—Get up! I help you, now you help me. That’s how it works. . . . I said get up! Good, come here.
We are standing two feet from each other, only a window between us. He’s staring at me. I won’t stare back. I’ll keep looking at the floor. For a second, I saw . . . There’s something wrong about the way he looked at me. There’s no . . . emotion, nothing in his eyes. I think I made a mistake. Humanizing myself won’t change a thing. That man is a psychopath. He could not care less if I’m a person or not.
—You! Get up. Over here.
Who is he talking to? He’s not looking at me anymore, the man in charge. He’s helping someone off the floor. The redheaded man, I’ve seen him before. He was sitting in the corner when we came into the waiting room. He made that crude joke about the receptionist. He’s wearing a suit, probably his one suit. I did not notice before, but it’s a size too small and his shoes are worn. He looks about my age, maybe a bit older. Late forties.
—Who do we have behind door number one? What’s your name, sir? Oh, don’t be shy.
—Graham.
—You can look up, everyone.
He wants all of us to see this, whatever this is.
—And what do you do for a living, Graham?
—I’m . . .
—There’s no crying at this game, Graham. Just tell me what you do.
—I’m an accountant.
—Sorry about that, Graham. But all right. Aaaand . . . you. Fatty. Get up.
That kid looks so scared. He’s not a kid, he must be in his late twenties, but he looks . . . pink skin, a little round. Soft, mostly. He’s wearing a powder blue sweater, cashmere maybe. Looks expensive.
—And what’s your name, fat boy?
—. . .
—What is it with the crying?! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. You’re not fat, you’re just . . . What the fuck is your name, kid?
—Andrew. Andrew Shaw.
—And how do you spend your days, Andrew Andrew Shaw?
—I make . . . I make designer—
—Never mind. I don’t wanna know. . . . Samaritan! Are you ready?
He’s rubbing his hands. He’s proud of himself. I don’t know where this is going, but I want it to end.
—Ready for what? What do you want from me?
—I’m glad you asked . . . I was on the phone a little while ago with the powers that be, and I asked them for . . . things. Different things. They didn’t like that, my asking for things. That’s understandable. I hate it, too, when people ask. Call me lazy, but I don’t like doing things, in general. I hate taking out the garbage, but I do. I do it because my whole flat will stink if I don’t. I don’t particularly like to eat. It’s a shame, I know, but I don’t. Obviously, I have to. I don’t like stopping at red lights, but I do—I’m a very safe driver—because the police will stop me if I don’t. You understand what I’m saying? I need motivation to do things.
The man in the blue sweater wants to get back on the floor.
—No! No! No! Get your—I was gonna say fat again, sorry. Get your ass back up, Andrew Andrew Shaw. This is for your benefit, too. Where was I? Oh, yes. The police, the government, they also need motivation to do things, so . . . I provided some. I told them that I would kill one person every fifteen minutes if I they didn’t do what I asked them to do . . . Oh, and it’s been fifteen minutes. And they didn’t do what I asked them to do.
—Please don’t do that. Please—
That’s why he picked me. He wants to kill me in front of everyone! I don’t want to die. Not like this, not in front of my children.
—Samaritan! I’m not gonna kill you! Look at you, all shaky and shit! What kind of asshole would I be, helping you with that test, if I put a bullet in your head halfway through? No, I’m not gonna kill you. I’m gonna kill who you tell me to!
I don’t know what he’s saying. There has to be a way to stop this.
—You don’t need to kill anyone, sir. There’s no need for that. I can talk to them, tell them—
—Tell them what? That I’m going to kill someone? I already told them that. Are you someone important? Do you think you’re more important than me?
—No, sir. I’m not. I don’t.
—That’s what I thought. Now who’ll it be?
—Be what? I don’t understand.
—Who. Do. You. Want. Me. To. Kill? Do you have a hearing problem, Samaritan?
—I—No. I don’t want you to kill anyone.
—Sure you do! You wanted to make decisions for me—you didn’t think I forgot about that, did you?—well, now’s your chance. You can either pick Graham, the accountant—
—No, not me! Please, sir!
The redhead. He wants to kill the redhead.
—Shut the fuck up, Graham. Or Andrew Andrew Shaw and his designer shit. Your choice.
He wants to kill the redhead or the kid. I don’t know what he expects from me. I won’t do what he asks.
—I won’t do that. I won’t choose.
—Goddamn it, Samaritan! THERE ARE RULES! Tell me what the rules are.
—I . . .
—The rules! Oh, you haven’t heard the rules yet, have you? My fault! I apologize. It’s just—there’s a lot going through my mind right now. You know how it is. Anyway, here are the rules. Every fifteen minutes, I pick two people and you tell me which one to kill. I kill that person. Simple enough!
—I told you. I won’t do that. I’ll do everything you want, but not that.
—Oh, come on! I’m doing the hard part. I’m the one with the gun. We can switch if you want, but I tell you: I’d rather be in your shoes. You just pick someone. It’s a simple thing. Door number one, or door number two. That’s it! You just tell me who to kill, and I do it . . . OR . . . I forgot about that part. It’s kind of important. OR, I kill them both. . . . See! You’re saving someone, really. . . . Who’ll it be? Older guy with boring job, or fatty here with really bad taste in clothes. Is that fucking cashmere?
—I won’t choose.
—Why?
—I can’t. I can’t tell you to kill someone.
—What do you mean, you can’t? You can’t just now, or like ever?
—Yes.
—Yes, ever? Like on principle?
—Yes.
—That’s bullshit! Like, if someone’s holding a gun and he’ll kill two people unless I tell him to kill one of them I won’t do it? That’s not a principle. That’s just . . . some shit you came up with right now. Come on! Stop wasting my time.
—I’m sorry, sir. I—
—Now you’re just pissing me off. I’m going to make this easy on you, Samaritan. I’m going to count to three, then I’ll pull the trigger if I don’t have an answer. Did you get that? One, two, three, then they die.
—No, I—
—Here we go. One.
The hostages are looking at me, not him. I can’t look at them. They look at me like I’m really deciding which one of them will live. I’m not. I can’t help them. He’s in control, not me. He’s taunting me, messing with my head. He just wants to know if I’ll do it or not. I won’t. I’m not a killer. I won’t make that choice.
—TWO!
He won’t do it. He won’t. . . . Even if he does, even if he kills them both. That’s him, not me. I’m not responsible for this. It’s his choice. Not mine. He wants to kill people. I choose love. I choose life.
—Three. Did I say on three? Oh, fuck it.
Don’t d—
**TAK**
**TAK**
—NOOOOOO!!!!
The sound of bodies hitting the floor. I can’t look.
3.