Read Online Dimiter by William Peter Blatty - Free Book Online

columns, trapping particles of dust and fear in their swirl. The Prisoner was placed near the bottom of the table by two of the guards, all of whom then exited the room and left him standing alone at the bottom of the T with his head bowed down and his hands held clasped in front of him as if gripped by invisible manacles. Music played softly through speakers in the walls and all the windows stood open so that one could hear traffic from the street far below. Now and then a child’s shout or silly laugh floated up.
    “So here we are,” began Vlora in an ordinary way. “New surroundings are refreshing at times, a great tonic; they can pry us from our ruts, our fixed habits of thinking. By the way, do sit down if you like. Please be comfortable. Really. Never mind, then. Just as you wish. Incidentally, is the music to your liking? We can change it. Should I change it? It is Strauss. Very well, then, we shall leave it. In the meantime, let me tell you what is happening here. First, we thank you for those fascinating stories that you told us. I myself am a lover and avid admirer of any great work of the imagination. I’ve translated many of them into Albanian: Shakespeare’s
Macbeth
, and his
Hamlet
and
Othello
. Also
Lady Inger of Ostrat
by Ibsen.
Don Quixote.
Do you find that surprising? Yes, I did the work personally, it was when I was a teacher at college. They awarded me the “Partisan Star.” Well, never mind. I’ve been garrulous. Why is it that we always feel this gnawing necessity to justify ourselves to every stranger that we meet? Do you know what I’m talking about? Perhaps not. Well, that’s enough of thatnow. Back to business. Listen here, I want to tell you what we’ve come to. All right? We want to have a new relationship with you. The old one, you’ll admit, was unrewarding.” Vlora gestured down the length of the table to a tan wicker basket that was crammed with fresh fruit. “Incidentally, try an apricot,” he offered. “They’re in season.”
    Into the room now strode three torturers, all brutes of powerful build, including “Laugher,” who led them in. He was gripping a briefcase made of shining blue leather and the arm of a club-footed ten-year-old boy who was dressed in the olive drab denim of a prisoner. The boy’s hands had been tied in front of him and his arms were trussed to his sides. Arriving at a point that was midway along the table, Vlora’s son pushed the boy forward until he was captured, wincing and blinking, in a column of sunlight.
    “Well now, yes, we’re all here,” began Vlora. “Very well, then, let’s not waste any time. This boy is a Gypsy, deformed from birth. In addition to the problem with his foot he has a paralyzed arm, the left, which is numb and completely insensitive to pain. He is also retarded, a mental defective, as well as being dumb and unable to speak. He murdered his parents in their sleep, an understandable action but not his prerogative. One could argue he is better off dead. But we aren’t going to kill him. No, not for us to judge. We may not do anything at all to him, in fact. It’s really all up to you.”
    At a signal from Vlora, “Laugher” lifted the briefcase onto the table, snapped its locks, and withdrew from it a clear and colorless plastic bag at whose bottom was a drawstring made of leather. The boy’s eyes widened with fear and bewilderment as the bag was slipped over his head. Vlora glanced at his watch as if checking the time until his next appointment.“Suffocation is a horrible death,” he said casually. “Worse yet is to die in this manner many times; in fact over and over again without limit. Until you reveal your true name and your mission, plus the data that is needed to verify both, we intend to repeatedly bring this boy to the brink of death by suffocation. His fate is in your hands. But do not feel any pressure. By all means, take your time. As I said to you before, you have suffered enough.” One torturer