The Sense of Being Sinbad

The Messenger is, in fact, a latter day Cerberus. Once you have taken the grisly journey to his lair, he is unlikely to allow you out of the underworld ever again. In this fading dusk he shines a laser torch on the calendar of the rest of your life and puts a cross on it, weeks or months or years ahead. The Messenger has a reputation. He is usually right. You stare at him, looking at his unseasonal tan, his gel-prickled hair, his sharp black suit with his unique hand painted silk tie, his lean, predatory, hawkish blue eyes and his expensive, pointed brogues. But you don’t really take it in. All you actually see is a bottle of pills, a knife and a heap of state of the art technology. And a calendar. How long?