Hermit

by S. R. White

  ‘I wanted to run. I felt so wretched. I could feel the pee running down my leg, hot on my skin. It was so . . . personal. Whatever they were doing, so personal. I didn’t get it. I didn’t comprehend. It never occurred to me that only one of them was playing. It wouldn’t, would it, Detective?’

  Nathan looked up at her with wet, horrified eyes. Dana shook her head silently.

  ‘Jeb moved over to Father, who flinched. The movement made Jeb smile. Flinching always made him smile. He slid Father’s shirt up past the elbow and Father started shaking. His feet lifted and he had to concentrate to put them back down again: like when the dentist hits a nerve. He’d wet himself, too. I didn’t know what was going on but I could sense the pain. It was so apparent – the humiliation. I could see a tear roll down his cheek. He didn’t want this, but he couldn’t stop it. He wasn’t in charge.

  ‘Jeb took a needle out of his pocket. A hypodermic. It shone in the lamplight. I remember the glint made the liquid look like metal. He put it quite carefully into Father’s arm, then pushed the plunger without even looking. He’d done it so often before, I suppose. Jeb was facing me. I must have been wide-eyed, fascinated; everything and nothing at once.

  ‘When the liquid went in, Father kind of sagged. He lost the tension in his muscles, flopped down in the chair. His head fell sideways but he carried on staring at me, without blinking. At me, Christ, at me. Like I was causing this; like it was my fault and not Jeb’s. Or maybe, like I could stop it. But he surely knew I couldn’t do that. There was nothing I could do, except be an audience for Jeb.

  ‘Jeb said I’d never seen Pop like that, had I? Father looked like one of those tranquilised animals on nature programmes: he was just a body, a bag of skin with no one in it. He looked . . . dead, Detective.

  ‘That’s what I thought. That Jeb had killed Father. Right there, in front of me. Jeb noticed, must have read my mind. Jeb told me he wasn’t dead. He was . . . more helpful. That’s how he put it, Detective: more helpful. As if Father wanted this, was trying to assist Jeb somehow.

  ‘Jeb moved across to Mother. I wanted to run. Don’t know where. Towards Jeb and knock the needle out of his hand, maybe. Or away, out of the door and find someone to tell. Or something. Or not be there any more. Be any place but that, looking at anything but that. He held Mother’s hand when the needle went in. She never liked needles. I didn’t understand why she wasn’t shouting, fighting. She just lay there. Lay there while it happened.

  ‘The silence deepened. It went from no sound at all to something thicker, stronger. I don’t know how to describe it. Like the air was so full of despair, no sound could get in. Jeb nodded to himself, like he’d done well. It was hideous. It was so ugly, and so wrong. I didn’t get exactly what he’d done, but I knew it was wrong. So why wasn’t I shouting? Why wasn’t I running? Why wasn’t I doing anything? I was so weak, Detective. I’d never understood what rooted to the spot meant until then. You could have set me on fire and I still wouldn’t have moved a muscle.

  ‘Jeb turned back and tapped Father’s cheek with a finger. Then he glanced at me and said, “Watch this.” He slapped so hard, Father’s head rocked to the other side and clouted the chair. You could hear the slap, then the thud. But like I said, Father was gone. He wasn’t in there any more, I was sure of it. He dribbled a bit. “Ooh,” Jeb said, “better tidy you up, Marty, don’t want you to lose your dignity.”

  ‘Jeb opened a drawer behind him. I couldn’t see what he was doing. I should have run then, Detective. It was my chance. I could have been down the stairs – I might have got away. I might have run to a neighbour and called for help. But I didn’t. I was pathetic. I could only see the moment, only do what I was told. How could I go? I watched Jeb fish out what was in the drawer.

  ‘Clothes, Detective. Silly clothes. A red nose and a clown’s hat. He put them on Father. He tweaked the nose and made a honking noise. He laughed. He got some cosmetics and drew rosy cheeks and a sad, bloody mouth. He thought it was hilarious. He told him to dance; dance and amuse us. He asked where Father’s little car was. Jeb turned to me. He asked me, “You see what your old man really is? He’s a clown,” he said. “He’s nothing.”

