The Insulators by John Creasey Read Free Book Online Page A

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 cinema, 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.
    “Come and see the lovers again,” he said, indulgently. He pressed a switch and the projector whirred. Pictures of Janey and of Philip Carr appeared, sharp and clear and in startlingly natural colours. They were walking along the riverbank, then across the lawns, hand-in-hand. There were pictures of them kissing, embracing, of them dancing cheek-to-cheek, eating, sleeping. Occasionally Jane Wylie seemed pensive but most of the time she seemed light-hearted and gay, while Philip Carr seemed to be more content than he had ever been at The Project, as if he had won his victory and asked for nothing more.
    In the laboratories they did their work with much less preoccupations than before; and whenever they passed close or were standing together, they touched hands or touched bodies. From time to time their voices faded into a whisper, but always in moments of intimacy or embrace.
    The film came to an end with a swift sequence of them lying close, in bed. As Parsons switched the projector off, Ashley remarked: “I wish I knew what they whispered about.”
    “Sweet nothings.” Parsons seemed completely convinced.
    “I hope so,” Ashley said. “I certainly hope so. We’ll keep them under close surveillance for another week, until