‘I showed you the photos. And the video. The one with the corkscrew and the half eye. Surely you don’t want anything like that, do you?’

‘Hmhmhmhmhmmm,’ the client groaned, as if his mouth were gagged. Then his facial muscles slackened and his breathing grew shallower.

‘I’ll take that as a “No”,’ the doctor said, unlocking the brake of the bed with his foot, to roll his client into the neighbouring room.

Into the operating theatre.

*

Forty-five minutes later the first and most important part of the treatment was finished. The doctor wasn’t wearing latex gloves any more or a face mask, and he’d thrown the green disposable apron, which had to be tied behind the back like a straitjacket, into the rubbish chute. But now, in his dinner jacket and dark patent leather shoes, he felt far more dressed up than in his operating outfit.

Dressed up and tipsy.

He couldn’t remember when he’d started allowing himself a snifter after every successful treatment. Or ten, as now. Christ, he had to stop, even though he never touched a drop beforehand, only after. Still. The hooch made him reckless.

Gave him silly thoughts.

Such as taking the leg with him.

Giggling, he looked at his watch.

It was 20.33; he had to hurry if he was going to make the main course in time. He’d already missed the starter. But before he could devote himself to the guinea fowl that was on today’s menu, he had to get rid of the organic waste – the blood he didn’t need and the right lower leg, which he’d sawn off directly below the knee with a splendidly clean cut.

He’d wrapped the leg in a compostable plastic bag, which was so heavy he had to carry it with both hands as he made his way across the stairwell.

The doctor felt woozy, but he was still sufficiently in control to realise that, had he been sober, he’d never have entertained the idea of carrying around body parts in public rather than just tossing them into the incinerator. But he’d been so infuriated by his client that this bit of fun was worth the risk. And it was a low risk. Very low.

A gale warning had been issued. Once he’d negotiated the intricate route – the narrow shaft you had to crouch in, the corridor with the yellow ventilation pipes that led to the goods lift – he wouldn’t come across a soul.

And the place he’d chosen to dispose of the leg wouldn’t be caught on any camera either.

I may be drunk, but I’m not stupid.

Having reached the final section, the level at the top of the steps which were only ever used by maintenance, and once a month at most, he pulled open a heavy door with a porthole window.