by Peter Corris
The old woman's tone caused Marsha's head to lift.
Merle Benoit nodded vigorously. 'Those ideas were very strong here even after the war. Particularly after the war. There were many sympathisers in Switzerland. Many. Even if it had been known that Basil Craft was conducting experiments on human beings, few of those in authority would have cared. Not for such as those.'
'There must have been staff—other doctors, nurses, people who would object.'
Madame Benoit shook her head. 'No. There were no other doctors and everyone else was paid very well. They were busy catering to the needs of very wilful patients. It was all very carefully managed. The children lived in a separate wing of the building. Have you seen where the clinic was?'
'No. I will.'
'There is no reason. It was burnt to the ground. But it was in a large estate by the lake. A number of buildings linked by passages and even a tunnel. Basil Craft spoke perfect French, German and Italian. He controlled everything that went on. There was no danger.'
'What about his brother?'
Merle Benoit sighed. 'A man in torment. It was not only the sexual obsession that kept him enslaved. He feared for the children too. He feared that his brother would kill them. He saw himself as their protector.'
'And did he protect them, Madame?'
'You have to understand. The children were not ill-treated. They loved their father.'
'What about their mothers? Didn't they want to know about them?'
'He told them that their mothers were dead. He told them that he had loved their mothers and that their mothers had loved him. So he was their mother and their father. He told me that in some cultures lovers address each other as "myself". They are one thing together. The children called him by both names—mother and father.'
'Jesus,' Marsha said. 'This is sick.'
Madame Benoit had been refilling her coffee cup and drinking in pauses as she spoke. She had almost emptied the pot. She poured the last few drops. 'Do you believe me, Miss Prentiss?'
'Yes, I believe you.'
'Good. I will show you something. I was not speaking the truth when I said I had no evidence of this. I have one piece of evidence. One piece. I use it to tell myself that I am not mad, that I did not imagine all this. I was not sure that I could convince another person. But now I will show you.'
She leaned forward and opened a magazine that lay on the table beside the coffee tray. From the centre of the magazine she carefully extracted a yellow-edged photograph. She handed it to Marsha like a priest extending the sacrament.
Marsha paused the tape. 'I wanted to get in close on it, but I was afraid she'd object. I tried to hold it in shot. But it was hard.'
Bright leaned forward. 'Do a frame advance . . . again, hold that. It's not too bad.'
The viewers gazed at the grainy, flickering image. The photograph was of a group posed outside a large, severe building. Marsha recognised the younger version of Madame Benoit and also Richard Craft, so like his brother, yet lacking the bristling air of authority. Two girls, more properly young women, and two boys, dressed with bizarre disparity, were in the picture. The Arab girl looked as if she had stepped from the schoolroom; the dark girl, taller and more strongly built than her sister, wore riding clothes; the Asian boy wore a suit and his brother what looked like a leather jerkin over a sweater and leggings like a mountain climber. All had serious, almost puzzled expressions. The young people stood between Madame Benoit and Richard Craft; another man, smaller, with his face hidden in shadow, squatted in front of the group.
'Go on, Marty,' Bright said.
McKinnon said, 'Make a note of the counter number where the picture occurs.'
'I've already done that, Andy,' Marsha said. The photograph dissolved. 'It was the first time they had had their pictures taken,' Madame Benoit said. 'They scarcely knew what was going on.'
'Who is the other man?'
'The photographer. He had set the camera up with a time exposure. He did not want to be in the picture but I insisted.
'I intended to show the picture to Basil Craft. To show him the photographer and convince him that the work was professional with a proper negative and many copies.'
'I'm sorry,' Marsha said. 'I don't follow.'
'You have to understand what it was like. This was in 1959. Basil Craft was in complete control of the clinic and the lives of the people there, young and old. He was an autocrat. His title was the Controller, and he encouraged us to call him that. He had the money, the expertise, the power. Most men have a weakness; for some it is drink, for others sex, in one way or another. People have fears. Basil Craft had none. He had no humour, no vices it seemed, just . . . force.
