The Insiders (20 page)

"Ch
e
rie
!
It's cold in bed alone."

Something in Sylvia's face, in her sudden stillness, made him reach his hand out to her almost instinctively. Had he really needed to be so cruel? Why had he felt like lashing out at her?

"Syl.. ."

"It—it's all right, Brant. I'm sorry. It really is okay now, I mean—I think I understand. I won't bother you again, I promise."

She turned, went running down the steps, her heels clattering. Why did she always wear such ridiculously high heels? He started halfheartedly to go after her, but the girl clutched at him from behind, her greedy fingers spread over his crotch. Shrugging, he went back inside with her. She was still new, very young and wild and experienced—he hadn't yet got over craving her body.

Inside, the air conditioning hummed softly as they twisted and turned in bed. The thick, soundproof walls shut them up in a cocoon of their own breathing and broken sounds and words.

Outside, in the sunlight, Sylvia died without a sound under the wheels of a taxi that came careening around a corner just as she reached the street, still running. She died very quickly, and an ambulance shrieked up soon after that and took her broken body away. Brant knew nothing about it until the next day.

Some weeks later, when the nightmares he had started having had become worse and more frightening in spite of all the excesses he had pushed his body into, Brant Newcomb went back "home." He was only twenty. He felt as if he had done everything; there had to be something new to experience, some way to stop thinking.

He joined the Air Force because he enjoyed the challenge of flying, was prompt
l
y commissioned an officer, and went into flight training to learn to fly fighters. He volunteered for Vietnam as soon as he could, and spent two years there flying fast jets at the time when the conflict was at its height. Then, still not having succeeded in killing himself in spite of all the chances he took and the extra missions he volunteered for, he came back to the States and resigned his commission—his tour of duty over, a free man again. Free of the monotony that was military life when he was not actually flying, he was determined this time to be freed of his nightmares and his ever-present demons as well. He went into analysis.

"You loved her. Why are you afraid
_:
to admit it?"

"Why in hell do you keep insisting upon that? I thought a psychiatrist isn't supposed to put words in a patient's mouth. No, I didn't love her. Christ, I've never loved anyone! But she was the first—naturally, that made it different."

"But that's not all that made it different, is it? She was your
aunt,
your mother's sister. You risked the church's excommunication for her. And she was the only woman, the only thing you ever really cared about, wasn't she? Why are you ashamed to admit to me now what you have already admitted under hypnosis? Because she was older than you? Or is it because of some deeply suppressed moral code, perhaps? Because it was incest?"

"J'accuse!
That's what you sound like, do you know that? Ah, come on, man! Incest, shit! Syl was only my
aunt,
for Christ's sake! So at the beginning I suppose I made a kind of mother figure out of her, but later—no, incest never entered into it, I never gave it a thought. She was a woman. Great in the sack, but too damned possessive. And that's
all."

"Is it? What about all the years
before—
before you saw her as a woman. The visits, the cards, the little gifts. You were a small boy then, and you loved her. Wasn't she the only person who really cared about
you?
And even afterward, wasn't that still soF'

"Goddammit, are you trying to say— Ah, yes, that
is
what you're saying. That Syl loved me for myself. To everyone else it's the money and the fact that I'm known as a cocksman, a stud."

"Yes, that's right. Is there anything else to you besides that? Do you ever give a woman, or any other person for that matter, any part of your
real
self? Sylvia was the only one to whom you gave of yourself, wasn't she? I think that with the others you only take...."

"You're smart, you know that? That's why I pay you too damned much money and keep coming back. But no—what is the real self? Has it ever occurred to you that I might not be real at all?'

"Very dramatic, Brant. But let's go back to Sylvia."

"Oh, damn Sylvia! Damn her, damn her! Goddam her for dying!"

"Ah!"

Seeing an analyst hadn't cured Brant of Sylvia's ghost, but he had learned at least to accept what had happened, and above all, to accept himself as he was. No regrets, no more self-torment for Brant Newcomb. When something started to bug him, he had learned to bring it out into the open and think about it objectively. He had even learned to think about Sylvia without too much pain, too much guilt. Poor, damned, darling Syl! Did she know, wherever she was now, that by dying she'd made him forever hers?

And then, from Sylvia, Brant's thoughts veered unwillingly back to Eve Mason, and the present. She had hair that felt like Syl's, and something else about her— perhaps her pathetic, foolish, useless defiance—that nagged at his mind. She had made him want to put her down, to defeat her and degrade her, to show the stupid bitch that after all she wasn't really different from Francie. It continued to irk him that he hadn't succeeded. And he wasn't used to regretting anything he did, either, except for Syl

Brant lay awake thinking a long time before he was ready to sleep, and then he fell asleep peacefully and quickly, his mind emptied of thought, decisions made.

