by Hank Janson
That beating had its effect. It imprinted indelibly on my mind absolute fear and terror of all three of them. Weeks later, when I was at last allowed out of my bedroom, my body no longer showing the signs of my beating, I limped downstairs, beaten and humiliated, flinching from the slightest movement any of them made, desperately resolved not to say or do anything that would bring such suffering on me again.
Yeah, I was reduced into a mass of whimpering nerves, frightened even of my own shadow. I went to school, was shunned by my school-mates, who no longer wanted my company. After school, obeying Frisk’s instructions obediently, I returned home and was locked in my bedroom with books or toys. Never again would I dare to disobey Frisk.
It was three months afterwards when the inevitable happened. Frisk and the doctors were upstairs a great deal now. They were taking up pails of hot, steaming water, soap and towels and disinfectant. The coloured maid was busy too, cooking delicate and appetising food. I didn’t understand all this activity then. But I understood it later. Mother had finally broken. Her tortured brain had stood up to the inhuman treatment longer than could reasonably be expected. Now, at last, her mind had revolted, snapped beneath the inhuman strain. Having driven her to insanity, they were now eliminating all trace of their inhuman behaviour, washing and cleaning mother, feeding her with delicate, nourishing foods so she should appear physically healthy and well-nourished.
The end came the weekend Doc Morgan and Dr Manders went away. The truth was, of course, that neither of them were doctors, just friends of Frisk.
I was there when Frisk called in another doctor. I was there when the ambulance arrived and white-coated men entered the bedroom, to which my mother had now been returned. I saw her when they brought her out wearing the strange garment that was called a straitjacket. Her thin lips were rolled back to show sharp teeth, her eyes wild and her hair dishevelled. Worst of all were the flecks of foam at the corner of her mouth.
To watch Frisk, you’d have thought he was the most upset guy in the world. He was a broken man, almost on the verge of weeping. The doctor patted him kindly on the shoulder before he went away with the ambulance.
What did I do? I slunk in a corner as far away from Frisk as I could get, watching him with hunted eyes, flinching at any quick movements of his hands.
Frisk got legal authority to assume control of his wife’s property. Shortly afterwards, the house was put up for sale. Frisk bought a nightclub, moved me over there. To me, the routine was no different. I went to school, returned obediently and was locked in my bare bedroom with my homework. Right through the night I’d lay awake, listening to the strains of the jazz-band, shrinking in terror whenever I heard footsteps outside my door.
When I was fourteen and no longer obliged to go to school, Frisk put me in the kitchen, washing-up and polishing knives and forks. I saw Dr Manders only once more. That was when he returned after Mother had been taken to the asylum. He stopped two days, disappeared again. Doc Morgan went away with him, but turned up again sometime later. He seemed to dog Frisk, follow him everywhere. And they weren’t friends any longer. Frisk hated him. But Morgan hung around like he was amused with life and had some secret hold over Frisk.
Mother died shortly after I was fourteen. Frisk mentioned it to me casually. Told me she’d died two or three days before. I didn’t cry. I was too young to understand it all then. But there was nothing to hold me with Frisk any more. The next day, when I got my opportunity, I stole a few dollars from the till. I left town, travelled overland as far as the dollars would take me. I wound up in a small, wayside station. A farmer gave me work helping with the harvest, and from then on, I was on my own.
Working in the open air helped me to grow stronger and healthy. I quit farming, went to town and got myself a job with a construction contractor. Later, I studied at evening school, spent all my time studying. I worked well, and was rewarded. By the time I was twenty-five, I was holding down a promising job. I was getting good money, too. But I lived frugally, saved my money. Because, as the years passed and my memories lived with me, I realized exactly what Frisk had done to Mother. That left just one thought in my mind. Revenge!
During those years, I kept track of Frisk, knew when he moved to Cleveland and started this new nightclub. I paid plenty of dough to guys to get me information about Frisk. I knew the money he was making, the sound financial position he was building himself into, and knew it was all due to the money he had killed Mother in order to obtain.
