He was staggering slightly as he went into the hall, and had to lean on the door-jamb for support. When he had arrived at the house that evening, he had gone straight to the living room. Now, he turned and walked down the hall to the kitchen. A rope had been slung across the entrance, tied to a chair and a drawer in the counter. He looked into the room and saw the white tapes on the floor, showing where Juliana had fallen after she’d been killed. An unrecognizeable shape, not one of a human being, just a formless outline, pathetically small.
Suddenly, he grabbed the rope and pulled it, yanking the drawer from the counter and sending it crashing to the floor. He stepped forward and kicked it out of his way.
Kelly was swaying slightly, staring down at the tapes; then he knelt beside them. His eyes were filled with tears.
Carveth drove as quickly as he could. He really shouldn’t have left Barton on his own, he thought; instead, he should have insisted he stay with him and Candy. At least that way he could have kept Barton out of trouble and put an end to his plan to go see Nola even before it had properly formed.
He drew level with a streetcar and accelerated rapidly, trying to get in front of it; then swore softly as the lights ahead changed to red, forcing him to stop.
Kelly climbed the stairs to the second floor, stoping now and then to rest his weight on the banisters. He’d once carried Juliana up these stairs, he remembered, after they’d been away on what was supposed to have been a second honeymoon.
It was all so long ago, in a past that seemed to belong to someone else.
He went into the master bedroom and stood by the side of the bed—on his side, side near the door. Juliana had always insisted she sleep away from the door, concerned that someone might break in during the night and come up to the room. It wasn’t a particularly rational fear: if someone were to break in, they’d probably avoid the bedroom altogether. But Juliana had always insisted: ‘You sleep near the door, Barton; that way you can protect me.’
She had always been hearing noises too; then asking him to go down to the basement to check that it was empty, or to look into closets and behind the furniture to make sure no one was there. But the noises had just been the old house creaking, or the sigh of the trees moving in the trees.
He sat on the bed, blinking back tears as he relived the memories the house still retained. His life here hadn’t been perfect, but there had been moments of joy, of contentment, when he, Juliana and Nola had been a united family. He sank back against the pillow and wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. It must be the scotch, he thought, making him yearn for a past he’d hoped he’d forgotten.
He closed his eyes. If only he could just see Nola; get inside the Somafree Institute and tell her why he’d been away from home so often, why he’d not bee the father she needed. If only he could have a chance to explain.
He rolled over. It was no good, he thought. Nothing would change. Not now.
As he turned and buried his face in the pillow, two hands appeared from under the bed. Small, ill-defined, the fingers not properly formed. For a moment they were still. But then they flattened onto the carpet, and a creature, the size of a child, pulled itself onto the rug by the bed. It rolled over, then rose to its feet, its back arched, knees slightly bent.
It watched Kelly with a cold, unblinking stare.
Carveth turned the last corner and saw the lights of Juliana’s house at the end of the street. For a horrible moment he was reminded of his last visit to the house when he had found the police already investigating her murder. At least, he thought, there was no sign of them now. He parked in the driveway behind Kelly’s rented car.
The front door of the house was unlocked, the bolt drawn back so that it could not connect with its socket in the door-jamb. Carveth pushed it open and went inside.
Kelly lay still, his face pressed into the pillow. Beside him, the child-creature looked around and saw a matched pair of glass spheres on the dresser by the bed—the kind that, when shaken, snow on the miniature landscapes locked inside. It reached out and grabbed them, one in each hand, then climbed onto the bed.
Kelly felt its weight beside him and turned, his mind still fogged with memories, his eyes blinded with tears.
He held out one hand.
“Nola? Nola, is that you?”
Slowly he sat up, and, as he did so, the creature swung one of the spheres, crashing it against his temple. Kelly fell back against the pillow. The creature jumped onto him. He tried to roll over, to throw it away from him, but it had a strength that far outweighed its size. Its knees were on either side of his neck, pinning him down, and all he could do was turn his head helplessly from side to side.
He called out. But at the sound of his voice the creature exploded in fury, and began swinging the spheres, alternating its hands, smashing them into his face as though beating a drum.
Kelly screamed. The creatures face above him bloated with rage. And as Kelly lost consciousness under the weight of the attack, the creature let out a shriek like a demon from hell.
Carveth was in the kitchen when he heard the screams. He’d seen the empty bottle of scotch in the living room, and then walked down the hall to find the spilled drawer on the floor of the kitchen.
He turned and ran back down the hall, then took the stairs two at a time. He burst into Juliana’s room, pushing open the door with his shoulder. Kelly was lying on the bed, face down. Carveth shook him, then rolled him over. The body turned; then the head.
“Oh, no. Oh, Christ, no.”
Kelly’s face had been battered almost beyond recognition. One cheekbone was crushed, and blood still flowed from the wound on his forehead. Beside him was a glass sphere, matted with blood, and as his head swung round to rest in a hollow in the pillow, the sphere rolled down the slope towards him, lodging just under his chin.