Eve walked into the boom
very slowly, her feet dragging, and from his place near the window, where he still stood looking out, David swung around to face her.

"For God's sake, do you know it's
jive
in the morning? Who was the guy who brought you home? You were supposed to find
Francie
—that's why I've been sitting up here the whole goddam night while you partied. Eve—" As she moved slowly forward into the light, he really saw her at last, and she heard his indrawn breath. "God, you look terrible! Will you tell me what the hell
happened
?
'

She was suddenly too tired to stand, almost too tired to talk. Why didn't he just take her in his arms and exorcise all the evil spirits, instead of acting as if she were on the witness stand? Why didn't he?

She went to him, stumbling, half-running, and pressed her body against his.

"David—oh, David, please! Just hold me. Just hold me, please!"

She waited for his arms to go around her, but instead, something in the rigidity of his body communicated itself to her, and very slowly she raised her head to meet his eyes.

"David?"

He could feel her body trembling against his, and tried to keep his voice level. What was the matter with her? What had she done this time?

"Eve, I have to know what happened. What are you trying to hide? Let's start with Francie, my sister. Was she there? And who in hell was the guy in the Mercedes?"

She moved away from him. He hadn't put his arms about her. She felt better, stronger, standing alone. She turned her face away from him so she couldn't see his cold, accusing eyes, and clung with both hands to the back of a chair for support.

"Eve!" He said again, more impatiently this time.

"All right, David. I'm trying to—to put things together so I don't sound too incoherent. Francie was there, but she wouldn't listen to me, although I tried to— She went away in the end, with a man they called Derek. They—he told me he's a psychiatrist. I tried to stop them, but he—wouldn't let me. He—"

"You're not making sense, Eve! He—who's
he
?
The man in the car?"

"Yes! Oh, God, I
told
you he was dangerous, I told you! And then I forgot to remember— Brant Newcomb. Your client. He sent Francie to New Mexico with Derek. I don't think she wanted to go in the end, but he gave them money and sent her away. You know what? He auctioned her off. He really did. That's the kind of man he is; only he's worse!"

"This is—your story sounds impossible, Eve! Are you sure you were sober?"

"Sober? Yes, I was sober! Until he put something in the drink he gave me that was supposed to make me stoned out of my head like everyone else, only it didn't. No—don't interrupt me now, David. I have to go on talking, or I could never tell you—" Her voice dropped to a kind of breath-torn whisper, but she turned her head and looked at him now, and he saw the pupils of her eyes. Yes, she
had
taken something. David opened

his mouth to say something to her and closed it again.

"Well, you want to know, huh? You're sure you want to know what he did to me, David? He took me into his game room—that's what he calls it—it has mirrors and lights everywhere and an enormous bed—and he— he was like an animal. He was high on something, too, I guess. He tore my clothes off, and he hurt me when I fought him, and then—then everyone else joined in. I was the party, David. There was nothing I could do to stop them, although I struggled and fought They did everything they wanted to do with me, and they took pictures, and he said if I tried to
do
anything about it, he'd—
no!
I don't really want to talk about it; I don't want to think about that girl in the mirrors being me,
me!"

She was gulping in deep breaths of air as if talking had exhausted her. David's voice shook, too, but she couldn't tell whether it was from shock or anger.

"My God, everything you've told me sounds like part of some crazy trip—some coke nightmare. How can you expect me to believe any of it? I've heard some stories about Newcomb, but dammit, the man isn't a
maniac.
Why should he want to rape you when there are a thousand other women he can
buy
with all his fucking money? And Francie—what about Francie? What
really
happened, Eve?"

"I don't
know
—I told you that, didn't I? And I'm not trying to explain his motives, I'm just telling you what did happen, damn you
!
It
happened
—I just wish I
had
dreamed it!"

She shrieked the words at him, and he stepped backward. Had the drug she had obviously taken maddened her? He'd never seen her like this before.

"I'm sorry Eve." He tried to keep his voice controlled and reasonable. He was hardly in the mood for an hysterical scene after an all-night vigil, and she seemed determined to make one. "
I just find it difficult to be
lieve that a man like Brant Newcomb, as filthy rich as he is, and a good-looking bastard into the bargain— why he'd want to rape you. Why you in particular? And you, why would you—" He stopped, wondering if he was going too far, especially in the state she was in.

Eve had begun to giggle hysterically, one hand up to her mouth.