Finally, when I’d saved enough money, I gave up my job, travelled to Cleveland with just one thought in my mind. I was gonna make Frisk suffer as he’d made Mother suffer. I was gonna imprison him, chain him down until his mind too cracked beneath the strain, until he too was dragged into an asylum, his arms imprisoned in a straitjacket and his jaws foaming like a wild beast.
Revenge was my reason for being in Cleveland. Revenge was my reason for that damp cellar, the heavy chains and the isolation of this house. A house so isolated that a half-mad man could shake his chains and howl into the long night like a wolf without attracting attention.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was a wild, incredible story to tell anyone. Only I, who had lived through it, could understand the way it happened. Yet it was a relief to give Helen a rough outline of the revenge I’d planned and my reasons. I’d never told anyone this before. Talking about it now eased the strain of it, helped me to understand that my deliberate, cold-blooded revenge was just retribution.
I couldn’t tell if she believed me or not. She wasn’t looking at me, was tracing a pattern on the eiderdown with her finger. Without looking up, she asked: ‘What happened to the two doctors?’
‘I traced Manders,’ I said dully. ‘He died before Mother died. Doc Morgan was different. He came back to Frisk, hung around. I don’t doubt he was after more dough. Frisk probably fixed him.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Died in a car smash,’ I said. ‘Was said to have been drunk at the time. Crashed through a fence, went over an embankment.’
‘You don’t believe it was an accident?’ she asked quietly.
‘I don’t care,’ I said bitterly. ‘It’s enough to know he’s dead.’
‘Can you prove any of this?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t there witnesses, people who will bear out what you say. Can’t you take him to court?’
I smiled grimly. ‘There isn’t a thing I could prove. Maybe I could have proved it then, had I been old enough.’ I got angry. ‘What the hell do I wanna prove anyway? I want Frisk to suffer as Mother suffered. He won’t do that in court.
She looked up, eyed me steadily. ‘That man I saw in the car,’ she said. ‘You say you were framed, that you didn’t murder him.’
‘They killed him,’ I said wearily. ‘They doped me, left me in the car with him. They wanted the cops to find me. Pin it on me.’
‘Was it Frisk who killed him?’
I nodded. ‘That’s the irony of it,’ I said bitterly. ‘I came here to get Frisk, take my revenge. He didn’t even recognise me. Yet he framed me, put me in as tough a spot as he did Mother.’
She said quickly: ‘Why don’t you let me go? I won’t say as I saw you. I’ve got money. I’ll try to help you.’
I looked at her. I remembered the way she’d never stopped fighting me, the way she’d struggled all the time there was a chance she might get away. I remembered how she’d ripped her dress to pieces, risked her neck climbing through that window. Then finally, with the chain around her waist and the realization that escape was hopeless, she’d tried to strangle me and beat my head in. Later she’d tried to use her undoubtedly beautiful body to obtain her release.
Now she was trying just one more angle, pretending to sympathize with me, hoping I might be sucker enough release her so she could bring the police down around my ears.
I got up, shrugged on my jacket. I had to grit my teeth against the pain of my arm.
‘Where are you going?’ she demanded.
There wasn’t anything new. Only that Manton’s daughter, Jessica, had been to the morgue to identify him. She’d come accompanied by a friend and had collapsed, had to be taken home semiconscious.
The rest of the paper was full of the search for Helen Gaskin. There were pictures of her on every page. Helen at Monte Carlo, Helen riding to hounds across rural English countryside, Helen bob-sledging at the winter-sports, Helen in her racing car on the sands in Florida.
There was a reward of twenty-five thousand dollars for information about Helen. The police had no doubt she’d been kidnapped. Helen and her car had disappeared as completely as if they’d been snatched from the highroads by a giant hand. But the police had got several leads, which they were following closely. They were convinced her release and the capture of her kidnappers was imminent.
