Shock Treatment

by James Hadley Chase

  “If you’ll give me the aerial . . .” she said.

  I was glad of the excuse to turn away and pick up the aerial. I handed it up to her, then the tool kit and then the coil of flex.

  I climbed up beside her.

  In that hot, stuffy little attic we suddenly seemed to be the only two people left in the world. Up there I couldn’t hear the TV. I couldn’t hear anything except the thump-thump-thump of my heart-beats.

  “I’m glad I don’t have to go out there,” she said, moving away from me to stare through the skylight at the patch of blue sky. “I haven’t any head for heights.”

  “I used to feel that way, but it doesn’t bother me now. I guess one gets used to anything if you try hard enough.”

  “I used to think that too, but not now. I know my husband will never get used to sitting in his chair for the rest of his days.”

  I began to uncoil the flex.

  “That’s different. Did he have an accident?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her hair off her shoulders, letting it run through her slim-waisted lingers. “He feels it terribly. I think it’s worse for him than most men. He was the tennis coach for the Pacific Film Studios. He coached all the famous stars. It was a glamorous and very paying job. He is close on fifty. You wouldn’t think he could be a great tennis player, not at that age, but he was. He had so much fun and he loved teaching. That was really all he was ever good at. He had no other interests. Then this accident happened. He’ll never be able to walk again.”

  And he’ll never be able to make love to you again either, I thought. If there was any pity in my thoughts, it was for her.

  “That’s tough,” I said. “Isn’t there something he could interest himself in? He’s not planning to sit in that chair and do nothing for the rest of his days, is he?”

  “Yes. He made an awful lot of money. That’s something we’re not short of.” Her red, full lips twisted into a bitter smile. “He has come out here to get away from his friends. The one thing he hates more than anything is to be pitied.”

  I fixed the stripped ends of the flex to the aerial leads.

  “How about you? It can’t be much fun being buried out here, can it?”

  She lifted her shoulders.

  “He is my husband.” She studied me for a long moment, then said, “Shall I hold it now?”

  That broke up the conversation. I got out onto the roof and she passed the aerial up to me.

  With her helping me, it didn’t take long to fix the aerial in place. She handed up the tools I wanted, and every time I came to the skylight and looked down at her, I became more aware of her.

  “That’s it,” I said, and swung myself down through the skylight into the attic.

  “It didn’t take long,” she said.

  She was standing close to me.

  “I’ve put up so many aerials I could put one up in my sleep.”

  I was beginning to breathe fast again.

  I knew she wasn’t listening. She was looking intently at me, her chin up, and there was that thing lighting up her eyes.

  Suddenly she swayed towards me.

  I grabbed her.

  In the past I have kissed quite a few women, but this was different. This was the kind of kiss you dream about. She melted into me: it was the moment of truth — there is no other way of describing it.

  We clung to each other for maybe twenty or thirty seconds, then she broke free and stepped back and put her finger on her lips, pressing them while she stared at me. Her forget-me-not blue eyes had turned cloudy and were half closed, and she was breathing as fast as I was.

  “There’s lipstick on your mouth,” she said in that husky, spooky voice of hers; then, turning, she reached the trap opening, and swung herself out of my sight.

  I stood there trembling, aware of the thudding of my heart while I listened to her quick-light footfalls as she went away from me.

  III

  I got back to my cabin around eight o’clock in the evening; my mind still full of Gilda. I sat on the verandah, lit a cigarette and did some thinking.

  I kept asking myself why she had kissed me.

  I said to myself: a woman as lovely as she is with her background of luxury is not going to take you seriously. That was an off-beat moment. You’ve got to get it out of your mind. It’s something that won’t happen again. Don’t try to kid yourself into believing she would leave her husband for you. What have you to offer her anyway? This lousy little cabin? You couldn’t keep her in stockings. It was an off-beat moment, and she meant nothing by it.

  Then suddenly, breaking into my thoughts, the telephone bell began to ring.

  I got up and went into the lounge and took up the receiver.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Mr Regan.”

  There was only one soft, husky voice like that in the world. At the sound of it I had a rush of blood to my head.

  “Why, no . . . .”

  “I wanted to see you. I suppose I couldn’t come over to your place about eleven?”

  “Why . . . yes.

  “Then at eleven,” and she hung up.

  A minute or so after eleven, I saw the headlights of her car coming up the dirt track and I got to my feet.

  My heart was thumping as I walked down the steps and watched the estate wagon drive up the rough drive-in.

  She pulled up outside the cabin and came towards me.

  “I’m sorry to be so late, Mr Regan,” she said, “but I had to wait until my husband was in bed.”

  That made it a conspiracy. I was breathing fast and I was pretty worked up.

  “Won’t you come up onto the verandah, Mrs Delaney?”

  She moved past me and up onto the verandah.

  I had turned the lights off, and the only light came from the lounge, making a rectangle of light on the floor of the verandah.

  She moved across this patch of light. She had changed into her slacks and the cowboy shirt. She walked to one of the old basket chairs and sat down.