  ‘I could see a tear on Father’s face. Jeb was too busy sniggering to notice. I think Jeb was drunk – he was almost doubled up laughing at the sight of this sad, frozen old clown. The tear moved so slowly. I’ll never forget the agonising slowness: off his cheek, then it splodged on to his shirt. Nothing else on his face moved. Just the tear.

  ‘I was screaming. One of those dream screams where no sound was coming out. Only my throat wrenching, clawing at itself. All I could produce was a little whimper. It made Jeb laugh harder.

  ‘He turned to Mother. He raised an eyebrow, as though he was daring me to intervene. Instead, he pointed to the door. “Go to your room,” he said. I didn’t. I stood where I was, wondering why no sound was coming out when I was screaming so hard. He shouted for me to go to my room – “You don’t get to see this; it’s for grown-ups.”

  ‘I only moved when he stepped forward and raised his hand. I felt my bowels give way and I bolted. He was still chuckling when he closed the door.’

  Nathan stopped to wipe the snot. He held his fists to his ears. Dana poured his water for him, even touching the bottle cap afterwards. She wanted him to understand she was taking care of his needs.

  Her mind was racing with what she needed to ask next. This story, this . . . whatever this was: it would need verification. The substance Jeb was using, assuming this was all true, would be long gone: the parents had been buried over a decade ago. Maybe there was some remnant of it in the old Whittler house. They’d need a detailed forensic examination. For now, she needed to coax more details.

  ‘This happened every weekend, Mr Whittler?’ She’d dropped her voice to match his. She prayed the microphone was picking it up.

  ‘Yes, every Saturday. A little ritual. Once I knew what was going on – or some of it, at least – I could detect the changes in my parents. The way they tensed up, closed off more, as the week progressed. The relief, the sense of utter release, every Sunday. They were allowed to go to church, and that day they seemed almost . . . okay.’

  ‘But they never told anyone?’

  ‘They couldn’t.’ Nathan took another swig; his shaking hand betrayed him and, without noticing, he dribbled a little on to the floor.

  ‘Couldn’t? Because Jeb had such a hold on them?’

  ‘Worse than that, Detective. Much worse. Jeb didn’t leave things like that to chance. He, uh. Oh.’

  Nathan gagged on the thought of saying this aloud. She resisted the temptation to prompt.

  ‘He started, uh, taking photos. Of them. Now I knew what was happening, I’d be sent to my room when they had nap time but I’d sneak a look at the corridor. There were flashes, Detective. Little spasms of light every now and then, in amongst Jeb’s chuckling.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that incriminate him, to be doing that?’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. My brother was, whatever else I thought of him, a clever person. He would take photos of them in horrid, sexual positions. Doing things to each other. Things they’d never do. Things they’d rather die than do willingly. He showed me a few, told me about the worst ones. We’d sit on the porch: he’d drink and boast and I’d try not to vomit. He’d be laughing and joshing me with an elbow. My parents. Our parents. The stuff he had them doing when they had no choice, no will. It was grotesque. Using . . . objects. Things. I can’t tell you half of it. Won’t. But he had those photos and he would have used them if they’d tried telling anyone.’

  Dana attempted to think it through. The blackmail would only work if the two people in such photos were demonstrably Martin and Pamela Whittler. But if the photos showed that, wouldn’t they also show that the pair were drugged, helpless?

  ‘But still, the photos would damn him, too? Or maybe he’d be in them?’

  ‘No, Detective. He was very careful. He was proud of i
t. Said it was his plan for other people, now that he’d refined it. He took photos from clever angles – they were recognisably my parents but you never saw their eyes. He took photos including birthmarks. The pictures were obviously taken in their bedroom and were them, but you couldn’t tell the state they were in.’

  Yes, she thought, that would work. Perhaps Jeb was smart about not being visible in reflections or showing his shadow. Then he could claim he wasn’t even there, that his parents were alone and took the photos themselves. At any rate, it would succeed because Jeb would never have to show them to anyone. Their power was in their potential; the mere thought of their circulation was part of the bullying, the intimidation, the control.

