‘No! Not like me! Not like me!!’

Anne’s face appeared in the doorway.

‘What’s going on? Why are you shouting?’

‘It’s nothing. I was drifting off. I had a nightmare.’

‘Oh right. I’m going for a walk with Zoltan. Legs still not right?’

‘No, but I’m fine. See you later.’

He had shouted ‘Not like me!’ just as he had blurted ‘I know Agen, too!’ at the dinner party two months ago, so that for just one moment he could feel he existed: ‘Not like me!’ But what made him any different from other people? Precisely the fact that they were other people and he was himself, the one and only Marc Lecas, and if he was no more, then other people – each and every one of them – would disappear with him, because their existence depended wholly on his. After Marc Lecas there would be nothing, zero, an empty car park, a beach without footsteps in the sand, a cloudless sky, a gaping chasm of nothingness. There would be nobody left … The enormity of this revelation propelled him to interstellar heights and he was just preparing to blow himself into outer space when a searing electric shock tore through his finger. The pain was bringing him back to life, but it was not a pretty sight. There was something obscene about the purplish, erectile index finger topped with its black nail. A probing, threatening, accusatory finger that might cause whatever it pointed at to wither and die. And now that the burning sensation was becoming truly intolerable, the finger was becoming an even greater burden, as every second that passed brought a new wave of white heat. It was enough to drive you crazy, like a ticking time bomb, tick, tock … If he’d had an axe within reach, Marc would not have hesitated to use it. But there was none. So he opened the fridge and plunged his hand into the ice tray.

Lying right on the edge of the bed with his arm outstretched was not the most comfortable position, but the relief that came in contact with the ice largely made up for it.

It was perfectly possible to do without your right index finger. It was perfectly possible to do without all kinds of things. Other than the head and the heart, most things were not essential. But still, he wasn’t going to spend his life with his hand in a fridge. He must make a firm, definite decision as quickly as possible. He remembered a kidnapping that had been all over the news. The kidnappers had cut off the finger of their victim, a well-known businessman who, when asked about the incident after his release, could only recall a clean, almost painless cut. A good knife and bam! Over and done with. Only, in Marc’s case, who would wield the knife? Not him, because he was right-handed and that was the hand he couldn’t use. Anne? … She would certainly be capable of it … on the board they used to slice saucisson … he would just have to close his eyes … bam! A clean, precise blow, like the butcher slicing up chops. ‘Will that be all, Madame?’ As simple as a trip to the butcher’s. And when it was done, they would never speak of it again.