by Claire McNab
"I won't hurt you, Victoria. Just let me touch you."
I sat up. "I can't." I was crying, and I bent my head to hide my wet face. "Please forgive me, Reyne. I don't know why this is happening..."
She gathered me in her arms like a comforting mother. "It's okay," she said softly. "You just let yourself go for once, and you frightened yourself."
"You mean there's hope for me yet?" I said with an attempt at levity.
"Well, I'm not giving up on you," said Reyne.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gerald picked up one of the photographs. He looked at the faded writing on the back. "The Kid and Daddy, eh?"
I continued to shovel the remaining photographs back into the manila envelope. "It seems my father's pet name for me was The Kid."
Sitting down at the opposite side of my desk, Gerald examined the photo closely. "You were too serious even then, Victoria. How old were you here? Six? Seven?"
I held out my hand for the photograph. "Don't know," I said offhandedly. "Probably about six."
He looked at the manila envelope with interest. "Any more of you there?"
"Just old family photos. Nothing of importance."
I felt a tremor of annoyance as Gerald shoved his hands in his pockets and stretched out his lanky legs, seemingly set for a long conversation. "Everything ready for your trip?" he said.
"I do have a lot of things to finish up before Friday when I go," I said meaningfully.
Gerald didn't take the hint. "Victoria, I've been thinking about us..."
"Yes?"
I thought my tone made it clear that I didn't want to continue the topic, but he went on, "I just want you to know I'm not going to give up." His tone was conversational, but his expression implacable. "I happen to love you." He paused, then added, "Very much."
"I'm sorry, but I don't love you." I felt relieved that I had bluntly stated it, instead of hedging around the subject for fear of hurting him.
He took his hands out of his pockets and sat forward in the chair. "You think you don't love me because..." He cleared his throat. "You have a bit of a problem with sex. Lots of people do and you can be helped. Please know I understand, and it's okay. We can work on it. I love you and I think we should be married."
Taking a deep breath, I said tightly, "Sex isn't the problem. That isn't the reason I won't marry you."
"I can give you so much. And I need you."
Feeling my customary impotence to deal with his benign persistence, I said in an even tone, "Gerald, I don't know how I can say this plainly enough for you to believe me, but I love you only as a friend. No more than that."
A shadow of anger passed over his face. "We've slept together as lovers for some time, Victoria. Isn't it a bit late to deny our feelings for each other?"
"I'm not denying your feelings, I'm denying that mine are what you say. I don't think you'd be happy in a relationship that you gave so much to, and I gave so little."
Now he was angry. "I should be the judge of what would make me happy or not." His expression changed. "Victoria, please..." He stood up. "No, don't say anything... just think about it."
"I don't need to think!"
He smiled at me bleakly. "Yes, you do, because I'm not giving up. I know there's no one else and the real problem is you're frightened of making a commitment to me. I'll wait as long as it's necessary."
He was at the door before I said, "There is someone else."
He smiled over his shoulder at me. "Good try, Victoria, but we both know there isn't."
It was a frantically busy week as I labored to get everything ready for a colleague to take over during my absence in the United States. I postponed viewing the Super-8 films until just before I left, convincing myself that only pressure of work dictated my reluctance to make time to see them.
Millennium had sent Reyne back to Melbourne because of a furor over rumors that the Vera Eiesley jury had been stacked, the jury selection process manipulated so that a majority was sympathetic to the accused and antagonistic towards the Church. Reyne had called and said she'd be back Thursday, the day before I flew out of Australia.
I was grateful for the buffer of work, which filled my waking hours effectively, although a combination of excitement and consternation over thoughts of Reyne continually leaked into whatever I was doing. I supposed what I felt for her was love, although the feeling was far more uncomfortable than anything I might have imagined. Her absence was a steady ache, and I was alarmed at my growing need to see her.
I slept restlessly, often dreaming of my aunt and uncle's house, or repeating the familiar nightmare of bright lights and shameful nakedness. And there were constant images of Reyne. In dreams I kissed her, made love to her — but I was always aloof, untouchable.
