Forty Words for Sorrow

29

ERIC HAD BROUGHT HIM THE SOUP—it was all they’d been feeding him for the past two days, despite his protests—and sat at the end of the bed to make sure he finished it. He didn’t say a word, just sat and stared at Keith like a crow. Then he’d smiled that ferrety smile of his, as if they shared some secret, and left the room.

Keith went straight to the bathroom and made himself throw up. He was not bothered by nausea anymore, but he was sure they were drugging him with something that made him sleep all the time. He wanted his wits about him now, he wanted to know what was going on.

Afterwards, exhausted and hollow, he sat on the edge of the bed, listening to their voices upstairs, droning on and on. They were directly overhead, but he couldn’t make out any distinct words, just the voices.

Throwing up had made his eyes water. He wiped them on the corner of the sheet, and now with his cleared vision he saw that there was a new addition to the furniture in the room. In the corner, where the camera and tripod had once stood, was a small TV and a VCR. Christ, how long were they expecting him to stay down here? It was clothes he wanted, not a bloody television.

But his clothes were not on the back of the chair. Not under the bed. Not hanging in the bathroom. And his duffle bag was missing too.

He tried the door, but it was locked from the other side. For the first time a thread of fear flowed into his bloodstream. He wrapped himself in a blanket and sat for a long time, thinking. At some point, he wasn’t sure when, he heard Eric and Edie go out, heard the car starting up in the drive.

His head was still not clear, but he tried to assess how much trouble he was in. The door was locked, his clothes were gone—definitely bad signs, but he simply could not assess how bad. Eric and Edie just didn’t seem all that scary. Worst case, he thought, what’s my worst case? They think I’m rich and they’re going to hold me for ransom.

He came to a decision. Next time they opened that door, he’d be out in a flash, no hesitation. I may be wrong, they may be harmless, but it doesn’t matter. I’m out of here.

There was a buzzing sound from overhead. He looked up just as the single bulb flickered and burned out. The room went dark. Slats of daylight, thin and pale, framed the boarded-up window.

Darkness had never frightened Keith London before, but it did now. He switched on the television. In such utter gloom, even this cold, harsh glow was welcome. There was no aerial, no cable; the reception was hopeless. On one channel the ghost of a newscaster stared earnestly out at him, but no voice penetrated the static.

Keith pushed the eject button on the VCR and a tape popped out. Handwritten on the label were the words Life of the Party. Eric’s film, he remembered, either that or home movies. He pushed the tape back in and pressed play.

The scene was badly lit, atrociously lit, in fact. There was a hard circle of light in the centre of the screen, and around this, blackness. A boy was sitting in the patch of light, a skinny kid with long hair. He didn’t look any too swift, sipping from a beer and grinning a stupid grin. He belched a couple of times, goofing off for the camera.

Then a woman entered the scene—Edie—and sat beside him. Here we go, Keith said to himself. Amateur porn time. God, they grow them kinky up here in the north.

The lighting did nothing to flatter Edie’s complexion. Her skin gave off a dull glare as she reached over, felt between the boy’s legs, and rubbed at him. The boy laughed, looking nervous and embarrassed. “You guys are too much,” he said.

Music was switched on in the background, a boom box, it sounded like, Pearl Jam distorted by cheap speakers. Edie kept rubbing the boy’s crotch mechanically. He opened his fly and she reached inside.

Then another figure entered the scene. It was Eric, pretending to be the outraged husband, shouting the most ridiculous phrases. “You do this to me? After the way I’ve treated you?” It was worse even than he had imagined.

Eric pulled the woman away, still shouting inanely.

The kid, for his part, did a terrible job of acting—holding up his hands in the hammiest way. He looked ridiculous with his pants half down.

Then Eric struck a theatrical pose in the foreground, raising a hammer. “You try to screw my wife behind my back! I’m going to kill you!”

“No, please,” the kid pleaded, laughing of course. “Please don’t kill me! I didn’t mean it! I’ll make it up to you!” Then, hopelessly out of character: “Sorry. I can’t help it. It just feels so stupid, you know?”

“You think it feels stupid?” Eric stepped forward, the hammer high. “I’ll show you what feels stupid.”

The hammer came down on the boy’s head, changing everything. Even with the bad quality of the sound Keith knew instantly that the crunch of bone was real. Also real was the sudden emptiness in the boy’s face—the open mouth, the vacant, astonished eyes.

Eric swung again. “You bastard, you scum, who do you think you are?”

There was another minute and a half of video. As it played on the screen before him, Keith remained utterly still in the flickering pool of light. Then he raised his head and howled like a dog.