I knew that was newspaper talk. But it got me worried. I drove back to the house with my collar turned up and with the uneasy feeling that everyone I passed was staring at me with recognition in their eyes.
She was in the bathroom when I got back. ‘It’s all right,’ she called. ‘I’m not escaping. I’m washing.’
‘Feeling hungry?’
‘Rather!’
‘Corned beef and baked beans.’
She was disappointed. ‘It’s better than nothing, I suppose.’
I took off my jacket, winced with the pain of my arm, which was severely swollen, and set about preparing a meal. It was almost ready by the time she came out. Her face was clean and shiny, like she’d rubbed it hard with the towel. But her hair was dishevelled and her lips pale. That didn’t make her look any the less attractive. She approached me as near as the chain would allow, leaned forward so she could inspect what I was doing.
‘Anything I can do?’ she asked.
I grunted. ‘I’m managing.’ I was wishing she hadn’t torn that dress. Having been so close to her, and having her around now in an undergarment so cunningly revealing, meant she was constantly on my mind. Not that I minded it. But I had to be careful, remember she was cool and calculating, remember she was waiting her opportunity, willing to sacrifice trump cards if she could win the game.
Yeah, I was plenty worried. I hadn’t bothered much with dames, had never been much in their company. I was scared just how far I might lose control of myself with this one.
‘Why not let me do the cooking?’ she asked. ‘Push the stove over here with the provisions. I’ll throw together something tasty. I’m really good, you know.’
Her blue eyes looked at me, wide and sincere. Then she flushed as I sneered. ‘D’you think I’m crazy? You’d burn the house down if you got your hands on that stove. You’d cut my throat if I let you have a knife.’
Her shoulders kinda drooped. She turned away from me, went back to the bed and sat on it, dangling her legs rather like a naughty little girl who’s just been scolded. Immediately I felt sorry, wanted to apologise. But I wouldn’t let myself. I wasn’t gonna give way to her at any point.
‘You said it would be better for us both if I resigned myself to being here,’ she pouted.
‘Are you resigned to it?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I guess I can’t do anything about it.’
‘First chance you get, you’ll make a break,’ I said.
She flared at me viciously. ‘D’you blame me? Your mother was chained up the way I am. It drove her crazy. D’you blame me for wanting to get away.’
‘You won’t be here that long,’ I promised. ‘Just as soon as I’ve settled with Frisk and evened the score, I’ll duck out.’
‘How long’s that gonna take?’ she asked bitterly. ‘You’ve waited fifteen years already. How many more years?’
‘Just a few days.’
‘Just how do you intend to do it?’
I didn’t have an answer to that. My one hope had been to get Frisk alone. That hope was doomed now. Frisk had plenty of enemies. Wherever he went, he had Gunn and Jenks for his bodyguards. Kidnapping Frisk and getting him to this house was gonna be a superhuman task.
I pushed a plate of food across the boundary line. ‘That’s the best I can do,’ I grunted.
‘You’re such a fool,’ she complained. ‘Why don’t you let me cook something? I can’t possibly get away while there’s this.’ Her fingers toyed with the chain, clinked it irritably.
‘Eat that,’ I said. ‘That’s all you’ll get.’
She got off the bed, picked up the plate and looked at it. Her lips curled in a sneer. ‘You don’t really mean you’re going to keep serving me with this kinda ...’
‘Shuddup and eat it,’ I said.
The indignant way she stared showed she’d never been spoken to that way before. Her eyes widened with indignation and fury. She lost her temper. ‘Why you conceited …’ words choked in her throat.
‘Shuddup,’ I said. ‘Pipe down and eat up.’
She had been spoiled as a kid. She acted almost without thinking. I ducked as the plate whistled at my head. It smashed against the wall, hot gravy and beans spattered floor and ceiling. I straightened up, glared at her. She glared back, defiantly. Then suddenly she was ashamed of herself. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, penitently. ‘I lost my temper.’
‘You lost your supper, too!’