The fact that Aunt Felice had told the inquest one story about my parents' last meeting, and, years later, another version to Zoe, nagged at me constantly. Although I knew it would probably be a futile visit, one afternoon I went to see my Uncle David.
The Good Shepherd retirement home was bleakly unwelcoming as usual. My uncle lay in his narrow bed, his large white hands folded neatly on his stomach, blinking uncomprehendingly as I tried to question him about my father. Locked in the wreckage of his brain might be the answer to why my parents died, and I had to find the key to the memory.
As I'd come in through the chilly entrance to the building, Matron Scott, small but formidable, had stopped me to announce, "The Reverend, your uncle — he's worse. Much worse. Shouldn't be surprised if he didn't see out the month."
Past acquaintance had told me the matron took a grim satisfaction in bearing bad news, so when I asked if he was likely to remember anything from some years ago, she said triumphantly, "Most unlikely, Professor Woodson. At the best, a moment, a scene, maybe a name."
So far, the matron had been right. As I talked to him, occasionally Uncle David would turn his head to me as though he had caught sight of something familiar, but most of the time he gazed vacantly ahead.
"Isabelle," I said. "Do you remember your brother's wife?"
"Isabelle?" There was a flash of intelligence. "Isabelle... poor Isabelle." His voice became stronger. "She's dead. Gone to hell."
This didn't shock me. Hell and damnation had always been a large part of my uncle's vocabulary. "But why? What did Isabelle do?"
Uncle David looked surprised. "Murder, of course."
The word jolted me like an unexpected punch, but I hurried to take advantage of this moment of clarity. "Who did Isabelle murder?
He turned his head away, mumbling incoherently.
I felt like shaking him, but I said agreeably, "Uncle David, tell me about Isabelle."
"She's gone to hell."
"I know Isabelle's gone to hell. But why has she?"
He looked at me directly, his eyebrows raised. "Why? Because she murdered Frank."
For a moment I felt detached, almost coldly amused. It seemed some ludicrous escalation had occurred. I could hear the explanations, one after the other: Your mummy and daddy aren't coming back for a while... Your mother and father have gone to Heaven... Your parents died in a car crash... Your parents burned to death... Your mother deliberately crashed the car' to murder your father...
Then I found myself seizing him by the shoulders, the words spilling out of me in a desperate stream. "Uncle David! Why? Why would she do that? Tell me! Tell me what you know."
He stared at me stupidly, his head bobbing as I shook him. I released him, horrified at my loss of control.
"Uncle David, I'm sorry. Forgive me..." Appallingly, his face puckered up like a frightened child's, and I was swept with shame and confusion.
I stayed for a while, patting his hand and talking gently, as if that would make up for what I'd done. "I'll see you soon, Uncle David, when I get back." He watched me warily as I backed out of the room.
Matron Scott was waiting for me. "Well, how was he?"
I had myself well in hand. "Just as you described."
<
br /> As she nodded her pleasure at this vindication of her judgment, I said, "My uncle did mention a few things. I'd like to know what weight can be put on what he said."
"You can never tell, really," said the matron firmly. "I mean, some fragments of memory are probably quite accurate. Others... well! Just imaginings, I'd say."
When Reyne had called to say she was back in Sydney, I suggested we meet in her apartment, since I was sure she must be tired. Her reply made me smile. "I'm coming to your place tonight, Victoria, but it's not because of you. Frankly, it's Tao who's won my heart."
I waited with increasing anxiety for her to arrive. I wanted to see her, talk to her, touch her — but not to make love. That would be too threatening, too perilous.
To my astonishment, I realized that I wanted to tell her about Uncle David and my inexplicable loss of control. I'd tried to rationalize what had happened, but my attempts to explain my behavior seemed hollow. And what would Reyne think of what I'd done? Would she find excuses as I was trying to do? There's no point in telling her. I'm going to put it out of my mind.
She came through the door with the crackling energy I was drawn to, one hand outstretched with a small package. "I bought you a gift."