  “I want to apologize for what happened this afternoon.” She seemed very calm and matter-of-fact. “You must be thinking I am one of those uncontrolled women who throw themselves at any man.”

  “Of course I don’t,” I said, sitting down near her. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have . . .”

  “Please don’t be insincere. It’s always the woman’s fault when a thing like that happens. I just happened to lose my head for the moment.” She shifted lower in the chair. “Could I have a cigarette?”

  I took out my case and offered it.

  She took a cigarette. I struck a match. My hand was so unsteady, she put her fingers on my wrist so she could light the cigarette. The touch of her cool flesh on mine increased the thud of my heart-beats.

  “I’m ashamed of myself,” she went on, leaning back in the chair. “It is hard sometimes for a woman in my position. After all, why make a mystery of it? But I should have controlled myself. I thought it was only fair to you to come here and explain.”

  “You needn’t have . . . I wasn’t imagining . . .”

  “Of course you were. I know I am attractive to men. It’s something I can’t do anything about, and when certain men find out about my husband being a cripple, they begin to pester me. Up to now I haven’t met a man attractive enough to bother me, and it has been easy to hold them off.” She paused, drawing on her cigarette. “But there’s something about you. . . .” She broke off and lifted her hands, letting them fall back onto the arms of the chair. “Anyway, I had to come here and tell you it isn’t going to happen again. You see, Mr Regan, if I were unlucky enough to fall in love with another man, I could never leave my husband. He is a cripple. He relies on me. I have a conscience about him.”

  “If you did happen to fall in love with another man,” I said, “no one could blame you for leaving your husband. You’re young. He can’t expect you to remain tied to him for the rest of his days. It would be throwing your life away.”

  “Do you think so?
When I married him I promised to take him for better or for worse. Sliding out through a back door would be impossible to me. Besides, I was responsible for the accident that crippled him. That’s why, apart from the ethics of my marriage vows, I have a conscience about him.”

  “You were responsible?”

  “Yes.” She crossed her long, slim legs. “You are the first person I have met since the accident I feel I can talk to. Would it bore you if I told you about the accident?”

  “Nothing you say to me would ever bore me.”

  “Thank you.” She paused, then went on, “Jack and I have been married for four years. Three months after we were married the accident happened.” Her voice now sounded impersonal and wooden. “We had been to a party. Jack had been drinking. I hated him to drive when he was lit up, and he was often lit up. When we got into the car, I insisted on driving. We quarrelled about it, but finally I got my way. We were on a mountain road. The movement of the car lulled Jack to sleep. Half-way up the road I came to a stationary car that blocked the road. It belonged to a friend of ours. He had also been to the party. He had run out of gas. I pulled up and got out of the car and started to walk over to him. I had stopped on a very steep part of the road. As soon as I got out of the car, it began to move backwards. I couldn’t have set the parking brake properly.” She flicked her half-finished cigarette into the garden. “Jack was still asleep. I rushed back, but it was too late. The car went off the road. I shall never forget that moment, listening to the terrible noise as the car crashed down the mountain side. If I had put the parking brake on properly, it would never have happened.”

  “It was an accident,” I said. “It could have happened to anyone.”

  “Jack doesn’t think so. He thinks it was entirely my fault.

  I have the most horrible guilt complex about it, and that is why I can never leave him.”

  I asked her the question I had to know.

  “Do you still love him?”

  I saw her stiffen.

  “Love him? That doesn’t come into it. I’ve lived with him now for four years. He has suffered a lot, and he isn’t very pleasant to live with. He drinks, and his temper can be hateful. He is twenty-three years older than I am. His ideas are not my ideas, but I married him and I have to accept him. It was through me that he is a cripple and his life has been spoilt.”

  “It was an accident,” I said, gripping my clenched fists between my knees. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

  “So what do you think I should do?”

  “You are free to leave him if you want to. That’s the way I see it.”

  “But then you haven’t got my conscience.” She held out her hand and I gave her a cigarette. I left my chair to light the cigarette. In the light of the match flame we stared at each other. “You are a disturbing person.” Her voice was very low.

  “You’re disturbing, too.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m not only disturbing to most men, I’m disturbing to myself. My life is difficult, Mr Regan. I think perhaps you have already realized that. What we did this afternoon has been worrying me a lot. Will you accept my apologies?”

  “You don’t have to apologize. I understand.”

  “I believe you do. I wouldn’t have come out at this time of night, alone, if I wasn’t sure you would understand. I must get back.”

  She got up.

  “It’s nice out here and so quiet. I asked Maria, my maid, about you. She tells me you aren’t married and you live alone.”

  “I’ve lived on my own out here for a long time.”

  I was standing by her side now and we were both looking across the heads of the trees, outlined in the moonlight.

  “Do you mind living on your own? I should have thought you would have married.”

  “I haven’t yet found the right woman.”

  She glanced at me.

  The hard light of the moon fell directly on her face and I could see a small, bitter smile on her mouth.

  “Are you difficult to please?”

