“Better than not bad. Look, if you want to try and earn an honest living, come and see me.” (As I said that, it occurred to me that I wasn’t going any place. See me where?) “You need some advanced training on use of the pedals, and that left hand could use some special exercises. But if you want to work at it, you could be doing this professionally in six months.”

“Nah.” He closed the piano lid. “I’m better off this way. Twelve years of do-re-mi practice was enough. I’m goin’ to try an’ learn to play that thing you did, though — just to prove I can.”

He stood up. “I’ll have to be off. Dixie will be up here in a minute. Take my advice, try an’ act polite to ’im, even if he does come in ’ere an’ start dancin’ about like a bleedin’ pet monkey. He gets nasty if you rub him up the wrong way — too fond of that bleedin’ knife, it’s goin’ to finish him off one of these days.”

He scratched his head. “Well, see you tomorrer. Don’t get into no trouble.”

I was left tied solidly in the chair, contemplating the pleasures of the evening ahead with Dancing Dixie as my companion. It was hard to work up any enthusiasm, even if I followed Pudd’n’s advice and didn’t get into no trouble. And I was getting awfully itchy to leave that chair.

- 7 -

Dixie had his own ideas of a pleasant evening. First he left me with the door locked for about two hours, sitting in the dark. I had plenty of time to try straightening in my chair and testing the strength of the wood. I could get about an inch of play there, far too little to do me any good, and after a while my legs and wrists were giving me hell and no amount of bending could bring my head close to them. All the knots were tied on the underside.

When Dixie finally rolled in and switched on the light, he was carrying a loaded tray of food, a flat half bottle of whiskey, and one glass.

“Still here, are you?” he said. “It’s amazing how you don’t get bored.”

He poured himself a sizable Scotch, added water from a little jug, and sat down on the piano stool with the tray on his knee.

“What about me?” I said. “I’m absolutely starving.”

Dixie stopped with the fork halfway to his mouth. “What yer talking about? Pudd’n fed you.”

“No he didn’t. He took me downstairs, but when we got there I was too sick to eat. I felt bad.”

“Well, that’s your bloody funeral, in’it?” Dixie ate the forkful of potato. “If you think you’re getting any of this you’d better have another think.”

I leaned back in the chair and let my head loll over to the left. “You saw the operations I’ve had,” I said, my voice all weak and throaty. “I can’t eat much at a time, but if I don’t eat anything at all I get really bad. I’m not supposed to go more than three or four hours without food.”

“That’s your problem, then,” said Dixie . “You had your chance with Pudd’n.” He went on eating and drinking, but every half minute he would give me a worried and annoyed glance. I lay back, eyes half closed. I let my breathing become slowly more hoarse and labored. When he was finished he sat and fidgeted for a moment, then at last drained his glass and stood up. He left the room without speaking. I heard him going downstairs, while I strained at the chair again with the usual negative results.

He was back in five minutes with a glass of milk and a plate that held a big lump of cheddar and a thick slice of buttered fruitcake.

“Here.” He put it down on my lap. “Now you can stop yer bloody grumbling.”

I nodded my head towards my bound hands. “You’ll have to feed me. I can’t move.”

“Like hell.” His face turned red with anger. “I’m not your bloody wet nurse. Hold still.” He took out his knife and held it carefully in his teeth, while he worked the knots on my right arm loose enough to move freely. “Now, you can work that the rest of the way for yourself. Don’t try anything, though, or you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

He stood about two feet away from the chair, holding the knife lightly. I could sense from the look in his eye that he wished I would give him a reason to use it on me. I carefully worked at the loosened bonds until I had my hand free, then forced down the milk and the food. It was an effort — Pudd’n had fed me more than I really needed — but at last I was done.

“Right,” Dixie said. “Sit still. I’m going to tie you up again.”

“Wait a minute.” I fished in my shirt pocket and took out the pillbox. “I have to take two of these.”

“Well, get on an’ do it.”

“I have to have water,” I said. He had used the last of the little jug of water in his whiskey.

“Yer bloody moron.” I thought for a moment he was going to hit me, then he pulled back. “Why didn’t you tell me that before I went downstairs? I’m not your bloody slave.”

He stood furious for a moment, then turned and walked out. I estimated that I had thirty clear seconds. I took three capsules out of the box and tugged them apart with my teeth, holding each one in my right hand. My plan had been to drop the powder from them into his drink, but his glass was way out of reach, over on the piano. All I could do was tip the contents of each capsule into the open bottle of whiskey, then stuff the empty containers in my pocket and give the bottle a quick shake with my thumb over the open top.

I was just finished when Dixie came back with a cup of water. He didn’t even watch me take my pills, which was just as well — I’m not the world’s expert on palming things. He seemed much more interested in his drink, and as I watched he poured about another inch into the glass.

“How about a drop of that for me?” I asked. I didn’t want him looking too closely at what he was drinking.

“You must be kidding.” He sat down in front of me and deliberately drank from the glass. “I wouldn’t have given you any of that bloody lot if it wasn’t for Scouse tellin’ us to look after yer. He doesn’t want you dead tomorrow — he has his own games to play.”

As he spoke he was looking at my free right arm and touching the knife on the piano stool next to him. I realized he had deliberately left me untied, hoping I would give him an excuse to cut me. It was a bad few minutes. His face was flushed with drink but his eye still had a glassy, calculating look.

What did the drug do when it was combined with alcohol? I hoped it would be strongly sedative. Alcohol is a depressant, and the drug was supposed to damp brain activity. But what would I do if the mixture turned Dixie into a raving madman?

He finished the drink in his glass and glared at me with a fixed, cunning expression as he poured a refill. “Just you wait, you bleeder,” he said suddenly. “Des was one of my best mates. I’ll get you for ’im. You’ll wish you’d never been born. Just you wait.”

He stood up unsteadily and did a shuffling dance step over to the piano and back again. His coordination was badly off. He realized it and stood there frowning, staring at me again.

” ’Sgetting late. Better get you tied up again, an’ relax.” He picked up the knife and came closer. “Move wrong now, an’ that’ll be it. Put yer arm flat on the chair.”

His eyes were blurry and blinking, but the knife was at my throat. He was still being cautious. He wound the rope one-handed around my wrist until it was too tight for me to move more than a couple of inches, and only then laid the knife aside to finish tying me.

“Not so tight,” I said. “That’s hurting.”

He pulled viciously on the cord and made a final knot. Then he picked up the knife again and leaned close towards me. His eyes were only inches from mine, and his warm, whiskey-laden breath blew into my face.

“You’ll know what hurtin’ is soon.” He brought the knife slowly up along my neck, drawing the tip steadily over my chin and cheek. I flinched as the point came higher, and squeezed my right eye tight shut. The sharp point was on my eyelid. I could feel the tremble in Dixie ’s hand transmitted through the steel to my eyeball. I sat motionless, my pulse throbbing in my throat.