Chapter 7

They were alone and unprotected. the woman's name was Marjorie Deerland; Mrs. Marjorie Deerland, and she was enjoying a weekend alone with her daughter, just home from college, while Mr. Deerland was in Ottawa on business. The irony of it was that Mr. Deerland was a board member of a large corporation, internationally affiliated, that sold locks, safes, and burglar alarm systems of all types.

But a lock wouldn't have done his wife and daughter much good anyway, under the circumstances. The front door of their ranch home had a very good lock on it, as a matter-of-fact, and there was little chance that the family jewels in the wall safe would be stolen, because it was a very good safe of the type that even an expert burglar would have had difficulty locating at once.

None of this was too important to the immediate situation, though. Which is to say, neither the Deerland's impeccable reputation as good, law-abiding, respectable upper-middle class people nor the fact that the husband happened to be in a line of work connected with the prevention of crimes of various kinds was going to do a thing in the way of helping Marjorie Deerland or her daughter Beverly.

Mrs. Deerland, being a woman of above average intelligence, recognized this fact almost immediately. She had no time to stop and philosophize about it, to psych out the little ironies connected with her involvement with a bunch of motorcycle hoodlums bent on thrill-seeking while her husband made speeches about the prevention of crime and delinquincy at a hotel banquet in Ottowa.

She simply knew instinctively that she and her daughter were in a hell of a lot of trouble.

Trouble itself was something she had very little experience with in her life, so she could hardly be blamed if she was totally unprepared for it. Although she didn't consider herself to be a snob, the only thing she knew about a slum was that it was something you occasionally had to pass through on your way to a city shopping district. As a child of well-to-do parents she had never known any serious wants in a material sense, and it seemed quite natural for her to end up married to a respectable and successful businessman and live in an exclusive residential section like Longwood. The kind of section where citizens would have been horrified at a proposal to install adequate street lighting.

Longwood had no criminal element-therefore, why should Longwood need street lights? It was much prettier without them, and much more exclusive-looking. A patrol car made its rounds through there twice a night, which was certainly more than was necessary. Who wanted to live in a neighborhood where one had to be constantly reminded of such things as police and crime?

Certainly not Marjorie Deerland.

Naturally not.

But she did recognize the fact that she was in what could amount to serious trouble.

She recognized trouble in the rather terrifying low-class face of the swarthy dark-haired young man in jeans and boots and tee shirt and motorcycle cap. She didn't associate the trouble with motorcycles necessarily, because she hadn't heard any coming down the street. The sound of motorcycle engines was never heard in the quiet streets of Longwood. There was a local ordinance against such things.

Of course.

But the further, conclusive recognition of the fact of trouble came to her in a much more immediate manner.

It came to her when the young man referred to as Gunner, a young white-haired giant with a crazy look in his eye, began pouring a bottle of her husband's expensive stock of whiskey down the front of her bathing suit.

Naturally.

She screamed in sudden choking fury, less afraid than indignant. "Stop that!" she yelled, knocking his arm away. And the other one, the one with the big shoulders and hairy arms and bulging biceps, he seemed to back her up.

He shoved the tow-head away. "Lay off," he growled. "How we going to have a nice respectable party if you do things like that?"

Gunner looked indignant himself, but stopped.

Mrs. Deerland was on her feet by then, facing the young man who was obviously the leader of these thugs. She was not a woman entirely lacking in bravery.

"You're not having any party here," she said shrilly, finding her voice gone a little out of control. "Now you get away from here, young man-and take your friends with you!-before I go into the house and phone for the police!"

Ronnie looked hurt by her words. Sitting on the patio table, he swung one leg back and forth, studying the toe of his boot.

"Now, ma'am," he said quietly, "he didn't mean nothing by that. He was just having a little fun, is all. Now you shouldn't talk to us like that either. It's, um, what they call an, uh, anti-social attitude, you know, in, uh, those books you read about, uh, juvenile delinquents and like that."

"You have unmitigated gall!" Mrs. Deerland said in a deadly cold voice. "Leave here at once, I say, or I'll go in there and phone...."

"It's like a bad attitude," Ronnie interrupted, "and like besides, we, uh, sort of checked with the phones, you see, and like they're not working or something."

Mrs. Deerland clutched at her throat. "Not working? What are you talking about, young man?"

"Funny thing," Ronnie chuckled. "I mean, in a swank neighborhood like this you'd think at least the phones would be working, huh?" He laughed, and Paul and Gunner began to laugh with him, doubling over and clutching at their stomachs.

"Yeah, yeah; the pipes is all busted!" Paul chanted. "Ain't that a shame? The pipes is all busted!"

