Words surfaced and sank like potatoes in a pot, and I said nothing.

A bluff.

A practical joke.

A trick played by a tired old ghost too bitter and cynical to remember that within every pair of eyes that beholds him, a mind watches too.

I looked at Janus, and Janus, feeling my gaze, looked back at me, and he didn’t care if I lived, and he didn’t care if he died, and he was not lying.

I moved.

Across the room, to a low wooden door; duck through into a tiny toilet with a sloping roof, squint into the single mirror above the sink and stare into the face of Samir Chayet. Worn for four hours and counting, never regarded. I am in my early forties? Straight dark hair, cut close, beard trimmed–not brilliantly but with a serviceable pair of scissors–almost certainly by myself. My skin is sanded elm, my name could be French, could be Islamic; Algerian will do as a guess, but what then? A mother, a father, a birthplace, a language, a religion? I feel around my neck for a crucifix–none–check my fingers for rings, fumble in my pocket for wallet, phone. I switched my phone off on acquiring Samir, never be available to make a fool of yourself; now I thumb it back on and tear through my wallet. I carry fifty euros in cash, two debit cards with the same bank, an ID telling me what I already know–Samir Chayet, senior staff nurse. What does a senior staff nurse do? I knew this once, long ago, when I was a medical student in San Francisco, when I was young and painted my toenails. Times have changed. I left those toes behind when I grew bored with patients being diseased, and now Samir Chayet has new toys to play with, new rules to learn, and I know none of them.

The sound of Janus moving in the room next door. Three hours is a long time when you’re armed men with access to a helicopter. Running water in the kitchen: Janus doing the dishes.

“You know, they’re probably already here, yes?” he calls out.

Helpful.

Contents of the wallet. Credit cards are dangerous–easy to ask me for the pin number, easy to catch me when I get it wrong. A library card, a couple of loyalty cards, union membership, a receipt from a local golf course.

Who is this man, Samir Chayet?

I look in the mirror, run my fingers through my beard, my hair, down the edge of my sleeve. I stare into round brown eyes that as a child would have begged for more and never been denied. I feel my belly, a little saggy but not embarrassingly so. When I raise my eyebrows, it seems that my whole scalp rises; when I frown, it’s as if my forehead is trying to touch my nose. I lift the lid of the toilet cistern, drop my wallet and phone inside and close it.

Right now the question of who Samir Chayet is is not as important as who he seems to be.

“Are you ready for pudding?” Janus’ voice drifted through from the kitchen.

I stared at my reflection for a moment longer, and turned out the light.

“What is it?” I asked, slipping into the kitchen, but now my words were Maghrib Arabic, slow to pass and heavy to form.

Janus stood at the sink, a pair of yellow Marigolds pulled over his withered hands, suds of washing-up liquid hanging off the front of his shirt. His eyebrows rose at the sound of my voice, but in the same language with an eastern accent, he replied, “Crème caramel with a raspberry and vanilla sauce. Hand made by someone in a supermarket.”

“It sounds lovely. Shall I dry?”

A flicker of surprise in the corner of his lips. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

I picked a tea towel off its hook, lined up at Janus’ side, started methodically drying the dishes. “Ever tried making crème caramel? Yourself, I mean?” I asked, testing the words as they ran through me, remembering the shape of them, warming to my theme.

“Once. When I was a housewife in Buenos Aires. It collapsed in the pot, looked like banana puke.”

“That often happens.”

“You a chef?”

“I was, for a while.”

“Were you any good?”

“Used too much chilli. Management were disappointed that I wasn’t sticking to the style for which I had been acclaimed. I told them that it was bland and undersized. They told me to reform my ways or find a new job. I reformed my ways and found a new job.”

“Sounds unfulfilling.”

“I wanted to test a hypothesis.”

“Which was?”

“That the tongue of a chef could taste more–biologically, I mean, that there was something chemical in its capacity to taste more fully–than any other man.”

“And?” Curiosity lifted Janus’ voice, the scourer ceased for a moment in its rounds across the dishes.

“Damned if I could see what the fuss was about. I have worn some of the greatest musicians of the day and still cannot hear the sublime in Mahler. I have dressed myself in the bodies of great dancers, and certainly my muscles were flexible enough for me to stand on one leg and suck my own big toe without strain, and yet…”

“Yet?”

“I was forced to conclude that, though the body was toned to perfection, without the confidence of experience the feat for which it was honed still evaded me. It was a deep disappointment the day I realised that the lungs of an opera singer and the legs of a ballerina were not enough to achieve perfection in the form itself.”

“You didn’t want the hard work.”

“No one wants the hard work. I suppose you could say I lacked motivation.”

We worked in silence; the fire burning in the room next door, until at last he said, “I imagine running looks bad.”

“What?”

“If they’re already here, I mean.”

“Ah, yes. Running would raise a few questions.”

“So,” he went on, “you intend to bluff it out? Dress yourself as a civilian?”

“That’s the plan.”

“And you think drying the dishes will help?”

“I think that our kind never work together. I think that we are lonely. I think we want friends, that we need… companionship, more than company. I think that everyone’s afraid, but more so when we are alone. We should have that pudding now.”

“You’re in for a treat.”

I put the last dish on to the rack and drifted back into the living room as Janus emptied the fridge of its sugary confections. Two white plates of crème caramel adorned with magenta sauce were laid out for my consideration, a silver spoon beside each. I tried a sliver and was cautiously impressed. Janus sat opposite, his pudding untouched.

Then, “Did…”

I took another bite.

“Would you…” he tried again, his voice shaking round the edges. Stop. A slow breath in, a long breath out, and at last, “I think I will have that morphine now, please.”

I laid my spoon down, leaned back in the chair. “No.”

“No?”

“No. You want to die, be my guest. You want someone here to give you the strength to go through with it, an audience for your big moment–fine. You want to stop the pain, that’s an entirely different matter.”

His bones stuck up white beneath the ragged redness of his knuckles; his smile was wide, eyes narrow. “How long do you think you have left to live, Samir?”

“You took the answer out of my hands. We do that, you and I. You’re a good cook.”

“I worked hard for it. Are you not—”

His words were barely formed, the sound balanced on the edge of his tongue, when the lights went out.

There was no thunk of circuit breakers, no snap of electricity tearing itself apart. The lights were on and then they were off, and we sat together, shadows against the bright orange of the fire, the rain drumming on the window pane, the drip-drip of the kitchen tap as it emptied itself into a still-soapy sink smelling of chemical lime. I looked to where the shadow of Janus sat, back straight, neck locked, hands curled around the edge of the table.

We waited.

“Samir?”

“Yes?”

His voice shook, his hands knocked against the wood. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Not running.”