The Man from the South

by

Roald Dahl

The alternative ending.

I watched the thumb snapping the top down on to the flame. Then a pause. Then the thumb raising the top once more. This was an all-thumb operation. The thumb did everything. I took a breath, ready to say eight. The thumb flicked the wheel! The flint sparked! The little flame appeared, 'Eight!' I said, and took a breath that disguised the immediate sense of relief that went through the visitors of the room. The little man's eyes, on the other hand, began to shine, as if this was indeed the climax that he was waiting for.

'Onsse more, if you pleess,' the little man said, his voice contradicting his facial features, for he was emitting the curiously soft, toneless voice once more.

The boy's unwavering assurance that his lighter would not fail began to fail at that moment. His eyes moved frantically around the room, yet in an orderly manner that seemed as if he was watching two Olympic table-tennis players in the room. They skipped from the little man, to me, to the lighter, to the little man again, to his hand trapped on the table, and then finally, to the knife that the little man held just above his hand. He visibly paled then, the freckles on his chest standing out even more. His thumb skidded down the wheel. The knife lowered by a fraction, and the boy, seeing this, cried out, 'No, wait, wait, that wasn't a true turn!' The little man looked at him with those unbearable shiny eyes, and nodded. It was just a slight movement of the head, but it was enough for the boy to relax, and the veins that had suddenly popped out of his hand went back to normal.

The boy shook himself, looked at the girl, and then with a half-smile at me, he looked down to the lighter he held with the right hand and moved his thumb to the wheel. He brought it down, and at first I thought nothing had happened. Yet I saw the little spark of the flint and my voice echoed around the room, 'Nine!' while the small flame appeared.

The boy began muttering to himself, 'Only one more, one more, only one more…' and the little man began to grin in such a way that he was bearing his teeth at the boy without giving any feeling of warmness you usually experience when someone smiles at you. It reminded me very much of a carnivorous animal preparing itself for a meal.

The room suddenly warped into another dimension, where the time inside began to slow down. I saw the boy raise his thumb to the top of the wheel again. His thumb tensed, and subconsciously I took in a deep breath, acknowledging what would happen if the flint did not spark.

Suddenly there was a tinkle of glass, and the time warp shattered. The boy started, and looked immediately to me. We looked towards the girl, who had dropped her Martini and was now nursing bloody fingers that had been cut through squeezing the Martini glass a little too hard. The little man looked up at her, and then looked back to the boy's left hand, as if she was a little insignificant fly that had begun buzzing; he gave no sign of annoyance except his eyes began to dull into dark stones that were encased inside his head. I knew at that moment that there was no way to control what would happen if the boy's lighter did not hold true to his exaggerating boasts.

The air in the room began to tighten, as if dozens of rubber-bands were being stretched apart at the exact same moment. Yet instead of the twang, all you could hear was the boy's harried breath as his thumb moved to the wheel once more. He took a breath, And so did I. He brought his thumb down, and then there was a pause. And then the pause stretched for a moment longer.

It was so immediate; you didn't even see it happen. The little man brought the chopper down and with a horrendous sound of flesh and bone separating, the little finger of the boy's left hand thudded onto the table, now segregated from the rest of the body.

The girl fainted. I felt the same way, yet all I could do was stare at the little man. His smile could now only be described as triumphant, his dull eyes transforming into shiny holes in an instant.

'You loosst, I knew you woold. You Americans should not try make bet that you can nott keep. But dat iss over now. I take de finger now—'

'Wait.'

The boy, face now a shade of green, smiled thinly.

In fascinated horror, I looked down at his right hand. The pause after the tenth flick of the wheel had been only a misunderstanding. For coming out of the lighter was a small, wavering, yet assuredly there, flame.