Exhibit A

Plunked on an uncomfortably hard chair against the window in the dark corner of his living room, the young actor watched the evening set in. Winters in this city were mild, but he always wrapped himself up extra warm with his red sweater. This slightly worn woolen saw very little of its owner for the rest of the year—the warmth usually kicked in by February and only proceeded to levels of sultry discomfort as the year progressed. Classic dull red, with a V neck. The other reason for its seasonal appearance was because the actor’s mother had spent a whole twenty pounds on it, without consulting him, of course. Such is the nature of Christmas gifts that parents give you. More often than not, they’re way off the mark. The actor had wondered how—two winters ago—the subtle hints dropped for a ‘new video game’ had been wrongly read as a wish for an ‘unfashionable fleece.’ Oh well, he’d now resigned himself to appreciating its utilitarian benefits and looking past the fashion expiry date that the manufacturers had forgotten to put on the tag. Maybe it would come back and be a rage again. Nevertheless, he had other things on his mind.

There was a gentle knock on the door. The actor didn’t flinch. Nothing about his demeanour even remotely acknowledged the tap which implied that there was somebody on the other side. Had he even heard it? To clear any misgivings, the knock resounded again, a tad louder than its predecessor. This time, the actor sighed. Yes, he had definitely heard the knock. A minute of silence elapsed. It was almost as if he knew exactly who it was on the other side of the door. A sharp thump now upped the ante. Strangely, it wasn’t the impatient knock of somebody seeking an audience with the actor. Rather, it seemed like somebody had been knocking for quite a while before this story began. Almost as if there was a whole other story that preceded this one. The thumping continued, followed by a muffled yelling of the actor’s name. Thick doors are such a blessing.

Fortunately for him, the actor’s apartment had a curtain of mahogany that could keep an invading army at bay. No battering ram could dislodge it from its hinges. Now if only his landlord would allow him to set up a moat with crocodiles, he wishfully thought. That would put an end to every nosey neighbor who would show up at his doorstep, bearing a meat pie and a broad smile. Of course, he knew what the others were saying about his ‘antisocial’ vibe. He was sure that any conversation that referenced him contained generous use of the words ‘sociopath’ and ‘freak.’ Well, it didn’t really bother him. I guess you reach this conclusion because he never reacted. He’d ritually venture downstairs every morning to get his newspaper and milk and there would always be a gaggle of excited neighbors, loudly discussing about the blush-worthy shenanigans from the previous night’s party. But just as he passed them on the stairs, they would go quiet and retreat into a little ball of secrecy. It was almost as if they were discussing military secrets or exchanging information on the whereabouts of the Holy Grail. The ones with strong consciences would look away or look down at the red-carpeted stairs, almost ashamed to be partaking in this practice of social exclusion. Others would stare back, menacingly.

And then it would happen.

Someone would let a little giggle slip. It was a very short-lived chortle, which was swallowed quickly. Unfortunately, the damage would be done. The rest of the group would break into stifled laughter, and shuffle about to avoid being identified as the perpetrator. Yes, there’s the ‘nicer’ guys, who between paroxysms of mocking laughter insert a ‘hello’ or ‘how’s it going.’ But that hardly makes it any better. If anything, it is almost insulting. It’s like when somebody robs a convenience store and then sends that very same place a Christmas card, come December.

No, the young actor never reacted to this, or any of the other belittling. Did he really ever care about it, or was he indifferent? Do people who never display emotions outwardly ever give two hoots about stuff like this? Well, I’m sure they do, you say. They are human. However, I’ve noticed that there are a sizeable number of people who build such high walls around their emotions that it is almost impossible for anything to get in. Nothing ever enters—sticks, stones, Romans, Tiger Woods. They live lives of emotional frigidity and nothing affects them. Then again, I just may be entirely wrong.

The thumping continues and our eyes rest solely on the actor. Come on, he must react. How much longer will he continue to remain oblivious to this intermittent annoyance? At this point, I wondered if he were deaf. Now that would make an excellent ending to this story. But the next thing he did assured us that he had perfectly fine hearing (no ‘cookie’ for this writer, unfortunately!). The actor, very slowly, got up. He dusted what seemed like bread crumbs off his functional, no-frills apparel. With several large steps, he made his way to a little shelf that sat above a table, right across the room. The actor’s living room was broad and long, and it seemed to take him an eternity to get to the other side. He sidestepped several pieces of furniture and followed the winding dragon designs on his carpet. He then reached up to the shelf and fumbled with something—a rectangular shiny object. On closer view, you could see the outline of a metallic silvery radio. He whipped out the long antenna from its back and turned the switch on. The inanimate object suddenly came to life, blaring static and sonic disturbance. The actor twiddled with the tuning knob for a while, gently forcing the machine to give in. He delicately twisted it this way and that, in an almost epic battle with the contraption. After having slowly choked it into submission, the ageing Phillips finally yielded. The static died down and was replaced by a rather upbeat big band number—Benny Goodman, I think. The actor then shifted his attention to the volume knob, which he yanked forcefully, all the way up. Yes, he could be both gentle and brutal at the same time.

The actor paused for a bit. Any knocking had now ceased to be apparent. He stood in the middle of the room, motionless. The ensemble’s sax player was running circles around the room with an elaborate solo. But the actor wasn’t appreciating or even listening to the music. You could tell, because his brow seemed crinkled and his face stern. Then slowly, he walked away from the shelf, into the darker corners of the room. Nightfall was approaching. Most residents of large apartments would usually turn the lights on or light a candle—anything to illuminate the room. But the occupant of Apartment 401 seemed disinterested with incandescence. If anything, this seemed like a genuine attempt to keep the room under the cover of darkness.

Our eyes now travel with the actor. Initially, we stumble over furniture and curse him for not having turned the lights on. But gradually, our eyes get accustomed to the darkness and engage their night vision. Everything is a funny shade of green and black.

This includes the dull red closet door that the actor walks toward.

He grabbed a different knob this time—a larger, shinier one. For a few minutes, he hesitated. Why was he deliberating over opening his closet door? But like the knobs on the stereo, he slowly turned this one as well—gently, but firmly.

On the floor of his closet lay the person on the other side.

Gagged? Yes. Drugged, possibly—seeing as how the person offered a rather weak amount of resistance to their ordeal. But the moment the door opened, the person began to writhe and thrash about on the floor. Muffled curses floated past the piece of metallic tape that sealed the person’s mouth. The young actor’s shadow towered over his victim. It was almost as if he had added a few inches to his average frame just then.

“So, do you think you’ve learnt your lesson yet?”

All through, Benny and co. played on, entirely unaware.