I look from the knife to Adam. He cannot mean to kill me. All I did was love him. Maybe I hurt him, but I did not fatally de-man him, in that way.
‘Adam?’ I ask.
He takes a step towards me.
Yes, he does mean to kill me.
Shall I let him? Am I a sacrifice, will he love me in death, is it recompense? Will I be understood, posthumously? Will the words in my books be judged kindly? Read by all and preached, even, as the poor man who was misunderstood by all? Will Adam, even, regret rejecting me, turning his face from the one who loved him best?
But I am Luke and I have a story on earth to tell. I will fight, I trained to fight. I have no mask, but I have my sabre.
I pick it up from the table.
But maybe he doesn’t mean to kill me. Maybe he just wants to frighten me, show me again that he has power.
Adam thrusts the knife towards me.
I dart back.
He does, he does; he means to kill me.
En garde, then. Focus on the tip of the knife. Always focus on the tip.
Parry, our two swords cross.
Lunge. Hit. I hit! I hit! Is he hurt? No. A hit of bad character, not strong enough. He shrugs me off. Yes, yes, he is right, disengage.
Parry.
Circle.
Lunge backwards, backwards, backwards. Circle. Step, step, lunge. One arm back behind me, always.
Hit! But no blood, just a raised knife, closer and closer. Lunge backwards, backwards, and I’m at the edge of the kitchen work surface. The hand behind my back strikes the kettle, and the still hot water pours out over me.
He is so close, with the knife. Can I parry, can I block?
Oh, he’s going to score!
But not the torso – my wrist.
‘No points, no points! Out of zone!’
But hit, hit, hit, he goes, still at my wrist. I drop my sabre.
Now, disengage, Adam. Disengage!
‘Adam? Disengage?’
He pulls my other arm from behind my back.
‘Bad play, bad play!’ I tell him, but he does not listen.
He seizes my wrist.
Hit, hit, hit. Slice, slice, slice.
Blood, blood, blood.
Why doesn’t he disengage?
I slide to the floor, and his face over me is everything, everywhere. Both the light and blocking out the light.
Still, he doesn’t disengage. Still, the knife goes in. Still, the hot water dribbles down from the worktop.
And then I understand.
Or perhaps I’ve always known.
I am the lobster.