  ‘Did you ever learn what drug he was using?’

  ‘Insulin, Detective. He got especially drunk one night and told me. He was getting someone to steal insulin from the hospital, giving our parents something like an induced coma. He told me he started off with small doses, only making them drowsy and floppy. My brother could beat them both to a pulp without getting out of breath: making them sit for a needle was easy. He gradually upped it until he had a dosage that left them like that for a few hours.’

  ‘My God, that’s awful. That you had to witness that. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you, Detective. It was . . . well, it became part of life. Part of all our lives. Jeb did as he pleased and we were terrified. He had control of all the bank accounts, had all the property signed over to him. If he was in a bad mood, our parents weren’t allowed to leave the house. I don’t even know why he hated them so much, or even if he did. I think Jeb liked pushing people around, and that was an easy way to practise it. He did it because it was convenient. He did it because he could.’

  Dana was frantically recalibrating: she could never have predicted such a thing. But it was an opportunity, an open door she had to use.

  ‘After you knew about it, and after you knew what the substance was, did anything change?’

  She’d tried to frame it right; without judging Nathan. She was relieved when he took it that way.

  ‘Well, he broke my arm. He started talking about maybe doing me that way, about finding out what my limit was. I think he was getting a little bored with my parents, running out of ideas. I said the first time he did that to me I’d tell the police. I’d run as soon as I was able.

  ‘It was an empty threat, Detective. We both knew it. I’d never make it to the front door, let alone outside. He was faster, twice the size and he liked hurting things. He took me up into my parents’ bedroom, past their comatose forms. He unlocked the French windows, dragged me on to the balcony and threw me straight off it. Just chucked me over the parapet. I had no chance. I landed shoulder first. I was lucky it wasn’t worse. Or unlucky. I could never decide which.

  ‘In the hospital, he said we’d been working on the roof, fixing broken tiles. He said I’d taken off the safety rope to reach a water bottle. He was very good as the anxious brother who sort of blamed himself. Impressed the nurses. He knew how to talk to nurses. On the way home, he told me next time it would be head first, so he might get me paralysed without using the insulin. Wouldn’t that be a blast, he said. Wasn’t a difficult lesson to learn: and he’d made me learn it in front of our parents. The threat was never death, Detective; the threat always involved me staying alive, but helpless.’

  She nodded. Extreme interrogation techniques usually involved implied or future pain, not reality. To talk in excruciating detail about how a finger snapped under pliers was more terrifying, and more effective, than cutting off that finger. The threat of being a frozen victim, with his brother’s lack of mercy, was the worst thing Nathan could have imagined. And Jeb had known it.

  ‘And this continued, after the broken arm?’

  Nathan had reached a point where crying neither hindered him nor bothered him. He spoke through the tears.

  ‘Yes. He’d become less interested in it by then, I’d thought. My parents only had “nap time” occasionally. He varied it: kept them off balance. One month nothing, then maybe two days in a row. He wanted them in a permanent state of agitation. He wanted their silence, and their money.’

  It was an obvious question and she needed to ask it.

  ‘What happened just before you left, Mr Whittler? What made you decide to run?’

  Nathan didn’t speak for some time. He started a couple of times but halted mid-breath. He looked up at the ceiling and away into the corner. And he looked at his own reflection, as though for the first time. She could see the sweep of his vision: across his unkempt hair, over his drained and terrified features, down to his tense grip on the water bottle.

  ‘He did it to me, Detective. He froze me.’

  From what she now knew of Jeb, she suspected he wouldn’t have been able to resist. Nathan was compliant now – he’d have been a pushover back then. And Jeb would have become bored with his parents: he’d like novelty in his bullying. There would be a certain bizarre pride, she felt, in his ability to think up new ways to scare, to control.

  ‘I . . . I was asleep in a chair. Late at night. The needle was in before I’d even begun to wake. By the time I . . . he’d plunged it, and I was still waking. I felt . . . hmm. I felt cold, actually. Cold as death. No pain. Not actually distressed in any physical sense. Like an anaesthetic. Like floating. The distress was all in here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘The fear was what Jeb might do.’

