David Cronenberg's The Brood

by Richard Starks

  “The tongue,” Desborough was saying, “is actually too thick and too inflexible for proper speech. Our friend was definitely inarticulate, even if he had been mentally capable of speech, which I doubt. I’m fairly certain that when I cut him open I’m going to find an abnormally small brain, if one at all . . .” His voice trailed off. “You see, gentlemen, I have a theory.” He hesitated. “But we’ll get to that in a minute.

  “I don’t know whether you’ve noticed,” he continued, “but you can see that the head is higher than you might expect for a normal body lying on its back.” He looked at Carveth, then at Markle. “You see that?”

  Markle nodded.

  “The reason for that,” Desborough said, “is that the back is humped. But it’s not the hump you would expect to find in a hunchback.” He shook his head. “No, a hunchback has a hump that is basically a spinal deformity. Not our friend here. His hump is soft, pulpy, much like the yolk sac you see in certain fishes. And,” he added, “I think we’ll find that the hump performs much the same function. It’s a source of nutrients, of food. Presumably it was once full, but now it’s nearly empty. I think our friend started life with a certain store of nutrients which he kept in his hump. He drew on it during life until the store was exhausted. Then he died. You know, even before I open him up, I’d be willing to bet even money that we’ll find almost no stomach at all, and virtually no digestive organs.” He stood back, watching for a reaction.

  It was Markle who finally responded. “Are you saying this thing never ate?”

  “That’s right.” Desborough sounded smug. “He starts off with a full tank, gradually drains it, then keels over and dies of starvation. Interesting, don’t you think?”

  “How old is it?” Carveth asked.

  “Depends when you start counting.”

  Markle said, “From birth, for God’s sake. Start counting from birth.”

  “That would be normal, wouldn’t it?” Desborough said. “But I’m not sure it would apply in this case.” He pointed with the forceps. “Look, here,” he said, “in the side of the neck.” He gently pressed the fleshy swelling on one side of the neck, revealing three slits, too regular to be wounds. “There are three more on the other side too,” he said. “And if you look inside, right here, you can see a kind of gauzy curtain of flesh just inside each opening. Know what they are?”

  Markle shook his head. “Just tell us, Terry. We’re not having fun, even if you are.”

  Desborough smiled. “You detectives are all the same,” he said. “Tough on the outside, but just marshmallows when you get in here.” He straightened. “Those slits,” he said, “well, I’m no specialist in embryology, but I’d bet my scalpel that those slits are vestigial gills.”

  “Gills? What, like a fish?”

  “No. Like a human. Like a human foetus. These are the kind of gills you can see in a human foetus at a very early stage in its development. While it is still in the uterus.” He looked at them. “Starts to get interesting again, doesn’t it?”

  Carveth said, “How can it be a foetus? I mean, how can it survive outside the womb?”

  Desborough folded his arms, smiling slightly. “First,” he said, “it certainly is a foetus. The lack of shape in the features, the deformities if you want to call them that, and the way the fingers and toes haven’t quite formed—they all point to a foetus in the early stage of its existence where differentiation has not yet taken place, where the cells of the body have not yet decided what their function is going to be. It’s not even sexually differentiated. Boy or girl—take your pick. That’s why we end up with what is really a near-human, something that should not have been born yet.

  “As to your question of how it survived outside the uterus, well, at present, all I can say for sure that it did survive. I’ll know more when I’ve done a proper internal. Right now, though, that’s not what bothers me.” He paused, waiting.

  “All right, Terry,” Markle said. “What bothers you?”

  Desborough grinned. “As I say, I’m sure I’ll be able to establish how it survived outside the uterus. What I can’t establish is how it survived inside the uterus. Or more precisely, whether in fact this creature ever did survive inside a uterus.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Desborough wouldn’t be hurried. “There is one other deformity,” he said. “A small one in itself, but highly significant nonetheless. I wonder if either of you noticed it.” He looked from one to the other. “In the stomach area?”

  “Terry, what is this? Twenty questions?”

  Carveth spoke quietly, “I noticed it.”

