At this moment, he is still behind. Only 235 kills to his name. But he has been standing here for a while, gazing down the Thames, admiring the Tower of London, and watching eight of his patients enter the bridge and pay their fee to die.

240 – Fighter. Who thought he was seeing Dr Rossi.

239 – Au Pair. Who believed she was confiding in Dr Erickson.

237 – Broker. Who complained of a life unfulfilled to Dr Milton.

There is no Rossi. No Milton. No Erickson. That wouldn’t work. That wouldn’t count. Artaud said that. It’s in the manifesto. Keep other people out of it. Confide in nobody. It minimises the possibility of mistakes.

This is one man’s vision of a better world and he is here to enjoy the finale.

Black cabs cross over the bridge and people walk from one side to the other fixed to their phone screens yet somehow avoiding walking into the person opposite. So many people have white ear plugs screwed into their ears or giant headphones that cover the ear and block out any sound from the outside world. Sure, everyone is multi-tasking but they’re all so disconnected.

Artaud can empathise with the appeal of mass killings. Take out everyone on the bridge in one go. Bomb it or hide in a window and pick them off with a gun, one by one. But there’s no longevity in that approach. It’s a one-time deal. It’s always the event that gets the headline, rather than the shooter.

He sucks on his cigar and it feels like a lifeline rather than the thing that is killing him. He looks up. He’s the only one doing that, for now. Nobody even notices him. He’s been invisible for so long now that he can walk among the people and remain unseen.

A double-decker bus passes by. And a police car.

You could take me now and it would make no difference.

The doctor moves towards the centre of the bridge so that he has the best view of the walkways. He brings his blood-spotted handkerchief to his mouth as he coughs. This had to happen now. It had to be this many people. Otherwise it was all for nothing.

He knows they are close. That they are up there following the ideas he manipulated into their minds. Coercively massaging the darkest of thoughts to the forefront. Playing with their fears and anxieties and using them to do his bidding.

People will speculate afterwards about hypnosis. It is not hypnosis. It is not hypnotism. That is what they will think. It is much easier to understand something like that; it is simpler for the mind to comprehend that a person can be placed into a trance by waving a pocket watch in front of their eyes and speaking in long, whispery words. The easy conclusion is that Artaud could place somebody into a mental state where he could make them bark like a dog if he wanted. He could make them undress or impersonate Elvis.