'I am a strong person myself, Miss Prentiss. I sensed that the children were at terrible risk. I wanted to save them and I persuaded Richard to help me. Our plan was to search Basil Craft's records to get whatever incriminating information on him we could and to smuggle the children out. We would use the information as a lever. The photograph was part of this plan. It was the only photograph taken of the children as I said. To photograph them was forbidden. It might have worked. The Controller had grown arrogant and conceited. Everything he touched succeeded: his patients sang his praises, although never for public consumption. He had a rule about that, as about many things. Those men brought money. The children developed as he wished them to. From what you have told me it would seem that the girls were twenty years by this time. You would not have thought so, especially the fair one. They had great accomplishments, but the way they had lived made them immature in many ways.'
'Why?'
'I do not know. An obsession. The children were not to be seen by the outside world.'
'Did these men who brought money ever see them?'
'Never. Absolutely not! To proceed, our plan might have worked.'
'But the plan did not succeed, did it? What happened?'
Madame Benoit shrugged as if she was trying to rid herself of a burden. 'We made mistakes. He found out about the photographer before we were ready to move. He killed him and destroyed all the evidence except this one copy.'
'One is enough,' Marsha said.
'No. Courage was required, great courage.'
'I'm sure you had it.'
'Me, perhaps. But then a woman came to the clinic and Richard Craft lost his courage forever.'
The screen filled with static and Bright almost jumped out of his chair with alarm. 'What happened? You didn't . . . '
'Easy, Vic,' Marsha said. 'The tape ran out. I had to make an adjustment for the light, too. Hang on, here's the next tape.'
'Copies?' McKinnon said.
Marsha said, 'Of course.'
When the film resumed the background was darker and the images a shade less clear.
'Atmospheric,' Bright said.
The livid edges of the scar on Merle Benoit's face were just visible where the heavy fall of hair had moved aside. Memories seemed to have immobilised her. Eventually she made a dismissive gesture with her hand, rose and turned on a light.
'I prefer the dark,' she said. 'But you will need light for this camera.'
'You're not too tired?'
'Terribly tired. Tired of my life. But I want to finish. I must!'
'I could come again.'
'No! We are near the end. With the money I can go to Paris. I have a daughter there.' She drew a deep breath and lifted her head. Although signs of fatigue, age and illness were in her face there was strength too, and determination. 'I believe . . . I trust, that my daughter is the child of Richard Craft. She is a kind and good woman. I cannot believe that Basil Craft fathered her, but it is possible. The Controller would take me roughly, brutally, then I would go to his brother for tenderness, sometimes within minutes. How can I tell?'
Marsha said, 'This is very hard for you.'
'Harder than you know. I loved Richard Craft. He was weak and ruled by his brother, but I thought I was strong enough to help the one and beat the other. I was wrong.'<
br />
'Tell me what happened.'
'A woman named Pamela Marchant came to the clinic. She said she was a nurse but she lied. She knew nothing of nursing. She had contempt for the patients and she hated children. She was a handsome woman with red hair and a deep voice. What she knew about was sex. She dressed and walked almost like a whore, like a female in heat. But not quite so. She had enormous eyes, like an animal, and she drew men to her, all men. Her body and voice and eyes promised them everything they wanted. She was clever. She understood men. She studied them. For one she would be quiet, submissive, for another, bold and brazen. Richard Craft fell in love with her.
'He was possessed by desire for her. He could think of nothing else. And Basil Craft treated her with cold courtesy. He alone among the men at the clinic seemed unaffected by her. Richard waited for his brother to take her but it did not happen. He spied on her and them, praying that they would come together, however briefly, so that he could . . . You understand. He could not even approach a woman his brother had not touched. It was a terrible thing to see him consumed by his desire for this woman and held back by this awful obsession. I almost felt sorrow for him, or pity. But he no longer had any interest in saving the children and I came to hate him almost as much as I hated her and the Controller.
