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prop and a tangible separation from her personal life, she only wore them when she was working.
     
       “Whichever beginning you want, it's up to you,” she said.
     
       “I'm not delusional Dr Mason,” he had sat up straight and was looking directly at her, or more accurately at the back of her notebook. She shuffled in her seat feeling extremely uncomfortable.
     
       “I never said that you were Mr Smith.”
     
       “No, of course not, you never said that Dr Mason,” for the first time he smiled at her, his eyes were, she noticed, piercingly bright and intense, it was as if he could look right through her.
     
      “Anyway,” he continued, “that's a story for another day,” he laughed, “except that there won't be another day so I’d better tell it today. Not another day for me anyway, and for a while at least, not for many of the lazy self-obsessed people who live in this filthy city. People who like to kill one another without a seconds’ thought. People who don’t value the great gift that they have been given, the gift of life, and take no responsibility for their actions at all.”
     
       “Dr Mason, do you mind if I show you something?” he asked.
     
       “No, not at all Mr Smith.”
     
       John Smith stood up, and she noticed that despite his bulk he moved rather like a ballet dancer, like a man who was completely in control of his entire body. He left the room briefly, returning with a small silver briefcase which resembled a professional camera case. Placing it carefully on the table he unclipped the catches and lifted the lid.
     
       Margaret couldn’t see what was in the case, and she was now more than slightly worried the man was after all clearly mad. This was not a professional diagnosis she knew, she grinned to herself when his back was turned, but he was absolutely nuts.
     
       “Damn!” she gasped. From the case John Smith had taken a large grey pistol. Her analytical brain recognised it from countless films as a Magnum 45. As the films said, it was the most powerful handgun in the world, and she wasn’t feeling lucky.
     
       “Mr Smith,” she said shifting uncomfortably, the room only had one exit, and he was now between her and it, “what the hell are you doing with that?”
     
       He turned, holding the gun confidently in his hand, he was clearly used to handling weapons. “I am sorry if I alarmed you Miss Mason, there is no need to worry, I mean you no harm, either by accident or design. I merely want to show you something amazing and tell you something unbelievable, and need you to believe it, so don't worry.”
     
       He reached into the case, and took out a long metal tube, which he screwed onto the end of the barrel, “we don't want to disturb the neighbours do we.”
     
       Without looking at her he returned to his seat with his now silenced pistol and sat down smoothly.     
     
       Margaret, didn’t move, she didn’t run nor she didn’t cry out, if she sat still and kept calm, she felt sure that she could talk him out of whatever he was planning.
     
       John looked at her, smiled and reached into his pocket, taking a bullet out he loaded the gun and without hesitation put it flat to his forehead and pulled the trigger.
     
      In the small room, despite the silencer the gun made a horrendous sound. It was not that it was loud, but the sound of a pistol fired into someone’s head was heavy with meaning and inherently sickening. There was a dull thumping noise as the bullet was pushed at high velocity into John Smith's skull. Margaret flinched, standing up and pulling away to avoid the blood splatters, which to her surprise never came.
     
      John Smith lowered the gun to the table, a bullet, squashed beyond recognition fell to the floor at his feet. He looked Dr Margaret Mason straight in the eye, “I am not delusional, schizophrenic, nor suffering from a God complex, but I am much certainly far more than human, I am