The Ritual

be careful and . . . how they say? Sleep light. Because someone in this house, not far from your bed, they very much want to
kill you.’
    ‘You tell Fenris that I am sorry. I hit him because I thought he was going to hurt me. And I am very tired of being hurt, Loki. Can you understand that? My friends have been murdered and I
want . . . I just want all of this to end.’
    ‘I understand, Luke. And it will all end soon.’
    This statement made him mad with hope until he realized that Loki was probably talking about a completely different ending to his story.
    ‘But Fenris is not your problem,’ the deep-voiced giant said into the door. ‘He is mad at you, yes. He hoped you would be good company for him while you wait.’
    ‘Wait for what?’
    ‘I have not finished, Luke—’
    ‘What, Loki? What am I waiting for? Eh? The police. Because that is who will be coming very soon.’
    ‘I do not think so, Luke. Do not give yourself false hopes, my friend. You are far too important for us to give away to the police. And they are the last people we want to see. But I am
sure they would like to meet us.’ Loki laughed to himself. Disingenuous, but deep laughter. ‘I tell you very soon, my friend. All in good times. But tonight’s party was for a very
good reason. As you will soon see. But you must be patient a little while longer, Luke. Until then, you must understand what it is I am saying about your behaviour as a guest in this
house.’
    ‘I am trying, Loki. I am trying very hard to understand why I am being kept here against my will.’
    ‘Your will is strong, Luke. But please let me tell you the problem you have right now. Yes?’
    ‘Yes. Yes. Yes. Tell me, Loki.’
    ‘When I say you have a very big problem in this house, I do not lie, Luke. But it is not Fenris. He has a sore head, but he don’t kill you. Your problem is Surtr, Luke.’
    ‘You keep your mad bitch away from me. OK, Loki? How’s that, mate?’
    ‘I will try my best, Luke. But I must sleep also. And she is very absolutist.’
    ‘I don’t follow?’
    ‘She likes to stab, Luke. To cut. She is a little crazy in her ideas. One time we got this guy and she . . . Well, let me make you imagine a man who tries to run with no toes on his feet.
It was a very funny thing to see, I can tell you. And she never stop with his toes. All of him fits inside this . . . this . . . baggage. You know, the airport baggage?’
    Luke thought he might be sick again. He needed to sit down. Tried to bring the strength back into his arms.
    ‘I think you understand me, Luke. So I ask a favour from you. You do as we say. Which mean, no more fighting, my friend. I leave you to think on this.’ His footsteps began to retreat
down the corridor outside.
    Luke moved to the door. ‘I need water. Loki. Water.’
    The loud footsteps returned to the other side of the door. ‘I bring it.’
    ‘Hot water. A bandage.’
    ‘Not possible.’
    ‘Some painkillers. Headache tablets.’
    ‘Not possible.’
    ‘Cigarettes, please.’
    ‘Not possible.’
    ‘Tell you what, call an ambulance. Right now.’
    ‘Not possible,’ Loki said, without a trace of humour.
    Wincing, as even the minutiae of limited mobility seemed to make his swollen brain collide painfully against the insides of his skull, Luke moved his body across the bedding to
the side of the bed. Slowly, he hooked his legs over and then stood upright. Even with his head supported by both hands, he felt unbalanced, seasick.
    He gulped at more of the stale dusty water, straight from the jug. It trickled round each side of his mouth and spattered down his naked chest. Besides his damp underwear, they had removed all
of his clothes. He felt too ill and anxious to explore the reasons why. But there were no medical supplies here, and they were not going to let him go. Those were the new facts. The new
rules binding his life. What was left of it.
    A terrible bolus of emotion suddenly came up from behind his sternum where it had been stored in his worn-out heart. It rushed, burning, through him. He knelt on the floor. Bent over,
sobbed.
    His throat was thick with an emotion that could have been loneliness, or sadness, or self-pity, or despair, or all of these things at once. He didn’t know, but he thought anything, even
death, was better than feeling this way.
    He was hurting. So much. His head. He wanted it to stop. Would offer anything for a painkiller. Up and down his back, and around his calf muscles