Carveth stepped back. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement in the mirror on the wall. He whirled. The creature was crouched in the corner of the room. In its hand was a blood-stained sphere matching the one on the bed. It hissed at him, then hurled the sphere. Carveth instinctively put up his hand, but the sphere went by him, passing over his head and struck the wall behind.
The creature ran past him and out of the room. Carveth grabbed a pair of scissors from the dresser and followed it into the hall.
The landing was empty. He peered over the banisters, then moved down the hall, staying close to the wall. He was passing the bathroom when he saw a smear of blood on the edge of the door-frame. A second smear was on the tiled floor inside.
Carveth took a step into the room.
The shower curtain had been pulled across the bath. He moved slowly towards it, raising the scissors over his head, holding them in one hand like a dagger, then tore the curtain from its hooks. The tub was empty.
As he turned, the door of the linen closet opened behind him and the creature hurled itself at him, scratching at his face, tugging and pulling at his hair. Carveth desperately shook it off, then lunged at it, trying to stab it with the scissors. Suddenly it went limp, lying on its back, choking and gasping for air.
He stared at it. And slowly, as he watched, its struggles subsided. Its legs kicked futilely in one last convulsion. And then it was still.
Carveth staggered from the room and held onto the banisters, sucking in great drafts of air as he tried to fight the nausea welling inside him.
C H A P T E R
E I G H T
“I still can’t believe it,” Markle was saying. “That thing must have been in the house all the time. It must have killed Juliana, then hidden out somewhere in the house.”
Inspector Markle led the way along the corridor to his office in the downtown police complex. He was wearing the same smart, tailored suit that Carveth had seen him in before, and was walking stiffly upright as if on parade.
“We searched the whole damn place,” he said. “But we weren’t looking for a kid. A goddam child.” He smiled sardonically. “We were looking
for a full-grown psycho, and had narrowed our search to an Estonian musician and an out-of-work security guard.”
“Have you found out who it belonged to?” Carveth asked.
Markle shook his head. He pushed open the door of his office and waved Carveth to a seat. “My guess,” he said, “is that some poor woman had a deformed baby and just abandoned it, or else had it locked up in a room for years and never told anyone about it. It wouldn’t be the first time, you know.” He sat behind his desk. “I’ll need another statement from you, I’m afraid. Times. Places. Who was there and why.” He pushed a form across the desk.
Carveth took it and stared unseeing at the empty page. “I just can’t accept it. First Juliana, then Barton. And within a couple of days of each other.”
Markle looked at him. “Can I get you a coffee or anything?”
Carveth shook his head. “At least Candy didn’t see this one.”
“That’s another thing,” Markle said. “I need to know if your daughter really did see anything before, when your mother-in-law was killed. Just to make sure, you know? To confirm that it really was that kid who killed them both.” He lit a cigarette, sucking in smoke.
Carveth nodded silently. “It just lay there,” he said. “It jumped me, then before I could do anything, it kind of fell over and just . . . died.”
“Well, it was pretty badly deformed. God knows what was wrong with it. I’ve got the pathologist checking it out, so we’ll soon find out.” He reached across the desk and took back the form. “Here, you tell me what happened. I’ll write it. You sign it. Then you can get back home to your daughter.”
Ruth Mayer was curled on the couch in Carveth’s living room, studying The Shape of Rage. She’d found the book on Carveth’s shelves and had idly picked it up, but as she’d started to read she realized the book had immediate appeal. Even the cover was compelling: the strong, authoritative face of Dr. Hal Raglan, hands raised either side of his head; and the clever graphics showing the physical form of rage.
She turned the book sideways and flipped through the illustrations. The faces that stared out at her were twisted; and the bodies, too, were angry, sometimes marred by cuts and abrasions, at other times swollen and distended to unnatural dimensions. These were the patients that Raglan claimed to have helped, but looking at their pictures, it was hard for Ruth to believe that the treatment they had received had really been beneficial.
She glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes, Carveth had said. Already he’d been gone for more than an hour.
She turned the page to the last illustration, and was horrified by the intensity of the rage she saw there. The face of the patient was distorted into a mask that was almost inhuman. Ruth felt a shudder run through her, and got up to put on the lamp in the corner of the room.
As she did so, the phone suddenly rang, making her jump. She ran to it, hoping to hear Carveth’s voice.
“Yes? Hello?”
No one spoke on the other end of the line, but Ruth could hear breathing.
“Who’s there? she demanded. “Who is that?”
When the voice spoke, it was like a hiss, soft as a whisper. “Is that Frank Carveth’s house?”
“Yes,” Ruth said. “He’s not here at the moment. Could I take a message?”
“Who are you?” the voice asked. “What are you doing there?”
Ruth hesitated.
“Who are you?” the voice insisted.
“Ruth Mayer. Do you want to leave a message?”
“Ruth Mayer? From Krell Street School?” The voice hardened. “Are you and my husband having your own private PTA meeting, Miss Mayer?”
“Mrs. Carveth? Is that you?”
“You thought I was safely out of the way, did you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mrs. Carveth. You know better than that.”
“Do I, Miss Mayer? Do I know better?” The voice became menacing. “Is Frank doing a little homework with you, Miss Mayer? Catching up on his studies?”
