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sort of hurt,” I said, feebly. “Anyway, I’m tired and I haven’t eaten – thanks to you. My arm’s probably asleep.”
    “You’re all asleep. Pinch your nipple,” she said, nonchalantly.
    “I beg your pardon? I most certainly will not.”
    “Pinch it – it’s the surest way. A dead nipple is a dead giveaway.”
    “This is ridiculous,” I said, appalled at the thought but determined to prove her wrong. As I placed my fingers on my shirtfront in search of my left nipple, I could feel myself blushing. I soon found the small bump beneath the cotton and gave it a good hard squeeze. But again, nothing. I tried the right one. Still nothing. I pinched both at the same time as hard as I could, but the outcome was the same. I felt a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I…I don’t understand,” I said, my voice faltering and fearful.
    “What’s to understand? You’re dead.”
    “No, wait, wait…” I pleaded. I was now in a state of near panic. I pinched my left cheek with all my strength, then my right one, but the result was just as before. I began slapping myself across the face again and again, but still felt nothing. Then, in desperation, I punched myself as hard as I could in my stomach and groin. As I frantically continued to beat myself into a pulp, Mrs. Anna suddenly stepped forward and grabbed me forcefully by my arms.
    “Stop it! Stop this!” she barked, loudly.
    “But…but what is this? What’s happening? Where am I?”
    “Listen to me,” she ordered. “You are dead, I already told you that. Where? You are neither here nor there, that is where you are.”
    Just then the he doorbell rang. Mrs. Anna released me from her grip and began straightening her apron and tidying her unkempt hair a little.
    “But I…I don’t understand,” I said, hoarsely, trying to stop the tears that had welled up inside my eyelids from spilling over.
    “Then think yourself lucky,” she snapped, impatiently, as she turned and headed off towards the front door.  “Meanwhile, waiting in my hallway I have three very unhappy foreign aid workers from Afghanistan wanting to know why they were beheaded, and, more importantly, where their heads are. And you think you have problems?” Just before she left the room she turned back to face me, her hands planted squarely on her hips. “Maybe you would like to take care of them, no? Tell them all the answers? Then answer the door to the new ones, yes? Please forgive my English, but give me the fucking break.” And with that she left.
    I wiped my tears on the backs of my hands and tried to collect myself as best I could. It was all too much to take in, much too much, but I had to keep my head. No matter what Mrs. Anna said and no matter how impervious I’d become to pain – at least physically – I still couldn’t accept that I was dead. How could I be? Death wasn’t like that. Death was something that happened when you were asleep. It crept in overnight and did its mysterious deed when no one was around to see it – not unlike Father Christmas. True, it sometimes struck more blatantly. I’d seen any number of films and news stories in which death came quickly and violently to people. But it always ended the same way, with them just lying there – dead. Not me. I was still moving, still thinking, still ruminating. For instance, if I really was dead, how could I possibly ask myself the question ‘How can I be dead?’? And why would I be here? Here of all places?
    As those thoughts continued to bounce around my mind, I suddenly became aware of the sound of a child quietly sobbing. I wasn’t entirely sure where it was coming from, but unless my ears were playing tricks on me, it seemed to be emanating from the kitchen sink.
    Everything was wrong. I had to leave this place. Despite being penniless and rudderless, I knew it was time to go. I’d clearly stumbled upon a madhouse of demented eccentrics who were hell-bent on dragging me into their perverted