Left Hand Typing.

On Saturday night I met with them again. I don’t fully understand their logic: they want to know that I’m willing to betray someone in order for them to trust me? The first step was to make sure Sebastian felt indebted to me. To do this they let me know that they would be beating me up. I have explained this to Sebastian as an initiation rite, and I have told him that it’s okay – I’m prepared to go through with whatever needs doing, if it gets us closer to Challoner.

They left my face alone, but dealt a number of blows to my ribs, my back and my legs, all of which have come up in impressive bruises, like wine stains. I keep expecting them to spread while I look at them. They also stamped on my hand. I thought they’d broken the fingers at first, but they’re just bruised. By the time I got back to the hotel, my right hand was swollen up like a pink washing up glove. Sebastian ordered a champagne bucket up to the room, minus the champagne. It still hurts today, but at least I can move it. It hurts to walk. I think the older guests in the hotel assume I’m imitating them as I walk down to the dining room, limping and hunched over.

To pass the time, I’ve been telling Sebastian about the haunted cottage. This was my harmless secret until now, but I’m supposed to be sharing things with him, to make him trust me with his own secrets. I can tell he feels guilty. He keeps making sure I know how much things are costing him, before he says he doesn’t mind. He keeps trying to find favours to do, so I feign contentment. And then I’ll ask about his past; I might see a good looking girl walk past below us, and then I’ll ask if he was ever married; I choose something foreign off the menu, and then ask what countries he’s been to, what was his favourite, what happened there. It’s an odd game I've been asked to play, but at least they got the worst bit over with first.