Giles Blunt - Forty Words for Sorrow

He saw the raccoon's fat hindquarters wriggle under the house. Normally a raccoon would be hibernating this time of year, but the floor of Cardinal's house was leaking heat- enough heat to confuse this raccoon into thinking there was no winter. The first time Cardinal had caught sight of the masked face, the raccoon had been examining half an apple in its precise black paws. Now, it emerged two or three times a week to topple the garbage cans in his garage and root through the mess for edible scraps.

Shivering furiously, Cardinal scrambled after the bits of plastic wrap, the empty doughnut container, the gnawed chicken bone strewn across the garage floor. He went back inside just in time to hear the phone ringing.

It took him three rings to remember where he had tossed the handset. He snatched it up from among the sofa cushions just as Delorme was about to ring off.

"Oh," she said, "I thought you must be already on your way in."

"I was just leaving. What's up?"

"We got the tape back from the CBC guy. Also of course he sent the digital version? The enhanced version?" Delorme's French Canadian interrogatives had never sounded so welcome.

"Did you listen to it yet? Did you play it?"

"No. It just arrived this second."

"I'll be right there."

KEITH London sat up groggily in bed. The room he was in looked unfamiliar, and he wondered if this was partly because it seemed to be turning, ever so slowly, like a carousel running down. When it came to a stop and his eyes managed to focus, he saw four walls covered with cheap wooden paneling, warped and stained by water damage. An armchair tilted on three legs, its arms scarred with cigarette burns. On the floor, a short flat space heater buzzed intermittently as if a bug were trapped inside. Overhead a dim bulb throbbed behind a cheap fixture, and a Via Rail poster of Vancouver curled on one wall. The tiny window was boarded up from the outside. The air was clogged with smells of heating oil, mold, and wet concrete.

Then he remembered: He'd picked up his stuff from the bus station while Eric and Edie waited for him outside. He remembered getting into a small car with Eric and Edie and having a beer in their kitchen. But he didn't remember going to bed or taking his clothes off. After the beer, nothing. His limbs felt gross and exhausted as if he had slept too long. He rubbed his face, and the flesh felt rubbery and strangely hot. His watch- evidently he had forgotten to take it off in his hurry to undress- said three o'clock. The need to urinate was pressing.

Although the room could not have been more than nine feet square, it had two doors. Keith set his feet on the cold floor, sitting on the edge of the bed. He remained like this for some time, and would have fallen asleep again, if the need for a bathroom had not been urgent. He forced himself up onto his feet and leaned against the wall for balance. The first door he tried was locked- stuck, anyway- but the second, luckily, proved to be a bathroom, the fittings almost miniaturized to fit the tiny cubicle.

Tottering back toward the bed, he caught sight of his guitar case propped in a corner. He had just enough time to register that his duffel bag and his clothes were nowhere in sight, before he slid headlong into a dark pit of unconsciousness.

When he woke- hours later? days?- Eric Fraser was sitting on the bed, big grin on his face. "Lazarus awakes," he said quietly.

Keith, with a great effort, propped himself up against the headboard. He could feel his body listing to one side but hadn't the strength to right himself. His mouth and throat were terribly dry; when he tried to speak his voice was a feeble croak. "How long have I been asleep?"

Eric held two fingers so close to Keith's face that he couldn't focus. It looked like three fingers.

"Two whole days?" Was that possible? Keith could not remember ever having slept that long in his life. A couple of times in early adolescence he'd slept for sixteen hours, and once, when very ill with a fever, he'd conked out for twenty. But two days?

If I've really been asleep for two days, I must be very, very sick. Healthy people don't sleep for two days. That's called coma. Keith was about to express some of this when Eric preempted him by pressing a cold hand against his forehead and holding it there with a thoughtful expression. "Yesterday you had a fever of a hundred and three. Edie took your temperature. She used your armpit."

"Where are my clothes? I think I better see a doctor."

"Edie's washing your clothes. You threw up."

"Did I? That's awful." Keith rubbed his throat; it was burning. "Is there any water?"

"Bathroom." Eric pointed to a small door. "But you'd better drink some of this." He presented a steaming mug. "Edie's concoction. She brought it home from the drugstore. Don't worry. Edie's a pharmacist."

Steamy aromas of honey and lemon were flowing from the cup. Keith took a sip, scorching his tongue. It was a flu remedy or something, probably nothing more than Tylenol and antihistamine, but it felt good going down. After a few sips Keith began to feel better. The fog lifted a little. He pointed to the Polaroid hanging from Eric's neck. "What's that for?"

"Test shots. Edie and I are deeply involved in filmmaking. It's one of the reasons we noticed you. We were hoping you'd be in our film."

"What kind of film is it?"

"Low budget. Experimental. Poetic. I wanted to ask you the other night, but I was afraid it would be… inappropriate."

"That's okay. I'd be glad to help." Keith slid back down in the bed and curled up. Sleep seemed once again like an excellent idea.

Eric held up a newspaper. "The Algonquin Lode," he said. "We call it The Load of Bull." He rattled noisily through the pages. He cleared his throat and began to read in a slow, deliberate voice. "Algonquin Bay police were out in force at the corner of Timothy and Main streets earlier today where the body of an unidentified male, apparently murdered, was discovered in the coal cellar of a vacant house. Investigators have not ruled out the possibility that the murder was committed by the same person who killed Katie Pine last September.

"According to Detective John Cardinal, the victim had been savagely beaten, suffering multiple facial injuries, and the genitals had been kicked until they were almost completely separated from the body."

"Jesus," Keith said. "That happened here?"

"It took place right here in Algonquin Bay. Not far from this room."

"Jesus," Keith said again. "Imagine being beaten like that. It doesn't sound like your normal bar fight."

"Well, let's not rush to judgment. They don't say what the victim was like. Maybe he started it. Maybe the world is a better place without him. I don't miss him. Do you?"

"Nobody deserves to die that way. I don't care what he did."

"You're soft-hearted. Edie always goes for the gentle ones. Your girlfriend must love that about you. What did you say her name was?"

"Karen. Yeah, I don't know. Karen'd be happier if I were a little more future-oriented. She's pissed off right now."

"Tell me about the sexual customs in Toronto. I hear oral sex is all the rage. Is Karen a devotee?"

"Jesus, Eric." Keith had been slipping into the blood-warm waters of sleep. I'll just sleep a little more, he assured himself, then I'll get the hell out of here.

"I couldn't help noticing your penis, Keith, when we undressed you. Big pair of balls, too. Karen's a lucky girl."

Keith wanted to tell him to lay off, but he couldn't transmit the message from his brain to his tongue. That honey and lemon had really knocked him for a loop.

Eric placed a hand on Keith's knee, gripping it. "People don't understand the terrible things I've seen- the rape, the sexual abuse. I've had a rough time, Keith, and sometimes it makes me a little… uneasy. Would you like me to stroke your genitals?"