The Insulators by John Creasey Page A

receding. It was like looking at a man made-up to appear unearthly – inhuman.
    “I do not believe you,” he said in a thin, precise voice. “You were lovers too long for him to deceive you.”
    “He told me nothing,” she cried. “Absolutely nothing!”
    She was standing in front of the man who was behind a crescent-shaped desk; and she stood in a room of mirrors. She could see herself, naked to the waist, wearing only a white miniskirt, which she wore for tennis. She could see her own reflection and the reflection of the man who stood behind her, holding a short whip in his right hand. There was no pretence about his disguise; he wore a white mask which covered his face, with slits for the eyes and the mouth.
    It was very bright, glaring bright; and the lights all seemed to shine on her, as if to reveal her nakedness mercilessly. She was terrified with part of her mind but positively detached with the other. It was silent in here; there was no sound but her breathing and their voices – and the soft breathing of the man behind her.
    The one at the desk looked at him; she saw this in the mirror. And the man in the mask, the one who looked as the executioner would before raising his dreadful axe, nodded back. She saw this; she knew that the gestures and the glances were intended to wear at her nerves, and she was already close to screaming point.
    The man at the desk nodded.
    The man behind her raised the whip, and lashes seemed to spray from it. She gasped, fought back fear but was the more terrified. He flicked with his wrist and a dozen lashes stung her, but there was no great pain; nothing she could not bear. But what would she do if he really struck savagely?
    Darkness, blackness, fell upon the room.
    The silence was suddenly broken by what seemed a thunderclap, but it was not simply one, or two, or even three; where there had been silence there was this hideous noise, assailing her like a physical thing – worse, far worse, than the threatened lash. It was pitch black, and the thunder did what seemed impossible, became louder and yet louder until it filled her body and her head, seized her nerves and tore at them until they were red-raw. She began to sway, but as she moved one way hands pushed her back, when she went off balance other hands pushed her; and this happened again and again. Her head seemed to be severed from her shoulders, it was as if the roaring was concentrated inside her head and there were no bones, no brains, no eyes or lips or nose or mouth, just this dreadful noise and the constant pushing, and the awful agony of trying to breathe.
    Suddenly, all went still and silent.
    And as her body spun and her head seemed to be turned to jelly and was one great ache, the lights flashed on. At first they dazzled her, and made more pain but slowly she was able to open them and see the man again, although he seemed blurred and shapeless, too. And she saw herself, and the man behind her, masked, perhaps the one who had been here before.
    He held her wrists, behind her.
    He held her so that her head was thrust back and her bosom forward.
    The man at the desk said: “I shall not warn you again.”
    There was no strength in her body, her mouth seemed so dry that it could burn and her tongue clove to the roof. But she made herself gasp: “You’ve no right to do this to me. You’ve no right to—” She broke off as she felt a slight pressure behind her. Her arms were drawn still further back, and she thought the man was easing his grip on her wrists – oh, dear God, he was pinioning them with one big hand and holding the whip in the other.
    “You have no rights here,” a man said. “You will have no mercy, unless you tell the truth. Where is Carr?”
    She gasped: “I don’t know!”
    Silence followed and as suddenly, another period of stygian darkness.
    She could hear her own breath, rasping. She tried to brace herself against what agony would come next, and slowly became aware of dim lights, of