The window was shut but the roar of passing lorries made the bedroom walls shake. A nearby stop sign forced vehicles to brake and then move off again, wheezing and puffing like angry bulls. The noise came in waves, almost in time with the shooting pains in Marc’s finger. As bizarre as it was, it gave him a kind of thrill, as if he were the one directing the on-off throbbing. Lying on the bed with his eyes closed, he let the waves swell and crash down again, each one causing a little more damage than the last.

‘You’re quiet.’

‘I’m tired. And my finger’s bothering me.’

‘Show me.’

Marc held out his index finger. It was red and swollen, with a white spot under the nail.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘A bit. I’ll go to the pharmacist tomorrow.’

Anne returned his hand to him, making a face.

‘You should, yeah. You ought to have it cut off.’

‘That might be going a bit far.’

‘I’m saying it for your own good, I don’t care. It’s your own fault – you shouldn’t have touched the stupid doll.’

‘It’s nothing. I’ll go and see a doctor, he’ll give me a tetanus jab and that’ll be the end of it.’

‘Doctors can’t treat that kind of thing. You need to get it cut off.’

‘Anne, I pricked my finger. You don’t die from a scratch.’

‘You could, but you’ll rot first. Last year I had an abscess in one of my molars. I would rather have died a hundred times over. It’s stupid being in pain, and pointless. They took my tooth out and I was all right again. Get your finger cut off and that’ll be that. Anything that hurts just needs cutting off.’

The bed creaked as she stood up. Boudu was licking the pizza boxes. Anne ruffled his head.

‘Useful, this cat. You can lug him from place to place and he never kicks up a fuss. He just needs a handle to carry him with. I’m still hungry too. Fancy a crêpe? The pizza guy sells them.’

‘No, thanks. But if you could ask for an aspirin at reception …’

Boudu accompanied Anne to the door with his tail in the air and once she had closed it behind her, leapt up onto Marc’s stomach which he began pawing as he purred away, eyes half shut. Stay still, stay still.

Marc woke with a start, sending Boudu flying to the end of the bed where, after a few seconds of uncertainty, he became absorbed in a thorough cleaning operation in an attempt to appear unruffled. Anne was still not back. The red numbers on the clock radio showed 4.10 a.m. What crazy dream had he just woken up from? He was taking a bath … yes, that was it, he was lathering himself up. Through the window, he was watching uniformed police officers digging up his lawn. They were looking for bodies, bodies that he, Marc, had buried. He knew he was guilty – he wasn’t denying it. Yet it was not the certainty of being arrested and sent to prison that bothered him, but the fact he could no longer remember whom he had killed, nor why, nor when.