‘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 it. 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.’