In New York City, Edward the Fireman emerged from the subway into a high-class part of town. He thought about some more rock throwing, or a car-jacking. After all, if he did some time in the clink SHE might visit him. Kiss him through the bars. Write him dirty letters.

Every car seemed to be a cab though, and cabbies could get violent. And he’d left his gun at home.

Instead, he put a tape in his Walkman and walked into a fancy department store and started telling a sales assistant just what she could do with her so-called in-store credit card.

777

The New York police visited the daughter of the pharmaceutical CEO and told her it might be a good idea to vary the route she took to work each day. Tamy said she would do. She always did. She was disappointed that the police didn’t need to ask why anyone should want to kill her father.

776

Miles burst into the cramped dressing room.

“What the hell was that?” He was flustered from dealing with traumatized customers, many of whom had muttered darkly about suing him.

“It was my act.”

“You shot yourself.”

In one of his leisure moments John had found an obscure little course, run for theater professionals, which in a week taught him how to rig up stage pyrotechnics, fireworks and small explosions. It taught him about wiring and timing devices and suppliers of small incendiaries. It gave him a certificate at the end.

Working tirelessly in the rented house he shared with Emma, John had created a gory package consisting of stage blood, chopped liver, and lubricant jelly contained in a polyethylene bag. A number of small detonators were attached which, when triggered, would cause the package to explode. It sounded like a gunshot.

He’d experimented with various strengths of explosions and positionings, and various consistencies of gore, using many different ingredients. He’d pestered Emma for tidbits from work.

“No,” she’d said.

“Just a few leftovers,” he’d asked, “a bit of gristle, or an eyeball—an eyeball would be perfect.”

“Stop asking,” she’d shouted.

Quite a lot of money had been spent and his flat had looked like an abattoir by the end of the process, but the perfected effect, John believed, exactly duplicated the appearance of someone shooting their head off at close range.

He’d never seen anyone actually shoot their head off, of course, but he imagined if he did, it would look like this.

“Who’s going to pay for that backcloth? It’s ruined.”

“The jelly’s water-based. It’ll wipe off.”

Automatic learned response on hearing the words “You’re on” meant the big bearded comic had wandered dazed onto the stage. He hadn’t started his routine, he’d just managed to pick a bit of liver off the microphone.