‘I didn’t mean to act that way,’ she apologised. ‘Please forgive me. It’s just that I’m not used to being spoken to the way you spoke to me.’
I grunted, sat down and started eating. When I was halfway through, she said: ‘I did offer to do the cooking myself. Can I cook something else?’
‘I gave you supper,’ I growled. ‘You’ve had it.’
The throb of my arm was becoming unbearable. That’s why I was getting so bad-tempered myself. I finished eating, put away the plates. She sat watching me expectantly. She was hungry. But she had too much pride to ask again for food.
Maybe I would have relented, given her something to eat. But she got up, said something very loud, very unladylike and very rude, and stalked through to the bathroom. She jammed the door closed as far as she could. It was the nearest she could get to walking out on me.
The pain in my arm was becoming impossible. I took a bottle of whisky from the cabinet, found a box of aspirins and went along the passage to one of the other rooms. In front of the mirror, I carefully inspected my arm. It was swollen, the flesh reddened, and a tiny yellow spot showed around the scab caused where the needle point had entered. I took four aspirins, washed them down with whisky. Then I went back to her room, took a blanket from her bed, settled in an armchair and drank another large slug of whisky.
It was as though the pain in my arm and the fumes in my head were fighting for mastery. Dimly, I realised whisky was the only pain-killer I had available. I drank more of it, swallowed more aspirins. I drifted off into a kinda soggy doze, opened my eyes from time to time when the pain pulled me out of my sleep. Sometime during that nightmarish doze, she came out of the bathroom, climbed into bed and turned off the light. I reached for the bottle, drank more whisky and gritted my teeth against the pain, waiting for the numbing effects of the spirit to enable me to sleep.
Dawn was breaking when a rending hot stab of pain that would not be subdued aroused me. I got up, paced up and down the room in a kinda pained coma. After a time, it subsided. I found I was sweating and weak. I examined my arm, found the yellow spot had grown to the size of a sixpence. Then I felt under my armpit, and there was a large lump there. The poison was running through me, getting into the bloodstream.
Wild fears beat at me. It might mean having my arm amputated. It might even mean I’d die. I reached for the whisky bottle, found it empty, put it back unsteadily on the table, so that it fell. The noise awoke her.
She sat up in bed, stared at me anxiously. ‘What’s the matter, Lee?’
‘Aw Leave me alone, will ya?
‘You’re ill,’ she said. She sounde
d worried.
‘Gotta bit of trouble,’ I gritted.
‘It’s your arm,’ she said. ‘Let me look at it.’
I moved towards her, she climbed out of bed, came as far as her chain would permit. Her forehead was crinkled in sympathy as she drew in a pained breath. ‘Gee, that s bad,’ she said. ‘That’s real bad. You’ll have to go to hospital right away.’
‘That’s out,’ I said flatly.
‘But you’ll have to go,’ she protested. ‘That’s really dangerous. Anything could happen.’
I grinned mirthlessly. ‘Sure. Anything could happen!’ I got another bottle of whisky from the cabinet. I cleared a small table, laid out a clean towel, bandages, a razor blade and a pair of pliers. I put a kettle on to boil, and while it was boiling poured whisky into a cup, dropped in the razor blade, the pliers. I applied a match to the pliers, held them while a blue flame hovered around them.
She was watching me all the time. Finally she said, disbelievingly: ‘You’re not going to do it yourself!’
I wasn’t looking forward to it. It didn’t help having her so critical. ‘Sure I’m doing it myself.’
‘You’re crazy,’ she whispered. ‘You’re running all kinds of risks.’
‘Leave me alone, will ya, lady? It’s my arm. Not yours.’
The water was boiling. I filled the basin, put more water on the stove. She was watching me all the time with wide, anxious eyes. ‘Why don’t you go to hospital?’
I ignored her, balanced a mirror so I could see my arm. It was gonna be awkward. I’d have to work with my left hand, probe for the piece of needle with blunt pliers, unable to see what I was doing.
