R

  T H R E E

  Hal Raglan was standing in his office in the north wing of Somafree, looking out across the lake. The wind was up and the waters were ruffled and uneasy. From his window he could see almost all of the Somafree grounds; only the boathouse was hidden, blocked from view by a clump of trees that now were swaying in the wind, shedding their leaves like confetti.

  He took a towel from around his neck and began vigorously drying his hair. Although it was only mid-afternoon, he felt as though he already had a long day behind him; yet, he reminded himself, it was still far from over. There was a report to write, speeches to prepare. And a late afternoon session with Nola.

  He was glad then that he had insisted on a private bathroom being added to his office, in spite of the expense and apparent indulgence: a leisurely shower half-way through the day gave him just the kind of lift he needed.

  He tightened the cord of his bathrobe, smiling slightly at his image in one of the full-length wall mirrors. The robe, reaching to the floor, made him appear more like a monk than a practicing psychiatist. He tossed the towel onto a chair and moved behind his desk, remaining on his feet, flipping through the notes he had made on the previous day’s demonstration.

  Generally, he was more than pleased with the results. Michael Trellan had responded exactly on cue, exactly as planned, almost as if he’d been trained. That was important. The demonstrations were a crucial way of attracting interest and attention, and of securing an avid and loyal following. There had to be a certain slickness to them—the kind of polished sheen that would impress and persuade. Because the demonstrations were largely for show.

  True, they were all genuine. Nothing was rigged; nothing was faked. But they were still put on for the benefit of the public as part of Raglan’s campaign to sustain interest in psychoplasmics. They were of little benefit to the patients.

  It wasn’t Raglan’s choice that this should be so. If he’d been able, he would have raised the support he needed from within the medical profession itself, and from the government grants that were handed out to institutions similar to Somafree. He’d tried that route, but had met only rejection and doubt. So he had no other choice but to appeal directly to the general public.

  He consoled himself with the thought that it wouldn’t always be like this. His public backing was only bridge financing, something to tide him over until he could prove once and for all that his theories were sound, that an important breakthrough in medical science had indeed been achieved. Then he would be able to get back into the fold, be once more accepted by his profession and once more eligible for its support.

  And the sooner the better, he thought. The quicker he could shed the need for public backing, the quicker he could devote all of his time to the really important point of his efforts—the further advancement of psychoplasmics.

  He looked up suddenly. A commotion in his secretary’s office next door. Raised voices, an angry exchange.

  The door burst open and Frank Carveth pushed his way into the office. Behind him, Raglan could see his secretary futilely waving her hands. She jostled for position and got in front of Carveth.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Raglan. He demanded to see you. I told him you were busy, that you had another session planned. But he just wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  Raglan looked over her shoulder at Carveth and saw the determination in his face. “All right, Mary,” he said. “Thank you. I’ll handle it from here.”

  “If you say so, doctor.”

  The secretary threw an angry scowl at Carveth and retreated. Carveth closed the door behind her, then strode across the office to stand the other side of Raglan’s desk.

  “Sit down, Raglan,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

  Raglan didn’t move. He looked at Carveth for a moment, then leisurely reached for a cigarette from a teakwood box on his desk.

  “I was under the impression,” he said mildly, “that in my office it was my prerogative to ask you to sit down.” He flicked a heavy table lighter and drew on his cigarette.

  Close up, he was even more impressive than he had been on stage. His large head and muscular body gave him a physical strength that seemed almost threatening and the self-confidence he exuded appeared unshakeable. He regarded Carveth with a flat open stare, then sat in the cushioned swivel chair behind his desk.

  “I will sit down,” he said, “and as decorum dictates, I’ll invite you to do the same.”

  Carveth turned away and walked to the other end of the office. On the wall beside the mirror was a large poster, a blow-up of the front cover of Raglan’s latest book, The Shape of Rage. The poster carried a full-face portrait of Raglan, looking just left of the camera, his hands raised to either side of his head. Beneath it, there was a series of graphics, laid out like a strip cartoon, showing first a fist clenched in anger, then gradually changing, frame by frame, into a mouth with bared teeth and
lips drawn back in a snarl of rage.

  Carveth turned back to face Raglan. “I want to see Nola,” he demanded.

  Raglan watched him. “What’s the trouble, Frank? You sound hostile.”

