60
The steady patter of raindrops slows to the occasional splat on the floor. The light trickle from the brickwork at the back of the room has run dry. The mattress stands propped against a wall, airing out, leaving me on the floor. Gagged and bound with greasy cloths, my wrists tied behind my back, I watch the killer loping in and out of the room. Shaking his head at the leaks in the ceiling and the wall. Mopping the floor. Bringing in a small, flat trowel and a white tube with a long nozzle on the end.
First, he takes the tube and squeezes some white stuff into the gap between bricks. I think they call it caulk. He skims it flat with the trowel. He disappears for a few minutes, returning with a piece of wood, a hammer and a handful of nails. He nails the wood to the wall over the patch