My surprise was evident. Reyne's smile melted all my reserve. "Just something I saw I thought you'd like."
The gift was a beautifully carved wooden cat, sitting in the august pose that Tao often assumed, its sleek arrogance endearing. I turned it in my fingers, enjoying the smooth planes of the heavy wood. "Thank you."
She stood watching me, her expression unreadable. "I want you to be happy," she said.
Impulsively, I put my arms around her. "It's beautiful, Reyne... and so are you." I was so embarrassed by the awkwardness of my compliment that I took refuge in a quick kiss.
Reyne put her hand behind my head and gently guided my lip's back onto hers. Her mouth was electric, compelling. We kissed with an abandon I never imagined I'd experience. A tide of warmth rose in me, catching at my breath.
"Don't think," said Reyne. "Just feel."
I had to touch her bare skin, make her want me. It was the ability I had to arouse her that was firing my passion. She willingly assisted my clumsy attempts to undress her. "You first," I said. "Please."
As she lay under me on the bed I exulted in my power, my dominance. She moaned at my touch, her nipples hard, thrusting into my palms. And I was drunk with the same need, vibrating with the same longing. She curved against me as my fingers slid into her. "Oh, darling!"
Her words, the wet texture of her, intoxicated me. I moved my hand and she moved with me. I wanted to savor, to store the memory of her body, but I was overcome by a cascade of sensation. My hand caught her rhythm and she rose to the pressure of my fingers. Higher and higher, arched in aching silence for a moment, then shaking with orgasm.
I called out with her: it was the only moment of true oneness I had ever known.
"I can't," I said. "Darling, don't try so hard."
I turned my face away, miserable in failure. "I'm not trying too hard, Reyne. I just can't."
CHAPTER TWELVE
My flight to Los Angeles didn't leave until mid-afternoon, so I'd postponed my packing until the morning. Reyne, who had an early interview, didn't stay for breakfast. She'd cuddled me all night, and I'd slept, dreamlessly, in her arms. I woke to her sleepy mumblings, and lay still, unable to express in words or actions the dimensions of affection that swelled within me. As we dressed, I was noncommittal, even terse, but she didn't seem to mind. She departed in a swirl of energy, leaving my house depleted by her absence.
I packed with my usual efficient care, then, while it was still early, went to the university. I'd put off viewing the two reels of film to the very last, but I knew I couldn't leave Australia and have their menace still unexplained.
I locked the door of my office behind me and stood like someone about to begin a testing race. Ted, an assistant from the university library, had put the Super-8 projector on my desk with a note attached explaining the intricacies of loading the film, but before I set it up I took out the envelope with my father's business papers. I remembered from my first cursory glance a few mail order catalogs for Woodson Enterprises' films, and I hoped to find some connection to these two films. I leafed through the documents until I found the catalogs stapled together.
The first pages covered the categories I expected — training and education — but at the back was a separate page headed Very Private Entertainment. I had to force myself to look at the titles. Clearly they were pornographic films, many imported from Scandinavian countries. At the bottom a short list was sub-headed Homegrown Australian Fun. I cringed at the titles: The Kid Loves Daddy, Daddy's Little Girl, The Kid is Hot.
When I tipped the two innocuous yellow film containers onto my desk I sat and stared at them. Wouldn't it be better if I never knew what was on them? They couldn't be what I suspected. It wasn't possible. I could hear my breath singing in my ears as I picked up the first one, K5 plus and loaded it into the projector.
The film began with me as a little girl sitting naked on a bunny rug, blinking in the harsh light pouring in from some source outside the frame. I looked small and puzzled, especially when a male hand began to give me a selection of "toys" to play with. As I watched, my heart began to race with forgotten terror when I saw my five-year-old self crying as the vibrator was inserted into me.