"Why didn't you finish saying it, David? Why would I resist? Oh, but that's funny! But I did try to fight them, you know, and mos
tl
y because of
you,
because I thought I was your girl, I thought you—but you really believe deep down that I'm some kind of a tramp, don't you? You think I'm easy, that I'd do it with just anyone— as
you
would. And you know what? I should have given in—maybe they wouldn't have kept on hurting me, then. Don't you see how
funny
it is? He offered me
money
the first time we met; he said I could name my price. And just a little while ago, he said he was going to send me a check. Does that make me a whore, David? You'd like to think of me that way, wouldn't you? It'd salve your conscience, I guess. Wait—you still don't believe, do you? I'll show you what they did to me. Take a good look, David darling. It might even turn you on. Look here—
look
at me, damn you!"

She began tearing at the buttons of her coat, clawing them loose so that they popped free and rolled all over the room. Then she tore the coat off herself and he saw the bruises that covered her body—that once-beautiful body he knew too damned well. He stared, horrified— and fascinated in spite of himself.

"Dear God, what—but Eve—it couldn't have happened. It doesn't make
sense,
dammit, that Newcomb should have raped you and then invited everyone else at the party to join in. No, it's crazy!"

"But it happened. It did! It did!" She laughed again, foolishly. "Look at your face; you should see yourself watching me. Do you like what you see? Would you like to fuck me, too? One more wouldn't make much difference, would it, and right now I'm too beat to fight."

Her laughter turned suddenly into sobs, and she slid to the floor unexpectedly, crouching, hiding away from his eyes behind the hanging curtain of her hair—kneeling there in a caricatu
red attitude of grief and peni
tance.

Something in the way she knelt there sobbing got through to him, and he took a step toward her.

"Eve, I'm just trying to make sense of all this. Quite apart from Francie, and whatever you say happened to her, why did you let Newcomb bring you back here after what he'd done?"

"Stop talking like a lawyer, damn you, David! Don't you understand? I was
afraid!
Don't you see that? He's a—a very frightening man, so cold, so completely evil— what else could I do?"

"He kissed you goodnight, and you let him. Don't bother to deny it, because I
saw
through the window, dammit! I was watching, waiting for you.. . ."

"I couldn't stop him, David. He's so damned strong, and I'm so tired. And I came in here looking for refuge, looking for
something
from you, and you
judge
me instead. You don't
want
to believe me, do you? You used me, and now that I've failed, you'd like an excuse to be rid of me. Because deep down you really think I'm cheap —you always did think that. I was good enough to screw but not good enough to marry."

"And that's all
you
ever wanted, wasn't it? Marriage, a guy to show off to your friends, a meal ticket—"

"That's not fair; that wasn't it at all, and you know it! You always twist my words around and try to make them into something else; you'd like to keep me crawling to you, apologizing, explaining—"

"Goddammit, I deserve
some
rational explanation, don't you think? You went to this party to find Francie, and you come back at five in the morning with some wild tale about being gang-raped—how can I tell what to believe? I know all about the other men you've had, "the new morality," you called it—what's okay for a man should be okay for a woman, too, and what's wrong with an occasional screw on the side, anyhow? Then, suddenly, I'm supposed to believe that you've changed your viewpoint, that you tried to fight off God knows how many guys just because you're my girl. Well, how do you account for continuing to see Peter while you were still supposed to be my girl? Christ, Eve—" "Shut up, shut up! I can't listen to any more. I can't— I don't want to believe this is you, and this is how you really think about me and that in spite of it I let you
use
ine. And because I did, you think I'd let all those people use me, too—it wasn't all guys, there were women, too, and oh, I can see your face change again! You really think I'm shit, don't you? And I am—God, yes, I'm shit and even less than that, I'm
nothing
because that's what you made me into and I let you—"

"You're not even coherent any longer, Eve. Perhaps I'd better leave now and talk to you again tomorrow, later—"

"Oh, no, you won't, David. There'll be no later, no tomorrow. I never want to talk to you or listen to you again. Get out, just get out quickly, will you please?" "You're hysterical, you don't know—" "Oh, yes, I do know! At last, David, at last I know where I really stand with you, and I should have seen it a long time ago, only I— Goddam you, get out! Get out of here, or I'll start to scream and I won't be able to stop!"

She looked up at him with her face ravaged and contorted and suddenly ugly now, with a big purple bruise showing darkly against her cheekbone.

She saw the way he hesitated, and read the irresolution in his eyes, and she hated him for it and for his pettiness and weakness, and most of all she hated her own weakness for him. He didn't really believe she
meant
it this time; he was still waiting for her to take the words back, crawl to him for understanding. The finality of it, the futility of her pleading for his sympathy and pity hit her like a sudden blow, and she started to whimper with pain and grief.

"You—you self-righteous bastard! What are you waiting for? What am I supposed to do? Would you like me to grovel at your feet, David? To tell you I did what I didn't do?'

There was a note of rising hysteria in her voice that both frightened and unnerved him, and he moved swiftly, grabbing his overcoat from off the couch, skirting her huddled figure.