When you’re an artist the calibre of myself, it becomes apparent that if you end the life of a defenceless, horrified being, that is completely certain in the knowledge they are going to die – and thus has no more hold on life, you aren’t committing murder. You aren’t killing anything. You got to give them hope. If they know they have no chance, they’re not gonna miss it – but if you mask the fact that they’ve met their maker, somehow pull a veil over that part of the brain that has realised and accepted the end, if you put that little bit of hope back into their souls – that one fleeting thought that they might make it out alive; and then you eviscerate that thought, rip it to shreds and toss those shreds of tattered hope across the room like the glowing stub of a cigarette, then it means something. Then you’re a murderer. Then, you’re an artist, a magician – and a great magician never tells his secrets.

The lights rush back to me and I’m thrown into reality once more.

“I’m giving you one more chance, Mr Davinchi. Where were you at 12:17pm on the day of April 14th?!” I look up from my damp, wooden chair at the volatile police officer before me, and end my futile struggle against the straight jacket. I’m smiling broadly. One more chance… I have one more chance – he’s putting the hope back inside me. “Well officer, I find no comment to be a fascinating phrase – I keep finding it useful – again and again.” A grim, silent pause. The harsh light ceases its flickering.