Livid with outrage, Mrs. Deerland turned her statuesque figure toward the glass rear of her house.

Two more of them, in black jackets, were standing in the doorway of her living room.

They had cigarettes dangling from their lips.

And telephones dangling from their hands.

Her telephones.

It began to dawn then on Mrs. Deerland that she might be in very serious trouble indeed.

Her mind reeled as though she had been struck a physical blow. No phones; her husband not due home till tomorrow evening; the neighbors on either side of her gone away for the weekend; she and her daughter here alone with these strange, vulgar and insolent young men who seemed to have popped up out of a bad dream....

Suddenly she felt like screaming.

"What do you want?" she said in a low whisper, her handsome breasts heaving under the tight-fitting swim suit.

Ignoring her, Ron grabbed a partly-emptied bottle of Haig and Haig from Gunner's hands and took a swig. Then he returned his gaze to the white-faced woman.

"Um, like you know-some company," he grinned, showing white perfect teeth. "Like we've been traveling, you see, and we saw your swell pad here and we say to ourselves: "Gee, wouldn't it be nice if they was to invite us in for a drink or two, man!" And, well, it looks like you did that."

"Get-out-of-here!" she said, shaking now.

"Like she doesn't dig us, man," Paul put in. "Like maybe she's afraid we're going to corrupt her sweet little daughter if we hang around!"

Ronnie stared blankly at the older woman a minute, and then turned slowly to the daughter. She was still sitting in the chair, her pretty legs crossed, her arms folded across her breasts to make up for the inadequate bikini.

Slowly, in a smooth liquid motion he slid off the table to his feet. A loud band was playing over the station, a big band arrangement of a popular twist number. Ronnie began moving his hips slowly, staring at the young, pretty, dimple-faced girl, his arms extended to ward her.

"Come on, baby," he slurred. "Come on and twist with me a little, huh?"

The girl began to rise uncertainly from her chair, back at Ronnie, a little defiantly.

"You're a real creep!" she said. "Why don't you leave us alone?"

"Just one dance, baby ... then we'll go. Right, boys?"

"Right," Paul and Gunner said in unison, laughing.

The girl began to rise uncertainly from her chair, looking from face to face.

Her mother stepped between them. "No! Get out of here at once!"

His face turned to carved stone as he looked at her with pure hatred gleaming from his dark slits of eyes. He walked stiffly up against her, forcing her back to her chair.

"Like the chick wants to dance with me, okay? Like you saw her get up on her own two feet all by herself, didn't you? Like don't bug me, lady!"

The mother slumped back into the chair, her face ashen. She had seen the other one, the little one with the beard, take out a knife and begin to play with it. She gripped the arms of her chair, her eyes wide with amazement, like a child's who has overturned his first rock and seen what was underneath. The sight paralyzed her for the moment.

Ronnie caught the girl's hand, drew her toward him and began twisting. His eyes almost closed, he began moving loosely, grooving to the music, while her movements were spastic and unsure.

"Atta girl," he grinned. "You can swing, baby!"

She shrugged and began twisting in earnest She was good. She had the rhythm and the equipment, a marvelous body with a narrow waist and flaring hips and good breasts that promised to fly out of the skimpy bikini top as she began getting with the music.

Jimmy watched that all, fascinated, tense, feeling drugged with the alcohol. She couldn't have been enjoying this, he knew, but maybe she figured that if she danced with him, that would satisfy him and prevent anything further from happening. Paul and Gunner began twisting too, with each other-one on either side of Mrs. Deerland's deck chair.

The number came to a finish. Ronnie slapped his hands together and yelled "Groove!" as she finished.

"Satisfied?" she said tartly. "Now leave us alone!"

It was the wrong thing to say at that point and Jimmy knew it. But it was like the night in the cemetery--he felt like a helpless spectator.

Paul had his knife out again and was making incisions in the air in front of the girl's face.

"What a nasty tongue! Want I should cut that tongue out, man?"

The girl screamed with fright, back-peddling to the edge of the pool.

She went over and in with a loud splash. Paul danced at the edge, laughing demonically.

"Let her cool off," Ronnie said, turning to the mother, who was rising up out of the chair again, her face suddenly terror-stricken. "You ought to cool off too, lady-go in for a nice swim, huh?"

"No, no; leave me alone!" she screamed, and tried to rush past him in the direction of the house.

His boot went out, kicking at her trim ankles, and she went over onto the flagstones in a loud slap of flesh against stone, screaming in terror.

Ron and Gunner were around her quickly, gathering her up, each taking an arm and a leg and carrying her, head hanging down, to the edge of the pool.