Ruth cut in. “I won’t even bother answering that question.”
The voice at the other end of the line was a scream. “You bitch! You’re killing my family! You bitch, bitch, bitch . . . !”
Ruth slammed down the phone, and as it started ringing again, she lifted the receiver and buried it under the sofa cushion.
Her hands were shaking as she lit a cigarette.
Markle finished writing and passed the form across the desk to Carveth. “Okay, read that,” he said. “If you agree with everything in it, sign at the bottom. I’ll witness it.”
As Carveth read through the statement he had dictated, he could still not believe that the events he had described had really taken place. It was a nightmare, a harsh dream from which he must soon surely wake.
The phone rang on Markle’s desk. Markle answered it, listened for a moment, then said, “Okay. I’ll be over . . . Give me five minutes.”
Carveth took the pen Markle offered and signed his name to the statement.
“If you think of anything else, let me know,” Markle told him. He leaned back in his chair and studied Carveth for a moment. “Can you take one more shock?” he asked.
Carveth looked up. “No. What is it?”
“I want you to see the body. Of the kid.”
“I’ve seen all I want to see. And it’s not something I’m going to forget.”
“Maybe not.” Markle nodded at the phone. “That was Terry Desborough, the pathologist. Says there’s something funny about the kid. Something odd.”
“So?”
“So I’m still worried about Juliana. I want to make sure that she really was the victim of our murderer. And the only person who can tell me that is your daughter, Candy. If she saw this kid we’ve got in autopsy, she’d remember, even if she won’t talk about it yet. I don’t want to bring her down here to look at the body. Christ, it would scare a grown man. But if you had a good idea of what the kid was really like, maybe you could get Candy to describe what she saw, see if it matches the one we’ve got here, and confirm for us that this kid really did do away with your mother-in-law too.”
Carveth sighed. “All right. First, though, I have to call home. I’m more than an hour overdue as it is.”
Markle waved at the phone. “Dial 9 to get an outside line.”
As Carveth phoned, Markle read through the statement once more, then signed his name as a witness.
He looked up as Carveth hung up the phone. “What’s the matter?”
“The line’s engaged. I’ll have to try again later.”
Markle stood up. “Okay. Shall we go?”
Carveth nodded. “If we have to.”
Markle held open the door of the autopsy room and let Carveth precede him inside.
In the centre of the room a broad table had been swung out from one wall. It was moulded on top into what was, in effect, a large stainless-steel tray with low sides, grooved over much of its surface so that any spilled liquid could flow into the side gutters where it could later be drained away to a sink.
Carveth hesitated a moment, overcome by the sharp, stinging smell of formaldehyde. Markle took his arm and gently steered him to the table.
Standing to one side was the pathologist, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands encased in a pair of rubber surgical gloves. In front of him, on the table, was a small bundle wrapped in a black vinyl sheet.
“Dr. Desborough,” Markle said, “this is Frank Carveth. I wanted him to have a look at the body.” He turned to Carveth. “It won’t take long,okay?”
“You won’t mind if I don’t shake hands,” Desborough said. “I’ve been doing a little preliminary exploration.” He looked at Markle. “You’re not going to like this Bruno. It’ll make nonsense out of your case.”
“That’s what you people are for, isn’t it?”
Desborough smiled. He took a pair of forceps from a side-table and rolled back the vinyl sheet, revealing the body underneath. The corpse, naked and lying flat on its
back, was half floating in a shallow bath of preservative. As Desborough exposed it, he nudged the table slightly and the preservative swirled round the bath, making the arms move with a gentle, swimming motion as if the body were still alive.
The stench was overpowering. Carveth paled and took a step back, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible.
“There’s a water cooler in the corner,” Markle told him.
Carveth shook his head. “I’m all right.”
Desborough glanced at him. “If you’re going to be sick, use the sink on the left,” he said. “The other one’s in use.”
Markle said, “Just get on with it, Terry.”
“As you wish.”
Carveth forced himself to look at the body. Its skin was translucent, clearly showing a network of thin blue veins. The limbs seemed rubbery. And the feet, he noticed, were slightly webbed, just like the hands.
“All right,” Desborough said. “Let’s take it from the top. You’ll notice,” he said, “that almost all the features of the face are deformed or ill-defined in some way. The eyes are wide apart, unnaturally so, and there are no eye lids or lashes. The ears are not properly formed, just small protuberances that indicate where they might have been had they been allowed to develop. The nose, the chin, they’re both formless, no real substance to them. And as a matter of fact, there is no real bone in them, just cartilage. I suspect,” he said, “that when I get inside, I’ll find the rest of the body is much the same. No bone, just cartilage.”
His forceps hovered around the mouth. “Here,” he said, “there’s a cleft in the upper lip, a modified hare-lip; very rare indeed. The palate too is cleft, although you can’t see that at present.”
He reached into the mouth with the forceps and gently pulled at the tongue until it was sticking out in a rude, defiant gesture. Again, with the open, unlidden eyes staring up at him, Carveth had the unpleasant sensation that the body was still very much alive.
David Cronenberg's The Brood Page 9
