Half-drunk on the operating table as an indifferent surgeon cuts a hole in his wrist, Victor Andrews contemplates his impending death with dread and sorrow. It’s not dying that makes him distraught, he reflects, but the idea that he may quit his life, after all these years, having understood little or nothing about it. A few deathbed jokes at his own expense will be in order, of course. But what will he be able to say about his life that is true, original, essential? Victor decides, if the doctors don’t kill him, to embark on a forensic investigation through the dimly-lit corridors of his mind in search of answers. Murder, love, sex, truth, beauty ... the inquisition must begin.