She drew her dressing gown tight around her as she wandered through to the kitchen. She wasn’t wearing slippers and I remembered the first time I’d noticed the bunions on my mother’s feet. The high heels, she explained. It coincided with the first time I’d questioned her flawless beauty. ‘Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder,’ I exclaimed. She looked round.

‘Pardon? What was that?’ she asked.

My mind was drawn back to the present. Her second toe was abnormally long and poked out alongside her big toe. There was an angry red bump where a premature bunion was indeed making an appearance. The illusory beauty which had haunted my dreams had already faded.

I was filled with renewed determination to get a move on and rid the world of one more incidental person. I sat down on the sofa, guessing correctly that she wouldn’t sit beside me but instead settled in the armchair opposite.

‘Do you mind if I use the bathroom? I’ll not be a moment.’ I gently placed my mug on the coffee table.

Inside the bathroom I extracted the paring knife, testing its sharpness and efficiency against my forefinger. It drew blood with a silky movement across the tip and with no effort at all. I then took out the thick black electrical tape and cut off a six-inch strand which I would attach across the gaping hole that was her mouth. Finally, I checked that I had the lengths of string in my pocket which would secure her ankles to the chair while she slit her own wrists.

‘I’ve decided to go to Italy,’ she announced in a slightly raised voice, assuming I was still in the bathroom.

‘That sounds nice. Following in your dead boyfriend’s footsteps?’ I whispered in her ear.

‘Jesus, Arthur. You made me jump.’ Her dressing gown gaped as I grabbed her round the neck and tried to attach the tape across her mouth. Her eyes popped wide open and her terror was a joy to behold. She kicked and flailed with her arms as she tried to stand.

‘Sit still. I won’t hurt you. I need to talk and you need to listen,’ I lied. Fear, rather than belief in my statement, made her body still. I watched her bony frame present itself through the flimsy covering.

The harlot was only wearing briefs but no bra, and her breasts, once a defining feature, sagged sadly before my eyes. I tied her ankles to the legs of the chair as she sat, compliant and silent.

It was a pleasure to work without the distraction of a woman’s nagging tones. She even helped me, using her hands, to fasten the knots. Her hands would have to be free of bondage marks so I told her to keep them by her side for now and not to move them.