  “Yes?” Desborough said.

  “No navel.”

  “Exactly,” Desborough said. “This thing has no belly button. And with no belly button, that means no umbilical cord. And that to me, gentlemen, indicates that our foetus has never seen the inside of a uterus.”

  Markle turned away. “Oh, Jesus.”

  Raglan spoke quietly, holding the microphone to one side of his mouth. Another speech that had to be written. He found that he was repeating himself now, preaching the same message to different audiences. It took away the challenge, reducing the exciting to the mundane, the unusual to the commonplace. Still; it did make writing the speeches childishly easy.

  He had nearly completed his dictation when the phone range. He swore softly, looked over at the intercom and saw the red light indicating a call from the boathouse.

  He punched a button and picked up the phone. “Yes, Chris. What is it?”

  “Hal?” A woman’s voice.

  Raglan sat forward. “Nola? Is that you?”

  “Hal . . . I . . . I don’t know, I feel there’s something terribly wrong . . .”

  “Where’s Chris, Nola? Is he there with you?”

  Her voice faded away.

  “Nola. Listen to me.”

  “I think I’m losing control, Hal. I don’t know what’s happening any more, I feel it’s all slipping away from me.” Nola’s voice was far away, as if she had trouble raising the strength to speak.

  Raglan gripped the phone. “Nola,” he said, “I want you to listen to me, pay close attention. Will you do that?” He spoke with deliberate authority. “Nola, stay there, right where you are. I’m coming over. You hear? Just stay where you are.”

  Raglan put down the phone and hurried to the boathouse. Chris was working at his desk. He looked up as Raglan entered.

  “Nola just called me,” Raglan said. “She sounds as if she’s in trouble.”

  He went into her suite and found Nola slumped against the couch, her head resting in her arms. Raglan reached under her shoulders and slowly raised her to her feet.

  “I wanted to call Frank,” she said. “To see if Candy was all right.” She frowned suddenly as If trying to recall a memory that had long since faded. “I thought . . . maybe I was dreaming . . . but I thought Candy had been hurt. Her back. I thought she had hurt her back.”

  Raglan tried to hide the urgency in his voice. “You called Frank? Did you speak to him?”

  Nola closed her eyes and was still. “I hope Candy’s all right,” she said. “I miss her when she’s not here.”

  Raglan took her hand in his. “Candy’s fine,” he said. “She’s just fine. You’ll be seeing her on Sunday, just as you always do.”

  Nola’s face clouded. “Will I? Will I still be able to see her? They’re trying to take her away from me, you know. I can feel it.” Her eyes opened and Raglan could see her inner panic.

  He patted her hand. “You’ll see her. I promise. Candy’s okay, and she’ll be here on Sunday.” He watched her closely. “Did you speak to Frank, Nola? Did you get through to him?”

  “Frank?”

  “Yes. Did you speak to him?”

  Nola shook her head. “But I spoke to her. I spoke to that bitch.”

  “What do you mean? Who did you speak to?”

  Nola’s lip curled. “Ruth Mayer. Candy’s teacher. She was at ho
me. With Frank. She said Frank wasn’t there, but he was; he must have been. The two of them, with Candy.” She pulled away. “She was there, trying to take him away from me, to break up my family.”

  Raglan reached out to her, to calm her fears, but she drew further away from him. “Don’t you touch me. Don’t you even come close.”

  “Nola, listen to me . . .”

  “You bitch. You’re trying to come between me and Frank, to get your hands on him, to take away my daughter. We’d be all right, the three of us, a family, if only you’d stop poisoning his mind, turning him against me. I know your kind. You think he’s lonely, a single father, so you want to steal him away from me.”

  Raglan grabbed her shoulders. “Nola, not now. It’s too soon.”

  “You bitch. I hate you. You hear?” Nola turned to face him, pounding her fists against his chest. “I hate you. I hate you.”

  When Ruth heard Carveth’s car pull into the driveway, she put aside the magazine she’d been reading and struggled into her coat. Twenty minutes, he had promised her. Well, that had turned out to be more than two hours.

