The Insulators Page 4

She said: “No. Until a year ago, I was married.” After a momentary hesitation, she went on: “I was married for five years, in all.”

  “Ah,” he said, and asked softly: “Happily?”

  “Very.”

  “What happened?”

  “He—he wasn’t so happy as I was.”

  “Divorce?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Janey,” he said, in a tone of dismay. “I’m so sorry. It must have hurt damnably.”

  “It did hurt, very much. I was so lonely and—and so shattered. I hadn’t realised he had fallen out of love, and he didn’t want to hurt me.”

  “The purgatory of married fools,” he remarked gently. “So you were lonely and this job attracted you.”

  “Very much.”

  “Do you still like this job, as a job?”

  She hesitated, yet knew that she must not, for long. When they had been in the grounds he had told her, in whispers, that all the apartments and all the departments, the public rooms, the theatre and the cinema and the clubs, were bugged; nothing could be said without it being fed into a control room so that it could be replayed and studied and examined word by word, not only for the surface meaning but for nuance, too. Whatever they said in the apartment could be heard and taped, and they could not talk confidentially, except of themselves. His last words had been: “They won’t mind lovers clucking.”

  Now she sensed a stiffening of his body, as if the long delay worried him, and she herself knew that she had hesitated too long, as if she was not certain whether she liked The Project. But at last she said: “In many ways.”

  “Ah! Not every way?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s very lonely.”

  “With so many handsome men about? Nonsense!”

  “It is lonely,” she insisted. “Oh, the working conditions are wonderful except for the noise and that doesn’t worry me like it does Paul. And the food’s very good and one can’t complain of The Project being a cultural desert! But—well, it’s still lonely.”

  “Does it have to be?” he asked.

  “I don’t quite understand you,” she said, but in fact she understood very well, and her heart began to gallop again.

  “I mean, will you be so lonely if you and I—” he hesitated, slid off the window ledge, took her hands and drew her close as he went on: “If you and I became lovers.”

  He wanted to make love to her, to become lovers, so that he could escape. That was the one thing she could not say because it would be overheard, and it was the one thing which made her hesitate. She was young and free and lonely, and there was something about him which stirred her as she had not been stirred for a long time. But he would simply be using her; as Bruce had used her even though he had been sleeping with the other woman, planning to leave her whenever it most suited him although he had sworn it was because he had been so worried about causing her hurt.

  Bruce had used her, then, and cast her aside.

  This man wanted to use her, and cast her aside.

  The difference was that he did not deceive her. She realised with a sense of shock that he had not said that he loved her, had not pretended in any way. They would be lovers until such time as he thought he could escape, and then she would be alone again. Would the loneliness be better or worse?

  “Janey,” he said. “I’ve tried to take you by storm, and I know I shouldn’t have. You won’t hold it against me, will you?”

  “Of course not,” she replied, and added with a laugh: “You did take my breath away!”

  “But you soon got it back! Would you like me to go?”

  “Oh, please, not yet. Will you have some coffee?”

  “I would even have a drink!”

  “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, with a helpless little shrug. “I don’t have any.”

  “You don’t drink?”

  “Not on my own.”

  “Good God! And truly, what a woman! Then coffee, by all means coffee!” He followed her as she put on one or two table lights, making it brighter but not too bright, and went through the hall to the kitchen recess. She switched on a percolator and then took biscuits from tins – shortbreads from one, chocolate biscuits from another, plain from the third. The coffee pot began to burble and burp, Philip continued to look at her while leaning against the back of a chair. She was discovering that he had a habit of leaning back and hugging his right knee. In this brighter light from a strip of ‘daylight’ fluorescence, and at this angle, he was much better looking than she had realised. He had done something to his hair, ruffled it a little, and it softened his well-cut, rather severe features. His well-shaped lips were much more expressive than she had ever noticed at the office. The expression at both eyes and lips implied a sense of merriment, as if the situation amused him; and perhaps her attitude did, too.

  She had never really fitted the permissive, bed-hopping society, and to a man of the world she might seem far too shy; or coy; or timid. He did not come close to her again and she wished he would, how contrary could one be? When the coffee was ready she carried the tray and he brought a plate of biscuits, and placed them next to the tray. They talked lightly and pleasantly enough but something of the sparkle had gone; perhaps because he had taken ‘no’ so quickly. He seemed to relish the shortbreads more than the other kinds, and she went to get some more.

  When she came back, he wasn’t there.

  Her heart gave a wild lurch, and she opened her lips to cry out – and on the instant he was behind her but this time his hand was on her lips, pressing firmly, hurting a little. And his lips were close to her ear, whispering. “Don’t make a sound until I tell you.” He drew his hand away, but stood very close to her, then he took her wrist and led her to one side of the room and into the bedroom. There he made a loud kissing sound, and, leaving her, sat on the bed and slowly climbed over to the other side.

  “Wonderful,” he said. And a moment later: “Oh, darling, why did we wait so long.” Then he was on the other side of the bed and tiptoeing to the window, beckoning her. Bewildered, even angry, she nevertheless went to him, and he took her hand and pointed towards the far end of the lawns.

