He pulled a box from the bag and ripped it open, his gloves slowing the process slightly but not enough to give Osaki hope. What came out was a gleaming new toaster, not a smudge on it. The man set it down on the floor.

‘I’m going to take what you were willing to throw away. I’m going to use it and feed it, and relish it.’ He leaned across to the nearest socket and pushed the plug into the wall, switching the power to live. ‘Do you know what I think of men who contemplate suicide? You can’t speak, I know, so I’m going to tell you anyway.’ He grinned. ‘I think they aren’t men at all. They’re … sorry to use such a demeaning word – feminists hate this – but they’re pussies. You know what I mean? Limp-dicked little whiners without the backbone to survive the shit life throws at us all.’

He moved down to take hold of Osaki’s ankles and bind them together like his wrists, then dragged the heavy old armchair across to wedge his legs between the chair and the sofa. If Osaki’s brain had been working slowly at first, now it was on overdrive. He foresaw endless possibilities for pain, none of which ended well. Picking up his head, he tried banging it on the floor, but a carefully slid cushion put paid to that.

‘You stay there quietly. No running away.’ The man grinned.

A tap ran in the kitchen for a few seconds and Osaki had time to wonder if it was the cold tap he’d fixed earlier. There were few ironies as poignant as having potentially made your murder run slightly more smoothly than it otherwise might have done. He had time to regret not leaving for the boat earlier and time to wish he’d stood up to his wife. Even so, he was still sorry she’d have to return to their flat to find him dead. As a child, he’d found his grandfather after a stroke, his face a contortion of pain, and the image had haunted him for years. His wife, he assumed, would make a speedier recovery.

The man returned carrying a full jug and humming the theme tune from a 1970s TV programme he’d seen reruns of, about American army doctors during the Korean War. He couldn’t remember the name of it now. And he couldn’t feel his legs, or his face. Everything was suddenly cold, as if he were outside in winter. His legs were wet.

‘Well, look at that, I went out to get some water in case you couldn’t do what I needed and you’ve gone and done it before I even asked. If you’d just applied that sort of enthusiasm to the rest of your life, I’d never have had to visit you today.’