'I lied to Richard. I told him that I had seen Pamela and his brother together. That they rutted like beasts in the woods, in a boat on the lake. He did not believe me. He knew from the agony in his heart that it was not true. Pamela Marchant was serving the ends of the Controller, of that I am sure. All the staff in the clinic were his spies. He must have learned something of the plans Richard and I had made and this was his way of frustrating them. I told Richard this when my lies had failed. I told him that his brother was controlling him like a puppet. I think he believed this, but there was nothing he could do about it.
'I told you that I was a strong woman. I was. I tried to kill Pamela Marchant, to poison her, but I failed. I sought outside help, from officials, from the church, but Basil Craft's influence was too great. He continued to treat me with great courtesy, but I knew that he regarded me as an enemy. I don't know what would have happened if I had tried to leave, but I did not. I still had hopes for saving the children.'
'You said Basil Craft killed the photographer.'
Madame Benoit shrugged. 'The man had an accident. His car ran off a road. They said he was drunk but I did not believe it. He was not that sort of man.'
'You look very tired,' Marsha said. 'Would you like some more coffee or some water? I can . . .'
'No, no. Listen to me. You must hear the rest of it. Pamela Marchant and the Controller began to flirt. Just little things at first, glances, a laugh at a remark. Then touching began. Small touchings. It drove Richard mad. They were playing with him, you see. You cannot imagine what the atmosphere in the clinic was like in those weeks. The Controller took no new patients and the ones who were there began to near the end of their treatments. It was winter, terribly cold. The heating and the lights failed at times and I would sit in the dark terrified of what might be happening.'
'To whom?' Marsha said.
'To the children. There was a change in their lives. They went on with their lessons and their activities but at a faster pace. They spent longer and longer doing the things their father deemed they should do. They slept less. Their concentration and energies were tremendous. I am a trained nurse with very great experience of children. I knew what he was doing. I knew!'
The old woman had clenched her fists. Veins stood out in her neck. She panted and her body had gone rigid.
Marsha froze the image. 'This was tough. I thought she was going to have a stroke. She's tough, though. Watch.'
Eventually Madame Benoit uncurled her hands and began to itemise by tapping her right forefinger against the fingers of the other hand. 'Four children,' she said. 'Fatah was the oldest, then Selim. The boys were John and Horatio. They bore no resemblance to each other but there were vital bonds between three of them.'
'Three?'
'Yes. Horatio was kept apart. He was encouraged to think of himself as different, less linked to the others. His bond was with his father and it was incredibly strong. I loved them all but Horatio was the one I knew least about and felt least comfortable with. Probably because he was most like his father. Hard.'
'You said you knew what Basil Craft was doing to the kids. What did you mean?'
'He was giving them drugs to intensify their engagement with their tasks, to lift their performances, to reduce their need for sleep.'
'What drugs?'
'I don't know exactly. I suppose amphetamines. Terribly dangerous. Horatio was given something different. I knew about it from books I had read. Peyote, an American Indian drug. Although he was only a little boy, he ran right around the lake under the influence of this drug. Many, many kilometres. And he had visions. He was being trained as a warrior, you see. An inexhaustible, fearless, inspired warrior. I have often wondered what has happened to him. What kind of terrible life has he led? Born and bred to hunt and kill. Terrible.
'I could see these cruelties being practised. Cruelties disguised as education and guidance. When I was sure I was pregnant I decided that I had a weapon I could use against Basil Craft. His seed was the most precious thing to him. His precious seed. I can hear him saying the words now.'
'You told him? Wasn't that dangerous?'
Madame Benoit said, 'I was desperate. The man was a fiend, doing damage to young lives, creating an evil that would live on after him. I had to do something. I went to see him. I said, "I am carrying your child".'