  There was a man, creeping from one set of bushes to another. Now and again he turned round and looked behind him, obviously in fear of being followed. Suddenly, he straightened up and ran towards this block of flats, and his face showed clearly in the lamplight.

  It was Paul Taylor; and he looked terrified.

  He was crouching as he ran, as if afraid of being seen, and was looking towards this window as if in despairing hope of succour. He was only forty or fifty yards away, his mouth wide open, the light making his eyes seem dark and bright. At thirty yards he straightened up as if emboldened, and slowed down to a walk.

  As he did so, men appeared at the sides.

  He saw them, and reared up; and then he spun round and began to run at full pelt back whence he had come. But other men appeared from there and from the sides and quite suddenly he was surrounded. He began to shout and fight, and then all the men began to strike him, with short, stubby sticks held in their right hands. Slowly, he sank down in the midst of them but the men still struck and struck, until he disappeared.

  Janey felt Philip’s arm about her.

  She was cold with horror at what she had seen; and quivering. His arm comforted her. She began to form the words: “It’s horrible,” but his hand closed over her lips again and he whispered: “Don’t make a sound.” She continued to shiver. She did not want to watch but there was a mesmeric fascination about the group of men who drew back now; six, in all. Two moved forward as if at a word of command, and picked up Paul’s inert body and carried it away.

  Janey began to sob.

  Philip did not whisper again but, arm firmly about her waist, led her towards the bed, soon now he bade her: “Lie down.” She felt him pulling off her shoes, and loosening the high neck of her dress, where it had suddenly become very tight. She felt his hands at her waist, but they did not linger. He eased h
er onto the bed and then, quite skilfully, pulled blankets and an eiderdown from under her and then rolled them over her, making her into a cocoon. Next he put a hand to her hair and drew the strands away from the gap between neck and pillow, to make her more comfortable. Finally, he hitched himself into a sitting position, and rested one hand on the soft eiderdown. All this time she had shivered with the emotional tension, but gradually she slackened, as she grew warmer. He put on a bedside light which was not too bright, and smiled down at her.

  “Like some coffee or tea?”

  “N-no, thank you.”

  “Are you warm enough?”

  “I will be s-s-soon.”

  “Good,” he said, and there was a funny kind of tone in his voice when he went on: “It’s very romantic.”

  “Oh, Philip,” she said. “Please don’t joke. That was—horrible.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I won’t pretend it wasn’t. I think it’s made one thing clear, though. Only very highly paid mercenaries would behave with that kind of brutality – or political fanatics. My bet is that they are political fanatics but we need not worry about that now.” He hitched himself into a more comfortable position, hand still resting lightly at her waist. It made a warm spot, there. Her shivering stopped and for a while they were silent, until suddenly Janey moved, and took his hand, and drew it inside the covering, warm upon her breast. She was still horrified and frightened, and her only comfort was from Philip; and she could see him looking down at her, smiling faintly. She wanted to shut out the horror she had seen; she wanted so much to be comforted.

  She said in a whisper: “Lie close to me.”

  He put his lips to her ear and said very, very softly: “If I do, I shall want you very much.”

  She drew his head down; and kissed him . . .

  And soon, they were lying close, aquiver with desire.

  And soon, they were lying still, desire past but warmth and comfort with them and the memory of the hideous sight outside almost gone. His left arm was beneath her neck, cradling and his right hand gentled her soft skin. For a while she could think only of the warmth and comfort, but suddenly she thought: He’s going to leave me, and she drowsed off with that in her mind. Another thought stabbed; a fear-thought, and she stiffened. Her lips parted but before she could utter a word he closed them with his; and when at last he drew them away, he said: “Softly, darling; speak very softly.”

  So she said in a quivering whisper what she wanted desperately to shout: “You can’t escape. They’d stop you like they stopped Paul.”

  And in her mind’s eye she could see the six men, striking and striking and striking again.

  5: Escape . . . ?

  “Janey,” Philip whispered, “you saw what happened to Paul.”

  “Yes. That’s why you can’t—”

  “That’s why I must escape,” he retorted. “This isn’t a simple industrial consortium; this is something ugly, deadly, cold-blooded. The outside world must be told.”

  They were so close together and warm and snug. It was an age since she had lain like this, seeming as if in one way she had slipped back to the loveliest days of her marriage with Bruce. There was something else, a sense, an awareness, rather than knowledge. It was right to be here with Philip. No matter what had led up to it, no matter what his real purpose, they were one of another. It was as if she belonged to him, had suddenly become part of him. She was too tense in her mind and too relaxed in her body to think beyond that awareness, but one thing she did know.

  She did not want him to leave her. The Project would be a dread and dreary place without him now. Yet as she allowed that thought to drift through her mind there was a companion thought, that this was absurd. How could she fall so desperately in love in a few hours?

  His arm was firm and strong about her waist; he was holding her close and with the pressure of his body, comforting her and giving her reassurance.

