After three days of starvation, I gave in and took it from under the bed. The small, round, dented tin. The label said something about minced beef.

I didn't have the strength to look for the can opener. Dizziness came in waves. I took a hammer and a kitchen knife and made a hole in the lid. With the tip of the knife I scraped out the contents and gulped them down like a wild animal. I picked bits of tobacco from the seams of my pockets, added the leftovers from the ashtray, and rolled a cigarette with a scrap of newspaper.

There was a mouthful of liquid left in the bottle on the windowsill. I gulped it down.

My stomach rejected the stale, lukewarm beer, which had been scorched by the sun. I barely managed to get to the bathroom and stick my head down the toilet. With a sad look, I said goodbye to the fragments of meat, stood on my tiptoes, and pulled the string on the cistern. There were only a few centimetres of water left. I took a cold shower. There was no hot water. Bare wires stuck out of the wall where the water heater should have been.

I put on clean underwear and socks. I immediately washed dirty ones with soap and hung them over the window to dry the next day. I put on my combat jacket and jeans again. And tennis shoes. I nearly fainted when I bent over to tie the laces.

The lace tore in my hand. I couldn't prolong its life. There was no room. Knot after knot.

I took the piece of string from the toilet cistern and tied my tennis shoes. I straightened up and looked in the mirror. I waited for the fog in my eyes to clear.

The Cartier bottle was empty.

I was devastated. Even though I'd always known it would happen sooner or later. I was left without the one thing I could not do without.

I turned the bottle upside down, put a finger under it, and waited.

It fell.

The last drop of aftershave.

I dabbed it on my neck.

I put the top on the bottle and stood it upside down. Maybe more would come. I went out onto the street. Everything was grey: no color anywhere.

This always happens to me after three sleepless nights. I leaned against the wall and waited. The picture was moving and splitting in two, sometimes drowning in fog. A woman marched past. Her sweater suddenly became bright red. The contrast hurt my brain. Soon after, the colour came back, first to the sky, then to the smoke, and finally the houses took on a reddish tint. The dusty pavement was streaked with streams and puddles left by the melting snow. The foundry fence ranalong to my right.

The bar was empty. The waitress was sitting behind the counter drinking coffee and reading a trashy novel. She glanced at me. Then immediately carried on reading the book.

Written by me.

I sat at the table in the corner, made a pillow with my arms, and fell asleep. When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was a different body behind the counter. The book was lying by the till. It was dark outside. I looked around the room, searching for victims. At the next table there were some pensioners drinking spritzers. Next to the exit, a tall, muscular guy in a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans was slowly sipping beer from a glass.

On his T-shirt there was a coat of arms and underneath it said "UCLA".

That's supposed to mean the University of California Los Angeles, wherever that is. I bet he'd never been there. He probably hadn't even been to the primary school in Lower Bottomley. A worker at the foundry, an immigrant from the south. He came to the bar every night for a beer. When the waitress start