"Wait, man," Ronnie panted. "Off with the suit first."

Jimmy stood watching in horror as Paul swung his knife at her. There was a loud ripping of cloth and he expected to see guts come spilling out.

But Paul was incredible with a blade. The suit came apart without the flesh underneath being so much as scratched, and then they ripped it from her and tossed her bodily high up into the air.

She landed almost in the center of the pool, completely naked now, her red suit nothing more than a rag lying beside the pool's edge.

Jimmy wanted to run, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot where he stood. His mind whirled. This was too much, going too far-and how much further would this go? It seemed like they had already been here ages, but his mind told him it was actually little more than twenty or thirty minutes. He was drunk, but all his senses were galvanized.

Electrified.

Both of them were in the pool now, mother and daughter, thrashing around, the mother completely naked and trying senselessly in her irrational terror to hide it, the daughter partly naked, having somehow lost the top to her bikini.

Naked and screaming, thrashing around. But their screams were masked by the loud music coming over the portable radio.

And a bizarre game had begun.

The pool was a rectangular one. Paul had circled around to the far side, Gunner to one end and Ron the other. That left Jimmy to cover the fourth side, and whether he intended to or not, he was there, and therefore part of this.

Paul and Gunner both had their knives out and were squatting at the edge of the pool. Ron sat on the low diving board, his booted feet dangling menacingly close to the surface of the water and the pool's edge. He was smoking a cigarette and evidently paying no attention to the two in the pool.

But Jimmy knew better. The swimmers could not stay in the middle, deep water forever. They would tire soon, treading water the way they were, and then they would have to either come to the edges and cling or swim up to the shallow end where they could stand with their heads above water and rest.

They were like two fish trapped in a barrel.

The meaning of the game soon became clear to them also. They were both good swimmers, but they were also both being terrorized, and had wasted a lot of energy just thrashing about in the beginning. Calmer now, he could see them gauging their chances.

The woman moved first, striking out in Ron's direction, toward the ladder near the side of the low board. She had a beautiful body and, naked, she reminded Jimmy of some stag pictures he had once seen, rather tame ones of naked women swimming around underwater in a kind of fancy ballet.

But this was not a film now. Her long, gracefully curved body cut smoothly through the clear greenish water while her daughter stayed in the middle, treading.

The mother reached the bottom of the ladder quickly. Gasping for breath, her large graceful breasts heaving, she reached out and caught the lower rung in her fingers, clinging to it.

"Please," she pleaded, looking up at Ron. "Please let us get out! We don't want any trouble, we won't make any trouble ... "

He pretended not to hear, but sat biting his nails. Slowly she drew herself up, catching hold of the next rung....

The next....

And then his booted foot came down on her hand, crushingly. She screamed and fell backward from the ladder, thrashing desperately to get away from him.

But he was faster. In a blur he moved on the board, flopping over and reaching down with his arm to catch a handful of wet tangled dark hair.

He was strong, and the water made her body lighter. Holding her up by the hair, he crawled out on the board, dragging her through the water under him, out to the very edge.

There, he started bouncing. Leaning way over and down, holding all of her hair in the steely grip of his fist, he bounced the piable springboard, up and down, up and down. Her head would go under, and then up, under and then up-like a cork bobbling below and above the surface of the water. The girl screamed as she saw what was happening, but the woman was only able to splutter and gasp for breath each time she came up.

He began making her come higher and higher, until her magnificent breasts with their darkish round nipples and aureoles appeared each time, streaming twin streams of water, and her eyes were shut and her jaws clenched shut in pain.

And then, on the highest rise, his thick legs wrapped around the board to support him, he hauled her face up to his and ground his lips against her mouth, kissing her while holding her in that agonizing grip.

For ages, it semed. Sheer brute strength, holding her there at the edge of the board, her neck in an arm lock while he kissed her and felt her breasts with his other hand.

It was impossible for him to maintain the position. Finally he had to let go, and she dropped down into the water. Jimmy was afraid she had fainted and would drown, but after going under she surfaced again, out of his reach now, back-floating away from him, the tips of her beautiful breasts breaking the surface.

The daughter tried next. She swam to the shallow end, where she could at least stand on her feet, and began advancing in a circling maneuver toward the edge.

Cautiously. But Gunner realized it was his turn now, and crab-stepped back and forth along the edge of the pool, matching each move of hers while his wild face leered down at her.