  “That’s why you can’t—” she had begun, the picture of that hideous attack on Paul vivid in her mind.

  “That’s why I must escape,” he had interrupted.

  Why had he said that? Why had he spoken as if she would understand?

  Hazily, she did begin to understand.

  “Janey,” he whispered, “this is like a concentration camp.”

  She caught her breath: “No!”

  He shifted his position slightly, making her aware of the lean strength of his body, the rippling power of the muscles in his stomach, in his legs. Now his cheek was against hers, his voice just reached her and she knew that he was trying desperately to make sure that no microphone picked up his words.

  “It’s happened too often before in modern history. When a man’s nerve is broken, he disappears. If a man’s soul rebels, he disappears. Only if he does what he is told, only if he asks no questions and meekly accepts the life he’s allotted, can he live in peace and safety. That’s true here. You must be aware of that by now. You of all people can’t be blind.”

  But she had been blind, because she had wanted only to live in her world of personal sorrow and of grief.

  There had been disappearances; there had been others from different departments who had shown signs of the same nervous tension as Paul; and vanished. She was aware of another thing: not another man or woman had talked of this to her. She, like everyone else, simply accepted the situation; why else could it be, but because they were afraid?

  The fear was in Arthur Leadbetter, in Freddie Ferris, and it had become naked in Paul Taylor. About them was a wall of silence. Despite the awful noise and the vibrations which never ceased, there was a conspiracy of silence. In all the time she had been here no one had talked about the conditions of their living, or anything except generalities, or music, the arts, the sciences. No word about working conditions, for instance, nor about the men who commanded them. Oh, in the common room there would be fast and furious arguments about politics and about foreign affairs, but these had long since lost their bite. It was as if they were living apart from the world.

  A ‘concentration’ camp . . . ?

  Philip whispered: “We can’t let it go on without trying to escape so as to tell the outside world what’s going on. Janey, everyone here is a slave.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t go on.”

  “But you know it’s true,” he insisted.

  “I don’t—I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Don’t you?” he said in a queer voice. “Well, I haven’t thought about anything else for a long time. Except—” he broke off, and eased away from her so that although they were still close from the waist down, she could see his face as he could see hers. His hands moved and his strong fingers played so gently with her, there was a curve at his lips and she had not realised before how strong and handsome he was. “Except you,” he went on much more clearly, as if it no longer mattered whether he was heard. “Except you, Janey. How I love you!”

  She thought, exultantly: How I love you!

  But almost at once doubts crowded into her mind. He would say that to reassure her, he might even say that he loved her because of what had happened between them, but his motive both for loving and for saying that he loved her could be the same: to win her help in a bid for escape, the very thought of which she hated.

  He kissed her, gently, and began to speak softly again: “We mustn’t talk except in whispers.”

  She could not stop herself from retorting: “When we’re in bed, you mean.”

  “When we’re alone in the grounds, anywhere we think we’re safe from being bugged. Janey, please – you must know that I have to escape.”

  One half of her mind already knew; the other half resented it bitterly and fought against it as if she were fighting death.

  In the next few days she had long periods of bitter revolt, anger and resentment. When she was alone she thought, he was using her, cold-bloodedly, callously. But whenever they were together, in the restaurant or the theatre, holding hands in the ci
nema, dancing in the night club she had only been to occasionally before, she was quiveringly aware of him. And when he came to her at the day’s end, and on the odd days off when they did not work, she was aware only of being in love.

  Ashley looked up from a report he was reading as he sat in an armchair in his suite, which he shared with Parsons. It was midday. Even here, insulated against sound as well as the building could be, the muffled roar came, and the air seemed to throb, the floor vibrated in a way which some got used to but which drove others out of their minds.

  “Have you read this latest report on Wylie and Carr?” he asked.

  Parsons, who was changing records on a record player, looked over his shoulder and remarked: “It seems very satisfactory.”

  “It is,” Ashley said. “I have only one reservation.” As he said that his expression took on a sharp edge, giving him a predatory look.

  “What’s that?” asked Parsons. The record dropped and he moved across to an armchair opposite Ashley. His face reflected none of the smaller man’s doubts, he looked completely self-assured as he lowered himself into his chair.

  “It happened so quickly,” Ashley said.

  “Don’t you mean it came to a head very quickly?” countered Parsons. “Carr must have been sexually aware of her for a long time.”

  “I wish I knew why it came to a head that particular night,” said Ashley. He got up nervously, and went to a bookcase, selected a slim volume of verse, The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, came back and sat down. But obviously he could not settle, and Parsons got out of his chair in turn, went to another corner of the room where a small cine projector stood with a stiff cover over it. He took off the cover, pressed a button on the wall, and two shelves began to revolve until a small, silvered screen appeared in place of the books.

  He placed some spools on the projector, a very simple task. All over The Project, in rooms, in the recreation halls, outside, in the laboratories, automatic cameras took pictures on tape which could be cleaned off and used afresh or processed onto film, as these had been.