Marsha gasped. 'My god. What did he say?'
'He smiled and said, "Richard's".
'"No, yours," I said. "With Richard I took precautions, with you I did not."
'We were in his study, a book-lined room with a skylight and no windows. It was at the back of the building, very private, very secure. I knew that he could kill me there with safety so I had a knife with me. A very sharp knife I had stolen from Horatio's collection. The Controller allowed no other weapons on the premises. I resolved that I would kill him and myself if that is what it came to. But he seemed completely relaxed. He invited me to sit down. "Why have you engineered this pregnancy?" he said.
'I was terrified by his calmness, but I forced myself to speak. I told him that I knew he valued his progeny above all else. I said I would use this weakness against him. I will never forget the way he laughed. He threw back his great beast's head and roared. I could have killed him then, at that moment when he was helpless with laughter. My hand was on the knife. I should have done it. But I did not. It is a failing of intelligent people that they want to understand. I waited for understanding, and missed my chance.
'"I don't care a fig for your child, Merle," he said. "I have aborted several of my children with my own hands and abandoned others. I have killed an inconvenient mother or two. What do you think of that?"
'I believed him, every word. My tongue almost froze in my mouth but I managed to ask him what he planned for the children. It was a long time before he answered. He sat in his chair a metre away, wearing his white coat and with his hair neatly trimmed as always and his skin glowing and fresh. I suppose he employed his youth treatments on himself. He looked ten years younger at least than his true age.
'"I doubt that you will understand," he said at last. "But it will do no harm to tell you as you will not live to tell anyone else. Your reaction could be interesting in itself. I am a believer in what is called genetic hybrid vigour. I believe that cross-breeding superb specimens of the different races can produce incredible human beings in whom the talents peculiar to those races can be brought to an almost superhuman pitch."
'"These are people," I said. "Not specimens."
'"Hypocrite," he said. "You came to me planning to use a fetus as a bargaining point and you talk of humanitarianism. I am not interested in humanity in general. No-one of any intelligence is. All but a fraction
of humanity is composed of genetic rubbish an efficient system would have discarded eons ago. The present population of the earth is a distortion of the original plan, a gigantic mistake. My experiments are designed to rediscover that original plan and to point the way to reinstituting it. Do you understand, my sweet, beddable Merle? I think I will have to bed you one last time tonight."
'"I understand that you are mad," I said. "My only concern is for the children. Can you not do your crazy experiments on . . . mice?"
'Again he roared with laughter, again I missed a chance to kill him. I was too outraged to act. "The children, Controller?" I said.
'He stopped laughing and stroked his smooth cheeks. "I confess to being disappointed in Selim," he said. "She is not progressing satisfactorily."
'It was then that I took out the knife and lunged at him. He avoided me easily; he hit my wrist with a heavy ruler from his desk and I dropped the knife. He struck me hard in the face with his free hand and lifted the ruler to strike again. At that moment Richard Craft burst through the door. He saw what was happening. I was sinking towards the floor with blood all over my face. Richard shouted. The Controller laughed at him as he had laughed at me. Richard bent and took up the knife I had dropped. He threw himself at his brother but Basil Craft hardly moved. I was looking up from the floor and I saw the ruler go up and descend twice. The second time it came down on my face and knocked me senseless.'
The images did not move and the only sound coming from the set was the hiss of the tape. Nothing was said for almost a minute. For the first time Madame Benoit touched the scar on her face. Marsha reached out and took the old woman's hand and held it in her own.
Madame Benoit drew a deep breath. 'I must have regained consciousness sufficiently to crawl to a hiding place, but I remember nothing of this. I lay again like a dead woman. Then I was delirious and paralysed. When I recovered the ability to move and my senses had returned the clinic was empty. Everyone had gone. Everyone. All the Controller's papers and books, everything that had accumulated there, had been cleaned out. I was alone in that huge building, the only living thing there.