"Come on baby; that's it-come on up here to Daddy-O now! don't be frightened, sweet lips; I'm gonna be real nice to you when you get up here honey, don't worry. Sweet li'l ol' thing like you now! Just a little squeeze maybe, huh? A kiss or two, huh baby? I don't want nothing you ain't giving to the other guys in school, honest I don't! Why, I'll be much better for you than they are, baby-I'll show you things you never dreamed of before, I will! Yeah, man, when you get up here we'll have ourselves a real old time, right here next to the pool-come on, baby; don't be afraid! Hey, man, you can't stay in there all night now, can you? You're starting to look real cold! Let me warm up them nice little boobs for you, huh babe?"

She stopped short, out of his reach. The game had gotten grotesque. They could have taken off their clothes and gone in after them, but this was it was making the girls choose.

And what they were choosing was pretty clear by now. There was no way out for them. As Gunner had said, they couldn't stay in there all night.

The mother was standing in the shallow end now, too, clutching her arms around her big breasts and moaning and shivering. The air had turned much cooler. She was beyond the point of screaming now, in a state of sort of stupefied shock.

The daughter suddenly moved away from that end of the pool and swam toward Jimmy.

He stood there, petrified, watching her close. This was the test, he realized dimly-the eyes of the other three club members were all on him now.

He had to play their game or....

"Looka that, man!" Gunner shouted; "She's choosing lover-boy! Hey man, dig that! She don't want me or you guys-she wants him! Hey, like I'm jealous, man!"

"Get her, baby," Paul yelled across the pool. "Don't let her get away!"

No, Jimmy thought. He couldn't go through with this. This was more than he had bargained for.

Much more.

He was getting in too deep, over his head. If he did what they clearly wanted him to do, demanded that he do, he would be as much a criminal as any of them.

And suddenly he realized that this was the initiation they had been talking about since the first day!

He was standing near the middle, where she couldn't touch, but she continued to swim in a straight path toward him, obviously fagged out from being in the water so long. The mother stood moaning and sobbing. watching helplessly.

Jimmy knelt down to the pool's edge. He wouldn't he thought. He'd help her out of the pool and then, somehow, the two of them would make a run for safety, off through the bushes or something. A desperate plan, but there was nothing else.

Her hand locked around his wrist and his locked around hers. She clung there, slumping against the tiled side. Their faces were very close.

"Help me out," she said.

"You know what will happen?" he whispered urgently.

"Help me out," she repeated. "I don't care."

He pulled, and she came up over the side, bare-breasted and dripping water. Suddenly, she lunged at him, knocking him backward off his feet and falling against him. His arms instinctively went around her.

"I'll pretend to fight you," she said. "Go ahead do what they want!"

He couldn't believe his ears. From the distance, he could hear the others shouting and cheering like crazy fools, but her cool wet body clung to his and she was half-heartedly pretending to struggle. Over and over they rolled, off the flagstones and out onto the grass lawn.

"Do you know what you're saying?" he panted.

Incredibly, her face softened into a smile.

"Yes. They want you to take me now. Why don't you go ahead and do that, you big lug?"

"But ... but your mother...."

"Mother's scared to death, isn't she? I think that's stupid. If she just let them have what they want, they'd go away."

"But they want to...."

"Give her a good going over. Maybe that's what she needs. She's so square, I don't think she's ever cheated on dad in fifteen years. Maybe this will show her what life's all about."

"But your own mother!"

"God, I hope I get to watch! That tough one ... I hope he gets to her! Now come on, baby; make this look good!"

This was incredible. He could hardly believe his ears-but there she was, encouraging him, saying those things and actually laughing. Her fear must have all been pretended, just for the benefit of her mother then.

Amazing.

He began to get cat-calls now, and, fearing the others would come and do the job if he didn't, he began unbuckling his belt and opening his clothes.

Pulling them down.

There was no difficulty about being ready.

None at all. He knew by now that no matter what else he might feel as a result of his small-town upbringing, sadism and violence could create a very definite response in him. Maybe he would have raped this girl and maybe he wouldn't have. He didn't know. That part of his mind was totally confused, all mixed-up.

But another part of his mind had a perfectly clear idea of what he wanted to do. Watching Ronnie at work had been an agony of attraction and self-hatred.

But the self-hatred was gone now, and this was no longer a matter of rape.

She was asking him.

So, this might look like rape to the others, now shouting encouragement, but at least he knew this wasn't. This crazy broad wanted him, had wanted him all along, and that was all he needed to know.

He was ready.

She struggled. She even screamed once, making things look good. But between the screams, she said things in a low voice that only he could hear: "I love you, man. You're beautiful. Go on honey; don't stop!" Or, "Hit me, hit me! Slap my face, you beautiful thing!"

"You're crazy," he said through gritted teeth, slapping her.