  She opened the door, just as Carveth was coming up the steps.

  “Hey, listen,” he said. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you hanging around like this, but . . .”

  Ruth cut him off. “Candy’s been quiet all the time you’ve been gone. I came around to help her, but not to spend the whole evening sitting on my own. I do have my own life, you know.” She pushed past him.

  Carveth reached out to stop her. “I called,” he said. “Several times. But the line was engaged.”

  Ruth turned. “And it still is. There was no way I was going to answer that phone again. Not after the way your wife spoke to me.”

  “Nola called? What did she say?”

  Ruth’s voice softened slightly. “Look, I’m sorry too,” she said. “The dinner was good, and I enjoyed it. But I didn’t like hanging around, and I didn’t like being insulted by your wife. Your life’s just a little too complicated for me, Mr. Carveth. I hope you can work it out, but until you do I’ll just have to try and do my best for Candy some other way. Perhaps we’ll meet at the next open house.”

  She hurried down the steps. Carveth called after her, but she ignored him, walking quickly to her car.

  Carveth turned and went inside the house. He found the phone off the hook, stuffed under a cushion. He pulled it free and replaced the receiver. On a table by the couch an ashtray overflowed with stubbed cigarettes. He poured himself a drink, downing it in a single gulp, then went upstairs to check on Candy.

  He stopped just inside her room, listening for the rhythmic breathing that would show she was asleep. But there was only the ticking of the clock on her dresser. He moved slowly forward, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness, then knelt by the bed.

  He leaned forward to straighten the covers, to pull them over her. They were twisted in the middle of the bed as if Candy had been tossing around all night. He patted them gently, feeling for her shape, slowly at first, then more desperately. He reached out, trying to touch her, then suddenly ripped the covers from the bed, pulling them onto the floor.

  The bed was empty.

  He heard a sound, a sobbing sound in the darkness behind him, and whirled around, remembering the creature and the way it had jumped on him in Juliana’s bathroom.

  It was Candy. Sitting in a corner formed by the dresser and the wall.

  Carveth relaxed. “Candy. Why aren’t you in bed?”

  Candy shivered. “I was scared,” she said. “I had a bad dream and it woke me up.”

  Carveth picked her up and carried her back to the bed, tucking her under the covers. “What was the dream about, sweetheart?”

  Candy didn’t answer.

  “You can tell me. You can tell Daddy.”

  “I’m afraid to. The dream doesn’t want me to.”

  Carveth pulled the sheets up to her chin. “Was it about? Grandma? When she was killed?”

  Candy turned away, facing the wall.

  “Candy, listen to me. I think I know what happened at Grandma’s. I think I know what you saw there.” He stroked her forehead. “It’s important that we talk about it, just the two of us. It’s like a secret we can share. We can talk about it now and then forget about it; but we must talk about it first. Can we do that?”

  He gently turned her head back to face him. “Candy, was it another child you saw? An ugly-looking child, with a funny face? Was it, Candy?”

  She nodded quickly, just once.

  “Candy, I saw the thing that hurt Grandma. I saw it tonight, at the police station. And Candy, it was dead. I saw it lying on a table and the police were there, and it was dead. It can’t hurt you now. It can’t hurt anyone now, not me or anyone else. Do you understand?”

  Candy looked up at him. “It’s dead?”

  Carveth nodded. “Yes, Candy. The thing you saw, the thing I saw, it can’t harm us anymore.”

  Candy didn’t react for a moment. But then she burst into tears. Carveth pulled her close to him. “It’s all right now, sweetheart. It’s all over. There’s nothing more to worry about.”

  He hugged her tightly, glad that she was reacting, releasing some of the emotion that she had kept hidden inside her for so long.

  But Candy’s face, pressed into his shoulder, still showed her anguish; still showed that she was suffering even more than she had been before.

  It was well past midnight, and Raglan was exhausted. He rubbed a hand over his face, pressing his fingers into the corners of his eyes, then leaned forward on the couch.

