Whats that?

yhou want me to type this?

What? Everything? Each. Word. You Say. ?.

You want me to type in what’s ahappned? You want me to type how I got here? You want me to type who I am?

(the man nods)

(he told me to type that)

(he says, put down that you)

shuddered. I shuddered when he prodded me. Then I just did what he said. So. Here I am. I’m typing. As you can see – I’m a good typist. Fast. I guess these words are appearing on a monitor in front of you. From looking around the room, I guess hat your screens split in four. There are four of us in here. Me. A woman. Too guys. I don’t know how they got in here, but I woke up on the floor of my bedroom with an ache like a thought in my head: Oh my God just how bad did I lose?

They were downstairs already. My computer was still on. The poker cards were folded on the screen. HOUSE WINS. HOUSE WINS. HOUSE WINS. I was down a few thousand Bitcoins. Do I have a few thousand Bitcoins? Do I look like I have a few thousand Bitcoins? House wins. House wins. House wins.

The men down the staires climbed up them. KLicked in the door to my room.

Oh my God all these typos.

Don’t think I fold under pressure. That’s what they want you to think. Look att me. Look at my fingers. Flyong on the keyboard. And anyway. Where was I?  These four blokes in my bedroom. A hand in my hair. Fingers tight to my throat. Naïve people say, why let them do it? If you know they don’t have the money, why let them run up the debt? Naïve peop.e don’t know about rooms such as this one. I don’t know where it is. I came here n the back of a van. If I ever get to leave herre, itll be in the back of a van. Odds are I’ll be dead.

Now, though, I/’m sat here, typing, watching the monitor click up in the corner, thirty errors, thirty ojne errors, damn it, thirty-two, thirty three. In my bedroom, I was given three choices, pay up, play up, be dead. Well. As ive sed.. Do I look like I have a few thousand Bitcoins? Do I look like I want to be dead?

So. Then. Here I am. Playing up. English Roulette. Four horses. Four poor knackered tired old nags typing like those girls they used to have in the background on Saturday afternoon Grandstand. Clickety Click. Me and the others: The girl. She might be a contender. Once upon a tyme, she’d have probably walked it. Boys were taught woodwork. Girls how to tipe. Hard to say these days. The lines between us has faded. She might be an excellent typist. But she might also be a fumble fingered old hooker who got a taste for the cards off a client who tipped her too fondly. She looks pretty scared. Pretty grey. So does the bloke inbetween us. I can’t see his expression, just the sweat-pallor gleem off the side of his face. He’s a lot older than I am. He’s looking at his keyboard like it’s been dipped in fresh blood.  I don’t rate his chances. I reckon they’ll shoot him first. Shoot him? Shoot him? Oh Jesus Christ. It seems so real whn you type those words out and then see them all of a sudden appear.

Shoot him.

Or her.

Or him.

Or shoot me.

Don’t think.  Don’t panic. Just type.

I’m not sure about the bloke sititng across from me. All I can see is the top of his head. It’s pretty still. Does that mean he’s calm or scared? Well. You can see his error rate. Back him or sack him. Isn’t that what you big guns say?

Oooh. Guns. Wish I hadn’t typed that. I’m a superstitious gambler. Why did I have to type guns? How long have we been going? They said the game lasted half hour. Must have been going for twenty. Must have been. AT least.

Bloke behind me says, type something different. Bloke to my left jumps like he’s been shot. Oh. Shot. I shouldn have typed that. Shouldn’t. Damn it. Damn. Bloke beside me starts sobbing. Bloke behind me is moving his way. Whoever backed typist three is out of the running. They’ve got a silencer screwed on the gun. Not a pop. Not a whimper. There’s fresh blood all over the floor. The girl who’s beside him is screaming. She’s saying Jesus Christ there’s brains in my lap Jesus Christ I’m all wet I’ve got his brains all over my lap and hHer hands have come away from the keyboard and I’ve never seen a girl murdered before. They shoot her right through her wide-open mouth.

Look at that. See how calm I am? Two murders. Two horses down. I count just a single mistake. Back me. Back me. Go on. Look at my fingers. Ah. Now therye’ standing behind me. Tehyer standing behind the other one as well. All I can see is the top of his head. Very still. Lick my lips. Back me. See my fingers. Me. A good typist. Spent most of my life on the web. Gambling this. Winning that. Losing the other. I can type pretty damn fast. God, though, my fingers are aching. How well’s the other horse typping? Look up, his way, can’t tell. Funny. Can’t think of that much else to say now. Could murder a drink. Ooooh. Murder. Didn’t want to be typing that. Didn’t want to be thinking that. Can’t seem to help myself somehow. Murder. Death. Finito. It’s in my head. Gotta get myself focussing on it. Gotta try to win this one through dread. Dread. I think about being shot through the back of my head. This screen, washed red with the spray out of me. Think about being buried. Look at me, sititng, here, typing, thinking about being buried, see myself in a dry scrub of land, hope they don’t put me face down. Or in water. Just a ripple slipping down into water. Oh someone’s counting, saying ten, nine, eight, this is it, me or him, me or him, let it be him, want to see my muther, want to see my father, don’t want them sitting up night after night after night year after year after year wondering if I’m gonna call four three two let it baepoagub[vsnj[v jn x. m  ‘d’l’’l