Interview - Stage Four

Back in the car they were both silent for about ten minutes.

"Your next set of instructions will be delivered by post."

"What do you mean? They're dead. You got what you wanted."

"No... you're mine now. You kill for me."

"Get out of the fucking car."

The cop said nothing.

"Get out of the fucking car."

"You don't understand..."

"No. You don't understand. You can't come back with me."

Too risky. Too suspicious. Of course.

As he drove off, the grey haze descended. He reached down the side of the door, but the cigarettes were on the passenger's side. He lit one as he walked into the lounge. No lights, not even the television. Just a little firefly burning itself to death. As he smoked, the grey haze thickened and he began to feel very tired. This wasn't supposed to...

*

They were all there. The cop and the dead men. Together.

"Had a feeling we'd be seeing you again..."

Traitor. Aura of grey around them, the suspect shifted, uneasy.

"Uncomfortable?"

A shiver, like a harbinger of voltage to come. He didn't need to reply. He couldn't speak, wondering if it was adrenaline or fear causing the shaking. A knife wasn't going to be enough this time. One on one he'd have a chance. No, he told himself... only one of these men is alive... this isn't a fair fight...

How do you kill a dead man?

"It's time..."

The suspect shifted again. Clearly there was no requirement to respond.

"You killed my daughter."

So this was what it was about. Grey disappeared.

"You never had a daughter."

"Yeah, because you killed her."

"No... there never was a daughter..."

The suspect didn't understand where the words were coming from. He'd been silent. The dead men had turned on the cop. A simple rule: never turn your back on your enemy. The knife flashed in the dark, and two slashes ripped the dead men's throats in half. Clean, quick, ruthless.

Manifesto update.

The writer sees himself as an emotional, and possibly (depending on scale and ambition) even social alchemist. In reality he is often a blind thing stumbling in the dark rather than the powerful wizard he imagines himself to be.

Part of the problem lies in the reality that the writer does not (and cannot) know the minds of his audience. His spells cast through his musical magical language... may not have the desired effect. Indeed, they may even be aimed at the wrong people, in the wrong way. Even if it does work, how does the writer know it's going to work on the right person (or people)? It may also affect people the writer doesn't want to reach.

So, even if you're guaranteed of getting the right person? Do you know how they'll be affected? What about their own will? Are you working with it, alongside it? Or against it? With power comes the necessity of responsibility. Do you use it or abuse it? This is something we need to learn.

Interview - Stage Three

Hitting the brakes, he threw the cigarette out of the window, having smoked less than half. Careless to be so wasteful... "I'll get over it," he thought. Already several yards further on as he exited the car, he didn't bother to go back to put out the cigarette. It burned out quietly. He'd left the pack in the car. No need to buy any more, he was almost at the agreed meeting point.

It was different this time. He was still nervous. Corpse locked in the boot of the car was reason enough. The lighter was also in the car. He'd been told it would feel like this. A low, empty feeling in his stomach began to consume his thoughts. All was enveloped in grey, dull monotone, and the earth felt like ash beneath his feet. The whisper came.

"Is everything ready?"

Nodding assent, he led the officer to the car. Driving off, the officer told him to keep the radio off.

"You recognise me yet?"

The voice had been familiar, but now the blindfold had been removed, the grey haze was lifting.

"You... you're my doctor..."

The officer smiled.

"Yes, now drive to the agreed point."

A few reminders were necessary, as the instructions had been a little more complex this time.

"I trust you have the body..."

"Naturally."

The agreed point turned out to be a cemetery.

"Perfect place to dispose of a body..."

He dragged the body from the car and passed the officer a shovel.

"I'm not here to reminisce, start digging."

"I'm impressed with your work. Very clean, very quick. Ruthless."

"You heard what I said. Dig."

It started to rain. A little too late to make the digging easier.

"You got one of the secrets..."

The suspect said nothing. They dumped the body.

"I switched some of your painkillers with what are essentially pain amplifiers..."

"I know, a control thing."

The officer began to shovel earth onto the body.

"You missed the other one..."

The officer looked up.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm not a cop."

It stopped raining.