His hands on the wheel were slippery with perspiration, his fingers antsy and trembling. Sweat trickled down his temples and into his hair. He had to force himself to keep his speed down in the quiet suburban streets. His brain kept replaying the terrible sound of the front door opening, and every time his heart constricted in panic again. Fear was staking out its familiar territory inside him, and he struggled against it, moaning as he drove. He was on the dock road before he felt his breathing return to normal. For the first time since he had started his campaign, he had been directly confronted with the dangers of his chosen path. And he didn’t like it one bit.

Not that that was any reason to stop, he told himself. What he needed now was to take his mind off his panic. What he needed was a woman. He slowed down as he approached a row of bars, their dim lights yellow against the night. He’d find what he wanted here. He’d take some bitch and fuck her till the light came back.

Case Notes

Name: Case Notes Margarethe Schilling

Session Number: 1

Comments: The patient has a god complex. She believes she has the divine right to undermine and destroy the legitimate beliefs of others in the interests of furthering her own status. She lacks all sense of proportion.

Her value system is hopelessly skewed by her erroneous belief in her own infallibility. Nevertheless, she seeks to impose her own world view on others and refuses to accept the possibility that she is wrong.

She is clearly overcompensating for an unacknowledged sense of inferiority. Like many professional females, she fails to recognize her innate weaknesses compared to males and reacts to this by seeking to castrate them psychologically.

Therapeutic Action: Altered state therapy initiated.

Chapter 18

18

Tadeusz crossed the pavement and climbed into the back seat of the black Mercedes. If any of his neighbours had seen him, they might have wondered at his appearance. Instead of his usual immaculate and expensive surface, he was dressed in old moleskin trousers, battered work boots, an ex-army parka covering a thick fisherman’s sweater. But nobody wore Armani for an afternoon’s rough shooting, which was exactly how he planned to spend the rest of the day.

Darko Krasic lounged in the opposite corner of the rear seat. He wore a scarred leather jerkin over a padded plaid shirt whose tails hung over corduroy trousers so old the raised wales were rubbed flat on the surface of the thighs. ‘Good day for it,’ he said.