Giles Blunt - Forty Words for Sorrow

"Come on, Edie. Read about the wheel. It's near the end."

"You seem to know this book very well. Must be a favorite of yours."

"Maybe it is. Maybe that's why I want to share it with you."

Oh, I know what's coming, Eric. I know what you're going to say. Finding the page, she felt a throbbing in her belly like a second heart. "The wheel. Stretched out, naked, on his or her back, the victim's arms and legs were fixed to the outer rim of the wheel. Blocks of wood were placed beneath all the important bones and joints. Wielding an iron bar, the torturer smashed arms and legs into pulp, using all his skill to avoid actually killing his victim."

"They just smashed people to bits," Eric said. "But keeping them alive the whole time. What a thrill it must have been. Can you imagine? Read the rest."

"The report of one eyewitness described how the victim was turned into 'a sort of huge screaming puppet writhing in rivulets of blood, a puppet with four tentacles, like a sea monster, of raw, slimy, and shapeless flesh mixed up with splinters of smashed bones.' When there was nothing left to break, the limbs were woven among the spokes of the wheel. The wheel was then raised horizontally on a pole. Birds of prey pecked at the eyes and tore off bits of flesh. Wheeling was probably the slowest and most agonizing death the human mind has ever conceived."

"Read what comes after. Bottom of the page."

"Wheelings were extremely common and considered good fun. Woodcuts, drawings, and paintings through four centuries depict crowds of people laughing and chatting, clearly enjoying the hideous pain of a fellow human being."

"People used to love it, Edie. People still love it. They just won't admit it."

Edie knew. Even Gram loved watching wrestling or a boxing match. Well, it was better than staring at this godforsaken sea of ice. You bet Gram loved it. Watching some guy get beaten half to death.

Perfectly normal, according to Eric. It just didn't happen to be perfectly legal at the moment, that was all. It had fallen out of fashion. But it might come back- look at the United States. Look at the gas chamber, the electric chair. "You can't tell me people don't love it, Edie. It would have died out centuries ago if people didn't get a big bang out of inflicting death. It's just the biggest thrill known to man."

It's coming, now, Edie thought. I can see the words forming in the air before he even says them. "I agree," she said quietly.

"Good."

"No, no. I mean I agree with what you're going to say. Not just what you said."

"Oh you do, do you?" Eric smiled slyly. "What was I going to say? Come on, Madame Rosa. Tell me my thoughts. Read my mind."

"I can, Eric. I know exactly what you were going to say."

"So go ahead. Tell me my thoughts."

"You were going to say, 'Let's do him tonight.' "

Eric gave her his profile. Blew smoke in a thin stream into the gathering darkness. "Not bad," he said quietly. "Not bad at all."

"I don't know about you, Eric, but I'd say it's party time."

Eric rolled down the window and flicked his cigarette into the snow. "Party time."

THE house was much smaller than it had looked from the outside. The upstairs had only two bedrooms- Woody could have sworn there would be three- and a tiny bathroom.

As he had so carefully explained to that foxy Officer Delorme, Arthur "Woody" Wood was not in the burglary business to enhance his social life. Like all professional burglars, he went to great lengths to avoid meeting people on the job. At other times, well, Woody was as sociable as the next fellow.

He had seen the weaselly-looking guy from the music store coming by here all the time. In fact, he had followed him home from the mall one day, after watching him load a tasty-looking Sony box into his van. He knew the couple was out, now, because he had sat outside in the van for the past hour and a half. It was perfectly safe to watch a place that way; nobody worries about a beat-up old ChevyVan labeled COMSTOCK ELECTRICAL INSTALLATIONS AND REPAIRS, nobody pays the slightest attention. Even so, Woody changed the lettering every three months, just to be on the safe side.

So he had sat out there listening to the Pretenders on his tape machine (a Blaupunkt he'd happened across while doing a little inventory enhancement up in Cedarvale last winter. Man, those Germans knew their engineering) and reading the sports pages of the Lode. In between worrying about the Maple Leafs, he was thinking about his shopping. Woody, besides being an industrious thief, was also a conscientious father and husband, and it was time to pick up a little something for the son and heir, whom he referred to affectionately as Dumptruck.

The kid needed a nifty toy- a set of blocks would be nice; he'd see what was around. Of course, this couple didn't have any children, he'd watched long enough to know that, but you never know what people will have cluttering up their closets. He'd picked up a little plastic Yogi Bear a couple of weeks ago that Truckie carried with him everywhere.

The side-door lock had presented no problem: twenty-seven seconds- not a record, but not bad, either. Woody had proceeded directly to the top floor, his usual practice; he had a superstition that you were working with nature, then, letting gravity assist you on the way down. He moved now in his quietest Reeboks toward the back bedroom; reason and observation had told him this had to be where the happy couple slept.

It was not what he expected. This was a single girl's room, not a couple's. The walls were pink, the bed was white wood, and the dresser was littered with pots of cream, mostly medicinal. The wallpaper- ancient and peeling in more than one corner- had at one time been pale yellow with a motif of little parasols. A stuffed tiger on top of the dresser caught his eye- Dumptruck might like that- but on closer inspection it proved to be a mangy, dog-eared tiger, clearly clutched and drooled on through many an illness. He could hardly take that home. "What were you thinking of?" Martha would say. "It's completely unhygienic."

He paused for a moment, alert for any sounds. No, the old lady wasn't stirring. Probably deaf, too. Poor old girl hadn't been trundled out for at least three days.

The headboard of the bed had an interesting feature: built-in bookshelves with little sliding panels- exactly the sort of cubbyhole people like to stash their jewelry in. Woody, an inveterate optimist as all of his trade must be, slid back the little panel full of expectation.

And met up with his second surprise. He had expected a couple of Danielle Steel novels, Martha read them all the time, or maybe a Barbara Taylor Whatshername. But this was a grim little library, indeed: History of Torture, Japanese Atrocities of World War II, Justine, and Juliette- both by the Marquis de Sade. He'd heard of that guy.

Woody always allowed himself one lingering moment on a job, a moment when, holding some treasured or peculiar object, he would indulge his imagination and picture the life he was invading. This was that moment. He pulled out Juliette. Wasn't the marquis that guy who liked to prance around in whips and chains and things? Woody flipped through to a page that had the corner turned down and read a passage that had been marked in the margin: I grasp those breasts, lift them, and cut them off close to the chest; then stringing those hunks of flesh upon a cord…

Woody flipped through a few more pages and saw that things only got worse. The flyleaf bore an inscription in cheap ballpoint: to Edie from Eric. "Jesus, Eric," he said under his breath. "This is not a book you give a woman. This is one sick book, and you are one sick puppy." Woody vowed strict professional deportment for the rest of the job.

Martha would have shivered with revulsion at the bathroom: the sink was rust-stained, the tiles scummy. You could smell the towels from the hallway. The cabinet was chock-full of Pharma-City sleeping pills and tranquilizers, just the sort of happy accident that could make a man's day. Unfortunately, Woody was not into drugs. Didn't use 'em, didn't sell 'em, thanks to Martha. But oh, he thought wistfully, there was a time…