  “I want to see Nola,” Carveth repeated. “I want to see my wife.”

  Raglan folded his arms behind his head. “You know that’s not possible, Frank. She’s in intensive therapy and I can’t let you break isolation.” He drew on his cigarette, turning his head to the ceiling before exhaling.

  “I want to tell her,” Carveth said, “that she’s not going to be seeing any more of Candy. Not until she signs herself out of this place.”

  Raglan said, “Nola must see her daughter.” He spoke firmly as if addressing a recalcitrant child. “I’m just beginning to delve into her past, her infancy—even beyond. Candy helps her to go back to her own early years. She bridges the gap. Her visits are part of Nola’s program.”

  Carveth took a step towards him. “Well, her program’s just changed.”

  Raglan leaned forward. “What’s happened Frank?”

  Carveth ran a hand through his hair. “It’s Candy,” he said. “She’s been beaten. Her back is covered in bruises. That’s not going to happen again.”

  Raglan studied him. “You think it was Nola?”

  “Who else? She was with Candy all day yesterday. If it wasn’t her, it was one of your staff. Either way, I’m holding you responsible. I may have been worried about Candy before, about leaving her alone with Nola, but Nola never hurt her, never once even lost her temper or shouted at her, not with Candy. Even in the middle of one of her outbursts, Nola never threatened our daughter.” He, leaned on Raglan’s desk. “Not until now.”

  “What does Candy say? Does she accuse her mother?”

  “She won’t talk. She’s pretending it didn’t happen, pushing it from her mind. But there’s no doubt. And no point in arguing. Candy stays with me. No more trips to Somafree. And no more days with Nola.”

  “I’m trying to help her, Frank,” Raglan said. “I’m her doctor. She’s responding well under my care, and I don’t think I have to remind you that she didn’t get very far with the hospital or the psychiatrist she was seeing before she came here. So don’t drop everything on my doorstep.”

  “All I know,” Carveth said, “is that Nola never hurt Candy before. Once is enough. No more visits. So are you going to let me tell Nola? Or are you going to tell her yourself?”

  Raglan was silent for a moment. “Neither, Frank. It’s too critical a time for Nola. I can’t disrupt her program that radically, and I can’t deprive her of the contact she needs with Candy.”

  “Then I’ll deprive her.”

  Raglan stubbedout his cigarette. “You’ve no legal right to deny access. Nola’s rights are spelled out in black and white. To stop you doing just what you’re now proposing.”

  “So who protects Candy?”

  “We can keep a closer eye on her when she’s here. Make sure no harm comes to her.”

  Carveth shook his head. “Not good enough.”

  “I don’t see what else we can do, Frank.”

  “Candy’s still my responsibility. I can get another separation agreement drawn up.”

  “I hope you won’t do that. It could hurt Nola.”

  “We’ll just have to see about that.” Carveth turned away. “You’ll be hearing from me again, Raglan. Next time, through my lawyer.”

  When Carveth had gone, Raglan leaned back in his chair, then swivelled it round to face the window. He was puzzled by the news that Nola had turned on her daughter, but not altogether surprised. When she had first come to him, she had been a tangle of conflicting forces and pressures, obviously in deep emotional and even physical trouble. The fits of anger she exhibited were the most obvious symptom and he had tackled them first, gradually reducing their frequency until they were more or less under control.

  Recently, though, he had deliberately started to provoke them, in a calculated attempt to find their inner source. It was unlikely that he had gone too far, he reckoned. But it was nonetheless possible.

  He stood up and slowly began dressing. He would talk to Nola and see if he could find an explanation. She was too important to him to leave any loose ends of her case untied.

  Raglan knew that if he was ever to achieve the recognition he wanted from his peers, he was going to have to show them something dramatic, something that would confirm once and for all that he really had made an important medical discovery.

  He’d had successes before, of course. Maybe not one hundred percent, but close enough. Many of those successes had been described in his books and speeches. But clearly they hadn’t been sufficient. They hadn’t carried the weight he needed.

  The problem, he knew, was that all his past successes suffered from one major flaw: all the patients he had cured could possibly have been cured by conventional techniques alone.

  Psychoplasmics required entry into a new area of the human experience; it went beyond the accepted limits. First, though, it called for a steady progression through all the stages of conventional treatment. So who could say that Raglan’s successes had really been brought about by psychoplasmics? Perhaps they were merely the result of those initial conventional cures.