If the first film stunned me, the impact of the second one, K & FW, was far greater. I felt physically ill as I watched the frames chatter through the projector. Presumably someone else operated the camera as my father, naked, took me on his lap. I was wearing a little dress with brightly colored flowers. He cooed to me, caressed me, encouraged me' to play with his stiffening penis. Then he undressed me in a mockery of a striptease until I stood naked between his knees...
The inscriptions my father had scrawled on the containers were now clear: K5 plus meant The Kid aged five plus sex toys; K & FW meant The Kid and Frank Woodson. I wished he were still alive, so I could howl my outrage at him, flay him with words as my mother must have done.
I was so sick with revulsion that I could barely dial Zoe's number. When she answered with her usual abruptness, I said without preliminaries, "Zoe, I've just seen the films that were in the box of papers that you gave me. Did you have any idea what was on them?"
"I wasn't sure, Victoria... but Mum —"
I broke in, fierce with pain. "You told me you didn't know why my parents were fighting, but it was because my mother found out, wasn't it?"
Zoe's voice was subdued, sympathetic. "Victoria, I didn't tell you because I couldn't. And it was better that you never found out."
"Then why give me the papers? Why give me the films?"
Her voice was sharp with self-justification. "I didn't look through the box. I didn't know what was there." She paused, then said more moderately, "But of course, I guessed. I suppose I... wanted to leave it up to you. I wasn't sure what Mum told me was true — and I didn't really want to know."
I shut my eyes, thinking of the conspiracy of silence that had enveloped me. "Does John—"
"No. Mum made me promise not to tell him."
"Whatever you promised, you have to tell me."
Zoe hesitated, then said quickly, "Don't blame Mum, Victoria. Just before she died she said again she was still sure it was best you were never told about the films."
My voice was harsh. "My father used me to make money from child pornography. Don't you think I have a right to know that?" I took a ragged breath, my self-possession dissolving in grief. "Shouldn't I know that pedophiles watched me..."
"Oh, Victoria, I'm so sorry."
I realized with a shock that Zoe was crying too.
"What can I do?" she sobbed.
"Nothing. There's nothing anyone can do." I forced myself to sound calmer. "I'll just have to cope with it, that's all."
After I hung up I sat staring stupidly at the phone, my will paraly
zed. A phrase from somewhere kept repeating in my head: The truth shall set you free. Would that happen? Was I free now of the power of the searing memories whose pain had made my mind blot them out of existence?
I thought of Reyne, of calling her... and my heart rebelled. Last night I couldn't tell her how I'd lost control with my Uncle David — so how could I tell her this? What I had to do was think it through, put some order on the chaos of my thoughts and feelings, reestablish myself at the quiet center again.
Gerald had insisted that he drive me to the airport, even though I told him not to bother. I felt drained, exhausted, yet guilty that I didn't want his company. We exchanged desultory conversation in the car and while I was checking my luggage. Then we faced each other with nothing to shield our differences.
"Gerald, I haven't been fair to you."
"I understand."
I gazed at his familiar, thin face, and knew that I was going to hurt him irrevocably. "It's wrong of me not to have said this earlier, but I was fooling myself, as well as you."
His expression changed, as though he realized that these were not my usual half-hearted denials. "Victoria, I—"
"Recently, I've found out a lot about myself, about why I am the way I am. I can't love you. I never will be able to love you — not the way you have every reason to expect."
"I can accept that."
"But I can't, Gerald. I'd be miserable, knowing you wanted, and needed, so much more than I can give you. I can't marry you... will never marry you. It would be a lie to let you think there was any chance at all."
He looked away from me, rubbing his fingers across his forehead. “Is there someone else?"
I felt overwhelmingly weary. "It doesn't matter if there is, or isn't. Please understand. It would make no difference." I blinked at my sudden tears. "I never meant to hurt you this way."
Gerald took a deep breath, and when he looked at me there was resignation on his face. "So that's it?"
"I'm sorry..." I stopped at the inadequacy of my words. He nodded, as though I'd completed the sentence.
Hugh had watched our exchange from a distance and when Gerald kissed my cheek, then turned and walked away, he hurried over. "Gerald isn't waiting until we board?"