"This is what she wants," the boy says. He pulls back his hand and then whips Valerie with such force that even John flinches. John gets up. No man is going to treat his wife like this, not his darling Valerie, his partner in crime. John clenches his fists, tightens them into tiny, knotted balls. His trousers are down by his knees. He cannot keep his balance. The lad swipes at him with the back of his hand, hitting him flush on the mouth. John plunges towards the edge of the coffee table. He rolls over onto his back. His head leaks. He stares up at the lights, which are bright and yellow and nauseating.
He realises that the deafening noise in the room is the sound of his wife screaming. The side of his face presses against the carpet. Saliva trickles down his chin. He reaches out at the black leather boots, but as he does so the boot moves out of reach and the heel stabs down against his mouth. Again. And again.
There are just shapes and colours as the world goes in and out of focus. John has a perfect view up the skirt from this angle. The boy kneels down. Unzips one of the long leather boots. Pulls something out. John squints. The bright light reflects from the sharp object in the boy's hand. Just what is it?
John only realises that it is a stainless steel cut-throat razor when it is far, far too late to do anything about it.
The boots move away from John. The boy stands over his wife, lying motionless on the floor with her bodice pulled down by her midriff. The boy slashes the razor in a straight line down her bosom. The boots move back towards John. He stands over him.
"Look at me."
John closes his eyes.
"Look at me."
The grip on his throat is so strong that John foams at the mouth. John opens his eyes. Looks at the boy, sees the saliva glistening his perfect, white teeth. John keeps looking at the boy, his body limp and lifeless, as the boy carves the razor down his chest. He keeps looking - just as he is told - as the boy pulls back the razor and then claws it down his chest again.
John is aware of screaming in the room. He knows it no longer belongs to Valerie, that his wife is no doubt dead by now. He knows that, this time, the screaming is his own.
DAY ONE 1ST JUNE 2018
"We are going to put that incredible imagination of yours to good use. I urge you to maximize its full potential," he says. Definitely a he. Undisputedly masculine. "Imagine you've organised a party. The party is in your house - your home - and therefore it is your party. The party belongs to you. It is your possession. It is the most fantastic party that your imagination will allow. And remember, the power of your imagination, unlike the real, predictable world, is limitless. Can you imagine that?"
"I can imagine that."
"You've created a guest list. It is your guest list, and so the only people included on the list are the people you want to be there. Some people who don't make the list might be offended. Frankly, this isn't your problem. You have heard that lyric: “It's my party and I'll cry if I want to.”? Well, it is your party, and so they'll be doing the crying if need be, not you. Can you create that guest list?"
Nod my head.
"But what if somebody else turns up at your party?"
"Who?" I ask. "Who turns up at my party?"
"You know who."
Remain silent. Tap my feet on the floor.
"He turns up at your house uninvited. You didn't invite him because you didn't want him to be there. He brings out the worst in you. The very worst. A side of you that is best buried away. So what happens if this person turns up uninvited at your house?"
I rub my fingertips in straight lines up and down my forehead, digging into the bone. "How can I answer that? You haven't told me who this person is..."
Long, drawn out sigh. "You know who this person is. Please don't humour me. There is no need for me to answer that question and, quite simply, I don't intend to. He is outside your house, knocking on your door, demanding your attention. So what are you going to do about it?"
"I'd open the front door..."
"You would? That means that you'd come face to face with him. Is that what you want? Do you really think you could cope with that? Why would you do that?"
"Think about it. Otherwise he'd keep knocking on the door. My guests would be upset. It would negatively impact my party."
"Your guests can't hear the knocking. Only you can hear the knocking," he says.
My fingertips move upwards, tugging at loose hairs from my scalp. "Even so, the knocking will become louder, you can't deny that. I'm not a magician. The knocking will become a barking dog keeping me awake when I'm exhausted and desperate to sleep. I'll have no choice but to answer that door - to face him - just to put a stop to the unbearable noise..."
"You know you are wrong," he says. "You pay attention to a fly, for example, and it becomes a nuisance. A damn fly. You focus on something else - anything else - and your subconscious no longer has room to give that damn fly any importance. It might remain in the room; who cares? It will disappear from your mind and you'll get on with your life. I'll ask the question again: what are you going to do when your greatest fear comes knocking on the door, demanding to