"Crazy for you!" she babbled, almost throwing herself away from him.

But then, a sudden move, and her screams turned to screams of passion. The guys in the house were out now, halfway up the lawn, watching, excited themselves.

He moved. He realized he hadn't even taken off the bikini bottom, but that was unnecessary. That offered no problem at all.

None.

Faster and faster he worked, thrilled to the core, wild, tine blood pounding in his head as she beat at him with her fists and thrashed her head back and forth in the grass.

Faster and faster.

Bull-like, he sped the pace until the engines of his desire were wide-open, full-throttle, revving up on high octane, the wild excitement of the night, forbidden kicks, sadism, desire, lust....

She cried out once and closed her eyes and then that was all over. Done.

Drugged, sated, he dragged himself away from her, his sense dulled by the rapid loss of his desire. She looked pretty, innocent, a pretty young coed lying there in the grass, her blondish hair fanned out in a soft halo around her. Could she really have said those things to him? That was all too crazy, too crazy to think about. He tried sitting up, rubbing his head to clear it. They would be coming over to him now, coming to get some for themselves-should he let them? No; no damn it; ho would fight the lousy crums tooth and nail, no matter what she had said; fight until they ripped him apart with their evil knives or stomped his face in with their hob-nailed boots, because....

Because he just would, that was all.

He didn't need a reason.

But, looking around, he saw that he was wrong. Now that that was over between him and the girl, they had turned their attentions elsewhere.

To the woman.

There was just a sound at first, a sound which drew his eyes toward the far end of the pool. Thunk-a-thunk-a-thunk-a-thunk ... Out on the lowboard. With Ronnie, naked now, like her.

The low board bouncing, the radio tuned off, Paul and Gunner gathered at one end, watching, waiting their turn....

Thunk-a-thunk-thunk-a-thunk! A wild rhythm, an insane ever-increasing tattoo beat, becoming staccato. Crazy.

He felt a hand sieze and squeeze his bicep. A girl's voice, filled with ecstatic lust: "Good, good, get her, get her good!"

Watching wide-eyed, the daughter! "What's your name?" she said to him. "Jimmy."

"You're not like they, are you Jimmy?"

"No."

"You're a loner." He nodded.

"I knew that. As soon as i looked at you I knew you were different. Like me. That's crazy, isn't it?"

That didn't need an answer, so he didn't give one.

"Do you hate her?" be said.

She laughed, jiggling her breasts against his arm sensuously.

"No, silly ... I love her. Square, stupid mother that she is ... they won't hurt her, will they? I mean, cut her or anything?"

"I don't think so."

"They'll just get her, the way dad never does anymore. Poor, dumb thing, doesn't even know how good that is."

"She'll call the police afterward."

"Maybe not, Jimmy. Maybe I can talk her out of it. But you'll get away anyway, and if they come afterward I'll lie about you, get the description wrong and everything."

"Why?"

She hesitated before answering. "Then: "Because that's the most exciting and beautiful thing I've ever seen!"

Jimmy got up suddenly, wanting to be away, away from her and from this place. Far away.

Drunk, confused, he staggered back toward the house, scooping up his jacket on the way.

He heard the others coming close behind, finished now with what they had been doing. Dimly he realized that they were going to leave the girl alone. Like him, they were splitting.

He ran. Heart pounding and blood screaming through his brain, breath burning in his lungs, he ran through the silent shadows, faster and faster, feet pounding against the soft close-cropped turf, dodging in and out of trees, down the slope along the drive to where the motorcycles were hidden.

He didn't care if they followed him or not. The night had become a fantasy, and in front of his eyes only one image remained, burning itself into his brain from a hot branding iron.

A diving board. A diving board with three guys and a naked woman on it, going on and on and on into the night.

In a trance he found the Harley, wheeled it out to the quiet street, ignoring the looks and questions of the girls who had been left behind to guard them.

He jumped up and came down on the starter with all his weight. Instant life exploded through the mechanical body underneath him. He turned the handle, feeding gas to thirsty innards, and started off down the road.

Somebody yelled behind him.

"Hey! Hey, man-wait for us!"

He didn't wait.

He rode recklessly at full-throttle down the deserted midnight street, tore around one corner and then another, instinctively found his way out to the main highway where he hugged the saddle with his strong legs and let the mechanical beast under him have its full head.

Behind him in the distance he could hear the bee-like sound of the pack.

Fleeing, like him.

Splitting.

They might catch him and they might not. He didn't even know which he was running away from the house, the town, the police-or them.

It didn't matter. The wind was real. The sound of exploding pistons was real. The road was real. Only the road, the wind....