register details of the tabletop and the windowsill that I hadn’t noticed before. The veins in the wood feel like mountain ranges and I detect unevenness in the polished marble surface. My taste buds deny me whisky, the taste is too sharp, and I discover nuances in the flavour of tap water I had never noticed before. I drink a lot of water. It tastes heavenly and my throat feels constantly dry.
Outside I watch the birds pecking at the breadcrumbs I have scattered. It’s almost as if I can hear their beaks split open the seeds in the bread. When they spread their wings and take off, I see them in slow motion and I tell myself I could catch them quite easily. I would be able to anticipate their every move and there is a suppleness in my muscles that convinces me I’m faster, better controlled than they are. A sudden urge makes me run around the garden. I feel the wind against my face and the grass under my bare feet. The exertion doesn’t affect me. My breathing is under control. I can hear the air pass in and out of my lungs and airways in a steady rhythm, like mechanical bellows.
When I go back inside, the stuffy air in the house nearly suffocates me. The air feels viscous and slows down my movements. I open all the windows and doors for fifteen minutes before the air is tolerable again. A faint scent of pine from the trees outside remains after the windows have been closed. I empty the bin, which smells of the fry-up I had yesterday. The fridge is empty, but that’s all right. Even though I’m hungry, I know that my taste buds won’t allow themselves to be touched by any old food and there is no prospect of a major gourmet experience in this area. Besides, I can’t leave the house.
I’m expecting guests.
The items we will need are laid out on the dining table. I pick up the scalpel and test the blade, even though I did so earlier this morning. It’s incredibly sharp and makes a small cut in my thumb. The blood seeps out in an evergrowing drop. I swear briefly, replace the scalpel and stick my thumb in my mouth as I head to the bathroom. I get the first-aid kit from the cabinet above the sink and find a plaster. Before I attach it, I run cold water over my thumb until it feels almost numb. When the plaster is in place, I study it closely to see if the blood is still running, until the absurdity of the situation dawns on me.
I start to laugh. I can’t stop. My laughter grows louder and louder and I have to leave the bathroom to find enough room for the sound of my merriment. The whole house resounds and dust is lifted by my outburst. I start to gasp for air and have just about managed to control myself when I happen to glance at my thumb and start laughing all over again.
At last I stagger, still laughing, back to the dining table to make myself stop. The sight of the objects has the required effect and my laughter fades. I wipe the tears from my eyes and blow my nose in a piece of kitchen towel. My throat feels raw again and I drink more water.
My gaze lingers on each item on the table. I have collected them from all over the house, the kitchen, the bathroom and a locked shed outside, which I broke into with the poker from the cast-iron stand next to the wood burner. Ordinary things and tools you would find in most holiday homes. This is what I do, this is my strength: turning everyday objects into something that can wipe the smile off anyone’s face.
The light outside is fading. The days are short in December. It occurs to me that it’s nearly Christmas. The television hasn’t been on since my first night here, but now I turn it on and I see that the whole world is excited about the holidays. They’re showing the old Christmas movies, and advertising breaks are packed with colourful promotions for must-have plastic toys waiting to gather dust in children’s bedrooms. My eyes spurn the flat television image. I switch it off.
During the short time I have watched television, the last of the daylight has died away. I’m annoyed at having missed it and turn on the lights in the house. The final light I switch on is the outdoor lamp, which signals I’m ready. Then I chuck more logs on the wood burner. A large stack of logs from the shed outside is piled up next to it. More than enough.
It’s nearly time.
I listen out, but all I can hear is the roaring in the wood burner and the wind in the trees outside.
The knock on the door startles me. It’s a loud, insistent knocking on the glass window in the front door. My heart races and I think I can hear the blood rush around my veins as I go to answer it. My hand grips the cold metal handle, I push it down and open the door. A cold wind slips past the figure standing outside.
You’re wearing an overcoat and in one hand you’re holding a white plastic bag with the items I was unable to get hold of and the script. Your other hand is buried in your coat pocket. It may be holding a pistol, but you have no intention of letting me know. The hand I can see is covered by a tight-fitting black leather glove.
This time you’re not wearing sunglasses. There is no need for disguises or guesswork any more. All masks are off. Only the writer and the reader are left, ready for the final act.
You look down at my hand and the thumb with the plaster. A smile forms around your lips and you might have quipped something like ‘Have you started without me?’, but I have decided there will be no dialogue.
What is there to say?
I step back so you can enter. You close and lock the door behind you, then you follow me. Your eyes scan the living room as we proceed through the house. I’m four or five steps ahead of you until we reach the dining room. My legs are trembling slightly, but I try to conceal it and sit down on the chair at the end of the dining table. It’s a solid wood chair with armrests and I place my arms on them and look at you apprehensively. You take a roll of gaffer tape from your bag and toss it to me.
I find the end and tear off a long section, which I use to tie my ankle to the leg of the chair. Then I tie my other ankle to the other chair leg. In the meantime, you’re standing some distance from me, watching my efforts closely. I tie my right arm to the armrest with difficulty. When I have done that, I place the tape on the table. You nod and feel safe enough to leave me while you check the other rooms in the house. You find nothing and return to the dining room.
From your bag, you pull out the bottle. It’s a 21-year-old Spring Bank whisky, drawn directly from the cask and almost impossible to get hold of.
With my free hand, I push the two glasses that I have set out earlier towards you. You fill my glass generously, pour a more moderate amount for yourself and sit down on the chair opposite me. We take our glasses, raise them and study the golden liquid before we drink. My taste buds welcome the whisky. I close my eyes and savour the taste. It’s round and mild and the aftertaste lasts for several minutes.
When I open them again, our eyes meet. You nod with approval before you take another sip. I follow your example and before long we have both emptied our glasses.
You get up abruptly, take my free hand and press my wrist against the armrest. You hold it in place with your knee while you tie my lower arm to the chair. Then you check the other bindings by pulling the tape, but find that you’re satisfied with my work.
You seem to relax more now that I’m tied up and you put your coat on one of the other chairs. You take out the script from the plastic bag, put it on a chair a bit further away and open it somewhere near the ending. See here is my guess. Then you go to the dining table and inspect the tools. I have arranged them in the order in which they will be used, the scissors first. You pick them up and start cutting away my right sleeve. It’s drenched in sweat and that makes it difficult for the scissors to cut through, but after some minutes my upper arm is exposed.
The tattoo has become a little blurred in time, like ink on poor-quality paper, but the ISBN number is still legible.
You toss the scissors aside and take the scalpel from the dining table. Kneeling on my lower arm and with a hand on my shoulder, you hold me down while you sink the blade into my flesh, just above the tattoo.
The pain is like an electric shock that shoots through my whole body. I grit my teeth and clench my fists until the pain starts to subside. You take a step back without removing the scalpel and observe how it sits quivering at an angle of 90° from my upper arm. Surprisingly little blood is running from the cut, but then it’s only half a centimetre wide, so far.
You step forward again, place your knee as before and take hold of the scalpel. With a slow sawing movement, you extend the cut round my arm above the tattoo. It hurts, it hurts like hell, but it’s no longer a surprise, so I endure the agony without screaming.
When the cut reaches all the way round, I look down. The blood is running from the long incision and covers the tattoo and most of my arm down to my elbow. You take a cloth from the table and clean away the blood, but it keeps dripping so your efforts are futile.
The scalpel is sticky with blood and you wipe it on kitchen towel before proceeding to cut number two. The blade sinks in below the tattoo this time and you perform a parallel incision all the way round my arm. You use the
