I am one man who never wears a mask. I don’t have to. I’m perfectly safe with the one face I bear. It is distinctive only in it’s ordinariness. The eyes have no definite colour. Sometimes they are like chips, splinters, of grey, blue-black stone hacked off a granite quarry. I have no one feature that stands out to distinguish me from the man on the street. Not a face that stands out in a crowd. But the sense of power I carry with me is felt by those who stare into the muzzle of my gun. It’s like a hot, suffocating wave of air that overwhelms and inundates them. No one has yet been able to pin anything on me. It’s because they never see me. Never hear me. It can’t be one of ours surely who was the brutal slayer, they say. The victims are the saviours of our land. Those who engage in such acts of terrorism, they think, are from that other distant part of the island, that Peninsula where the militants, the guerrillas, wage their unending conflict to divide the Motherland. Those men have know-how. Or else it’s that Subversive Group, the ‘misguided youth’ so easily identified.