What I did was wrong: legally and morally, at least by your lights. But it was just.

I’ve never really thought of killing my father as murder. I had to put him down for the good of the pack. Hand on heart, I can honestly say I didn’t get any pleasure from doing it, beyond relief that I was up to the job. As I’ve said, you don’t know what you’re capable of till you’re put to the test. You could find out you’re a very different person from the one you’ve always imagined you are.

But I’d stepped up to the plate and got the job done. It was necessary and unpleasant, but I didn’t have the kind of destabilising last-minute qualm of conscience I’d feared. In fact it was surprisingly easy in the end. If we’re being honest, it didn’t trouble me any more than zapping a mosquito would bother you.

My moral code, such as it is, comes down to one simple concept.

Survival.

And the truth is, if you’d been in my shoes you’d probably have come to the same decision. The only difference between us is that you’d have agonised about it beforehand and felt guilty afterwards.

But if the outcome is the same, does that make you a better person than me? Or just a hand-wringing hypocrite?

Admittedly there was some collateral damage. That was unfortunate. But sometimes the innocent have to be sacrificed for the greater good. It’s not a choice anyone makes lightly, though of course for me it’s easier than for some.

And at least it was quick. He had a better death than some.

Honestly, it’s nice to be able to get everything off my chest like this. Confession is a wonderful thing, don’t you think? So freeing.

So you can trust me when I tell you I didn’t murder Felix Porter.

Because I’ve got no reason to lie to you.

And his death wasn’t quick at all. It was gruesome and slow and incredibly painful. You’ve all read the stories, and seen the news. You know what happened to him. I may be a psychopath but I’m not a sadist.

It’s interesting, by the way, how everyone loves to dwell on the gory details. You cover your eyes and you peep through your fingers, but you still look. You want to know all the grisly specifics. What you need, what you crave, is a nice bloodthirsty adrenaline rush at someone else’s expense.

Well, let me give that to you. I didn’t kill Felix Porter but I was there. And I can tell you he had a long, cruel, lingering death. He suffered.