  In the silence that followed Dana made a decision. She looked across to the mirror and felt Bill’s approval for what she did next.

  ‘It’s okay, Mr Whittler. It’s okay. We don’t need to know more than that. We don’t need to.’

  His face got nearer to a genuine smile, and nearer to peace, than she’d seen it.

  ‘Thank you, Detective. Thank you. I . . . it’s . . . you know. Raw.’

  It was the first time they’d both looked straight at each other without one of them flinching and avoiding it. It lasted maybe three seconds.

  ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps, Detective, I would like my parents to know I’m okay, after all. If you could let them know I . . . I can’t explain everything. They might still . . . but if they knew I was okay.’

  Dana swallowed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Whittler, I’m afraid that’s not possible. You see . . . in 2007 . . . a car accident. Both of them. Instantly. I’m so sorry.’

  It felt as though her words were echoing around the room: an aftershock of disaster. Nathan couldn’t grasp them well enough. He looked perplexed for several seconds. Then a wash of comprehension swept over him as he dropped the water bottle. He buckled, fell undone, opened up at the seams. His knuckle went to his mouth as he began weeping. As Dana watched, blood started to flow from his hand, dripping off his wrist on to the floor.

  Chapter 30

  Bill watched through the mirror as Dana silently wrapped a handkerchief around Nathan Whittler’s fist. She made sure never to touch his fingers. Not a word between them, and a conscious effort to avoid further eye contact. When she’d made a crude bandage, they both stepped back and held the two-metre space that felt like their natural distance.

  Doc Butler was called in to deal with the teeth wounds on Nathan’s hand; they weren’t deep but, given the papery texture of his skin, they were still bleeding significantly.

  Bill’s fingers tapped a rhythm on the wall. He took a moment to work out how he was going to deliver bad news. Doc Butler paused at the doorway.

  ‘Lucky I was here, clearing up all that crappy paperwork you have me do,’ Doc Butler said as he watched Nathan being taken to the medical room.

  ‘Yeah, I create lots of pointless forms for exactly that purpose.’ Bill gave a shrug. ‘We’ve already had Whittler in the Lecter Theatre on a ten-minute watch, but I’d like you to give him a full assessment. He’s in jail, his home’s been desecrated, he’s chief suspect for murder; he’s just found out his parents are long dead and he didn’t even know it. Practically Suicide 101.’

&n
bsp; Doc Butler headed off to find proper bandages and antiseptic. Bill entered Interview One. Dana was now exactly where she’d been when she’d called a halt. She stared at the far wall, shell-shocked.

  ‘Hey. Might not feel like it right now, but that was top work.’ Bill slumped into the chair. It looked strange to Dana to see anyone else sitting there, captured by that light. She wondered if it would now permanently seem odd; maybe Nathan’s image would always appear when she entered the room.

  Bill regarded her carefully; she could feel his gaze.

  ‘This is killing you, doing this, isn’t it?’ he asked.

  She shook her head and started fussing with her notes and pen. On any other day, no, it would be okay. On this Day, it was a high-wire act.

  Bill reached out slowly and simply laid his hand on top of the papers. ‘Dana? Isn’t it? I can get Mikey to take it from here, if you need me to.’

  She shivered physically at the thought of Nathan being anyone else’s. And, she realised, it wasn’t only for her sake: it was for his. Nathan couldn’t do this without her. He couldn’t get this far into his own fears without her sitting opposite. Making the case might ultimately be possible by other means, but if she could keep going it would build a stronger one.

  ‘No, it’s okay. Okay. Really. Thanks, Bill. I get it, but really, it’s okay.’

  Bill considered her. He could pull rank and insist, but he trusted her willingness to drop back if she felt the case needed it.

  ‘Stu’s about to finish shift,’ he said, ‘so I’ve asked McGregor to lead a search team at the old Whittler place at dawn tomorrow. He wasn’t too impressed – look for small vials of tasteless, colourless liquid, on a property of twelve hectares.’

  Dana could feel her batteries draining by the second. She was convinced any evidence was long gone, from both the farm and the parents’ bodies. It was possible Jeb had continued with the practice and had some insulin stored elsewhere.