  “I suppose so. Marriage is very permanent — at least it is to me. I feel the way you do about it.”

  “One must have love. I never really loved my husband. I married him for security. Before I met him I had nothing. I would be a lot happier now if I still had nothing except my freedom.”

  “You can still have your freedom.”

  “Not now. If I left him, I’d have my conscience to torment me. A conscience is a sterner prison than anything else in the world.”

  “My conscience never bothers me, but I guess I can understand about yours.”

  “I don’t know what I am going to think of myself tomorrow,” she said, tracing her forefinger idly along the verandah rail. “I came out here on the spur of the moment. I wanted you to understand . . . .”

  I put my hand over hers.

  “Gilda—”

  She turned and looked at me. . . . She was trembling.

  “Gilda, I’m crazy about you—”

  “Oh, darling, I’m such a hypocrite,” she said breathlessly. “I’m so ashamed, but the moment I saw you . . .”

  I had her in my arms and her mouth was against mine. We clung to each other and I could feel the yearning, the crying out of her body as she pressed against me.

  I picked her up in my arms and carried her into the cabin.

  The brown owl that always sits on the roof of the garage flew suddenly across the face of the moon.

  It made a small, insignificant shadow.

  CHAPTER II

  I

  SHE came to my cabin for three successive nights, and we made love.

  It was hurried, furtive love, and after the first shock of excitement had passed, it was unsatisfactory love — anyway, for me.

  She was frightened someone would see her coming or leaving my cabin. She was terrified her husband would find out she was being unfaithful to him.

  So our love-making was furtive, and it worried me to find how jumpy she was, and how she would sit up abruptly on the bed, her fingers gripping my arm, when there was any unusual sound such as the occasional passing car, the hoot of the owl or the tapping on the roof from a branch of a tree.

  Each of these three nights, she stayed with me for less than an hour. Our moments together consisted only of this desperate, violent love-making. We scarcely had time to talk before she wanted to get back to her home, and I knew as little about her now as I had done when I first met her.

  But in spite of that, I was in love with her. For me, this union meant much more than the physical act of love. It bothered me to know that her husband had such a powerful influence over her.

  If she talked about anything, it was about him. I didn’t want to listen to what she had to say about him. I wanted her to talk about herself, and I longed for her to talk about me, but she didn’t.

  “I would never forgive myself if he found out,” she said as she dressed on the third night of our love-making. “I keep thinking he might be wanting me. In the past, he has had nights of pain, and he has woken me to give him something to make him sleep. He could be calling for me now.”

  “For God’s sake, Gilda, get him out of your mind!” I was fast losing patience with her. “Why don’t you tell him the truth? Why don’t you tell him you’re in love with me and you must have your freedom?”

  “But, Terry, I can never leave him. I’m responsible for the accident that spoilt his life. I could never, never leave him!”

  I pulled her to me.

  “Do you love me, Gilda?”

  She looked up at me, and there was that thing again in her eyes.

  “Can you doubt it, Terry? Yes, I love you. I think of you every minute of the day. I long to be with you. It’s a dreadful thing to say, but if only he were dead . . . then I could be with you as I want to be with you for always. I’ll never be free until he is dead.”

  “But he isn’t likely to die, is he?” I said impatiently.

  She pulled away from me and, mo
ving to the window, she looked out onto the moonlit trees.

  “No. When the doctor examined him before he came here, he said he was in splendid shape. He could easily last for another thirty years or more.”

  “Well, then, why waste time wishing he were dead? We’re not going to wait for thirty years, are we? You’ve got to ask him for a divorce!”

  “I can’t do it, Terry!” She looked up at me. “How many more times do I have to tell you I can’t possibly leave him.”

  “Of course you can! He has money. He could get a nurse to look after him. How much money do you think he has got?”

  She lifted her shoulders.

  “I don’t know — a lot. A hundred and fifty thousand: perhaps more.”

  Well, then, he can afford to have someone to look after him, and you can have your freedom.”

  She turned away from me.

  “If he died, Terry,” she said in a low, distinct voice, “that money would come to me. You and I would share it. What would you do with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

  “Why talk about it?”

  “Terry, please! I’m asking you! What would you do with all that money?”

  I suddenly began to think what I would do with such a sum if it were mine. The thought sent a creepy sensation up my spine.

  “If I had that amount of capital,” I said, “I could double it in a year. I would open a shop in Los Angeles. I would have three or maybe four service vans covering the whole district. I would specialize in hand-made Hi-Fi sets. I could make a whale of a lot of money.”

  “You would love to do that, wouldn’t you? And I would love to be at your side and see you do it.”

  I stared at her.

  “What’s the sense of talking like this, Gilda? He’s not going to die. You won’t get the money until you are too old to get any fun out of it! So what? Get a divorce! Never mind about the money! Get your freedom!”

  She shook her head.

  “I can’t get a divorce. I can’t help this guilt complex of mine. It was my fault he became a cripple. I can’t leave him now.”

  I drew in a long breath of exasperation.

  “So what do we do?”