I planned the murder for weeks, weeks during which I attended four more interviews with my merciless antagonist. At least, I tried to plan; but I could not think of a single way of doing the deed and getting away with it. There were desk diaries, letters, files. Everyone would know who had been in the room with him, even if I did manage to kill and flee without being caught. There were moments when I considered abandoning the scheme, but they passed, because I knew that the only alternative to murder was suicide, and I liked being alive.
So one day I thought, ‘To hell with it,’ and went to my interview with a bread knife in my inside pocket. ‘Next,’ the voice called, and I went in and slit his throat. The blood went everywhere, and the receptionist, hearing his death-gurgles, came and stood in the doorway, blocking my escape route. I tried to decide whether or not I should kill her, too.
A door opened in the wall behind the interviewer’s desk. I had never noticed such a door in any of the rooms before. A white door set in a white wall. But maybe it had always been there, because how could anyone have known that I would pick this day, this room? Yes, the problem was just my own stupid lack of observation.
The interviewer lay twitching, frothing, etc, on the floor with the bread knife stuck in his gullet. The new man stepped over this dying marionette and extended his right hand. I took it, automatically. I was covered in blood – not a pretty sight, I assure you.
‘We are now in a position,’ the man said, ‘I’m happy to say, that is, if you’re interested, to offer you a job.’
Read more: Granta Magazine
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