  There was no doubt in Raglan’s mind that he had indeed discovered a new area of the psyche, an area that no one had even suspected before. He could prove that area existed, through patients like Michael Trellan. But Trellan could only be used to convince an already believing public—not to convince a suspicious medical profession.

  But Nola was different. She had already been through the range of conventional treatments before she had come to Raglan. And all those treatments had very evidently failed.

  If Raglan could effect a cure with her now, then he would prove that psychoplasmics was solely responsible.

  Also, Nola was responding favourably to treatment, conforming to the dictates of psychoplasmic theory. The attack on Candy was puzzling, and had to be viewed as a setback of sorts. But Raglan knew he was still experimenting, proceeding without any landmarks to guide him. No one had travelled this route before. So set-backs had to be expected and taken in stride.

  He wondered if Carveth would prove to be a problem. Carveth could probably make trouble if he really tried. Candy was, after all, a five-year-old child, and an attractive one at that, so she would undoubtedly be able to draw widespread sympathy. If she accused her mother of physical abuse—abuse that had occurred at Somafree—then Raglan could find his work coming under even heavier attack.

  He had been planning to extend his treatment of Nola, to build her more slowly to the crisis that he was deliberately provoking. But now it seemed he might have to speed up her treatment. He couldn’t afford the risk of letting anything get in his way. Not now. Not with his most prized patient.

  But as he finished dressing and mentally began preparing himself for the session ahead, he couldn’t help hoping that he wouldn’t be pushing Nola too hard.

  Carveth’s anger evaporated as soon as he left Raglan’s office. It had been building inside him all day, and had just happened to have exploded at Raglan. That had been unfortunate. But it was partly Raglan’s secretary who was to blame, trying to brush him off with trite and easy excuses.

  He supposed that there had been little point in going to see Raglan in the first place. Raglan, on medical grounds, could perhaps have denied Nola her access to Candy; but Carveth hadn’t really expected him to. He’d made an issue before of how important it was that Nola should continue seeing her daughter.

  Still, the visit had allowed Carveth to give vent to his own frustration and anger. And it had tempered his resolve. Raglan may have been right in saying that Nola would suffer without Candy’s visits. But right or wrong, Carveth was determined that Candy was not going to be put at risk. He didn’t want to harm Nola, but if it came to a choice, he would have to look after Candy first.

  He looked at his watch. Time to pick u
p Candy from school. But then there would still be time for him to go see Resnikoff, the lawyer who had drawn up his separation agreement with Nola.

  As he drove his Volvo back into town, the afternoon sun, low in the sky on his right, picked out the colours of the trees. Fiery reds and deep oranges. The wind scuffed at the leaves that had already fallen.

  Carveth headed straight for Krell Street, parking just down the road from the school.

  The yard was empty, but a number of parents were clustered around the gate. Carveth joined them, feeling out of place among so many women. He nodded at a few of them, recognizing them by sight, but unable to put names to them without their children beside them.

  The bell rang and he crossed the yard, past the wooden fort, the swings and the monkey bars, and went in the main door. A wave of children washed over him, shouting and pushing, getting under his feet. There was no sign of Candy.

  Carveth made his way to her classroom and looked in the door. A couple of kids were collecting reading materials from the desks at the rear. Candy was at the front of the class, half hidden by her teacher, who was struggling with the zipper on Candy’s jacket.

  Candy looked up and saw him. “Hey, Miss Mayer. Here’s my Daddy. He can fix zippers. He can fix anything.”

  Ruth Mayer suddenly got the zipper to close. “There you are, Candy. You’re all straight now.” She turned and looked over her shoulder. “Hello, Candy’s Daddy.”

  Carveth smiled at her. “Hi.”

  Ruth Mayer was a few years younger than Carveth; in her late twenties, he would have guessed. In spite of her lack of makeup and the deliberately neutral clothes she wore to school, she was an appealing woman with a natural sensuality. Strong features, wide mouth, and large brown eyes. Her blond hair was pinned behind her head, hanging halfway down her back in a pony tail.

  Candy broke away from her and ran to her father, snuggling close to his leg.

  Carveth ruffled her hair. “Learn anything new today?”