You don’t have the neck.’ The woman shrugged, as if he could think whatever he liked and it would make no difference to her. ‘That is what Mânios Dumitrescu said at first. But I changed his mind. Soon he was sawing at his wrist like it was the middle of winter and he was freezing and he had to have wood for the fire.’ ‘You won’t change my mind, you witch.’ ‘You do not believe that I will really shoot you between your legs?’ Bula let out a dismissive pfff! and shook his head. He was slurring his words now and hiccupping, and every now and then he would jolt with pain, but his eyes kept darting towards the workshop door. He was working out a plan to knock this woman over, snatch her gun from her, and then hop over to the door on one leg, using the backs of dining chairs and sofas to support himself, like a series of crutches. A mahogany table leg was resting against the opposite end of the couch he was sitting on, and he reckoned that if he could lunge over and seize that and then swing it around and smack her hard enough on the side of the head, he might be able to concuss her.
