backs to the world. They must be Ian’s wife’s. She’s probably a bit spiritual, and that’s probably the room where she does massage therapy, Reiki, that sort of thing. She probably burns joss sticks all the time and Ian doesn’t like it. He finds the smell overwhelming. I can hear arguing coming out of the open first floor window. The voices are muffled but I bet she’s stunk the place out with her incense again. He’s just got home from work, wants to sit down, relax and have something to eat but he can’t without choking because she’s fumigated the bloody place. And she hasn’t even started the dinner because she’s been too busy rubbing lavender oil into naked strangers. The shouting stops and I hear the catch of the front door. I run out of the drive and hide behind a parked car in the street. I watch through the car’s windows as Ian comes out and gets into his car. He slams the door, starts the engine and pulls out of the driveway. I get out from behind the car and hear a car door open on the other side of the road. A man gets out. He watches Ian’s car reach the end of the street and pull out into the main road. The man crosses the road and rings the bell of Ian’s house. Ian’s wife answers the door but I can’t see her. The man checks behind him then goes inside. I wait for a few minutes and then see the man, shirtless, close the curtains of the room with the Buddhas. I walk back to the main road and hope to see Ian driving back to the house to catch and kill his wife and her lover. But he doesn’t, so I slowly walk back the way we had come and back to my flat. My post is piled up on the hall table. It’s all junk mail. There are brochures for stair lifts, oak furniture, Elvis CD collections, Lidl has inflatable beach chairs on special offer, Oxfam wants me to buy a goat and there’s a leaflet saying the Samaritans will listen if I need to talk. I redistribute them amongst the post of my neighbours but keep the Samaritans’ leaflet. My flat is on the first floor. I go up and take out some things from the fridge for a salad. I take the big knife off the rack and look at it in the light from the bare bulb above my head. I straighten my hair in the reflection then rest the blade against my wrist. I rotate my hand gently. Where my skin is touched by the knife it turns white and then back to normal as I move it away. I push the knife back down and watch the artery bend and then pop under the blade. Blood pours down my hand and through the contours of the lettuce leaves like a passion fruit dressing I saw in a magazine earlier. I put the knife down and take out the Samaritans’ leaflet. I phone the number and a Cockney man answers. ‘Ian?’ ‘I’m sorry? This is the Samaritans.’ ‘Yes, I know, but that is you, isn’t it, Ian?’ ‘I can’t give you my name, mate.’ ‘No. No, of course. How about I just call you Ian and if, by coincidence, that is your real name then so much the better.’ ‘Okay, if that helps you.’ I laugh. ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble or anything. Is someone listening in?’ ‘Do you feel like everyone’s listening in? Is that the problem?’ ‘What? Oh, no, I see what you mean. I’m not paranoid or anything. I just imagine with the kind of thing you have to deal with that your supervisors probably listen in to make sure you’re keeping to the guidelines.’ ‘Yeah, that’s right, so we’d better stick to them then, hadn’t we? What would you like to talk
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