  Nola was sitting opposite him, her knees lifted to her chin, rocking gently backwards and forwards.

  It was still too soon, Raglan thought; too early for another session. But Nola would not be denied. Since her phone call to Ruth Mayer earlier that evening, she had been troubled, restless, unable to settle down.

  Raglan had tried to calm her, to allay her fears; but she had resisted, demanding instead that he hold another session. There had been nothing that Raglan could do.

  He spoke quietly, trying to soothe her with the tone of his voice, even though his words were harsh.

  “I don’t owe you a thing,” he said. “Why should I? I’ve only met you a couple of times when you picked up Candy from my class. But your husband, he’s different. I see him often. And he needs me. He needs someone like me to help him with Candy. He can’t raise her alone, and since you’ve failed to be a mother to Candy, it’s only natural that Frank would turn to me. Why shouldn’t I get involved with him? Be a mother to his child. Maybe even a wife.”

  Nola stared past him, her eyes unseeing. “You’re the beginning of the end, Miss Mayer. You’re the beginning of the end for me, for my family, and my dream.”

  “You’re dreaming now, though, aren’t you?” Raglan said. He moved closer. “You’re deceiving yourself. From what Frank tells me, your marriage was rotten from the start. You never had anything of value. It would be best for all of us if Frank divorced you and married me.”

  Nola turned on him, her eyes suddenly blazing. “That’s a lie,” she said. “That’s a vicious lie. We had a lot, Frank and I. And Candy too. We could have it all again, if only you’d leave him alone. He would wait for me. I know he would.” Her voice rose. “If only you’d leave him alone. Just leave him alone.”

  C H A P T E R

  N I N E

  Raglan was in his office, eating a light breakfast at his desk. The late-night session with Nola had gone on much longer than it should have, and he’d only been able to bring it to an end by forcing Nola to take a sedative. When he had left her, she’d been asleep, seemingly at peace with herself. But Raglan was sure that when the sedative wore off, she would be as troubled as ever.

  The door of his office burst open and Chris came in. “Dr. Raglan.”

  Raglan wiped crumbs from his mouth with a paper serviette. “Yes, Chris,” he said wearily. “What is it?”

  “Have
you seen the morning paper?”

  Raglan shook his head.

  “I think you should,” Chris said.

  “What’s the matter, Chris? You sound worried.”

  “A lot more than that,” Chris said. “Look.” He held out a copy of the paper. Raglan took it and folded it flat on his desk, staring at the headline: SECOND KELLY MURDER.

  “ ‘Businessman Barton Kelly,’ ” he read aloud, “ ‘was burtally murdered last night, just two days after his estranged wife was bludgeoned to death under similar circumstances . . .’ ”

  Raglan scanned the text, glancing at the photographs, the head and shoulders shots of the victims. But it wasn’t the text nor the head and shoulders portraits that held his attention. It was the small photograph inset in the column at the bottom of the page. The broad table, the shallow bath in the centre, a vinyl sheet rolled back to reveal a corpse lying face up in the bath.

  “Jesus.”

  “I know,” Chris said. “What are we going to do?”

  Raglan read the article through more slowly, then swung round in his chair to stare out the window.

  “What the hell are we going to do?” Chris repeated.

  Raglan was silent for a moment. “We have to contain it,” he said finally. He swivelled back to face Chris. “And we have to protect our patients. How many have we got in the main building now?”

  “Twelve,” Chris said. “Counting just the residents.”

  “We’ll have to move them out.”

  “All of them?”

  Raglan nodded. “All of them. I want every one of them out by noon, and the main building locked up.”

  “It’ll be hard on them. Especially Trellan.”

  “Then we’ll just have to be as gentle a we can. But I want them out.”

  Chris moved to the door. “Shouldn’t we get help? Or at least call someone?”

  Raglan studied him for a moment. “Not yet,” he said. “We’ll have to handle this ourselves.”

  Chris turned and left the room.

  Raglan opened a drawer in his desk and took out a revolver, a .38 Police Special. He got up, put on his overcoat, and put the gun in his pocket.