Some weeks later, on the first day of summer, the old typewriter lost its 't' as well. Paul thought: I am going to complain. I am not just going to ask for a new typewriter, I am going to demand one. I know she can afford it.

Of course he would ask Annie for nothing and certainly would not demand. Once there had been a man who would at least have asked. That man had been in much more pain, but he still would have asked.

He had been that man and he supposed he ought to be ashamed, but that man had two big advantages over this one: that man had two feet... and two thumbs.

Paul sat quietly for a moment, staring at the typewriter, and then simply continued to type. It was better that way - better not to ask, better not to protest. Annie had become too strange. He had known for a long time what she was capable of doing; but these days he couldn't guess what would make her do it.

So he continued to work, but after five or six pages the typewriter lost the letter 'e', the most common letter in the English language. Paul could hardly believe it. What shall I do now? he thought, but of course the answer was obvious. He would write by hand.

But not now. The hole in the paper - the hole through which Misery and Ian and Geoffrey lived - had closed with a crash.

He listened to the sound of the lawnmower outside. Annie had a lawnmower which was like a small tractor. As soon as he thought of Annie he remembered the axe rising and falling, her calm face splashed with his blood. He remembered every word she had spoken, every word he had screamed, every sound and movement.

Why couldn't he forget? You're supposed to forget, aren't you? People who have car crashes forget what happened and are surprised when they wake up in hospital. So why couldn't he forget?

Because writers remember everything, Paul, especially the things that hurt. If you point to a writer's scars, he will tell you the story of every small one. Firm the big ones you get novels.

Perhaps memory would heal him. But why should he bother to remember? She had done it, and all the time between then and now had been painful and boring, except when he had worked on his silly book in order to escape feeling pain and being bored. There was no point in remembering, no point in anything.