In complete silence, he slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket and produced a small black moleskin notebook which he placed on the formica table beside his mobile phone. He then proceeded to retrieve a small pen-knife, a pack of nicotine gum and finally a black and gold fountain pen from his inside pocket, all placed side by side in a row in front of him. Each movement was slow and deliberate; part of his routine to create the right environment and to set the interviewee on edge.
He clasped his hands together in front of his mouth, closed his eyes and sighed.
“So,” he began, his eyes still closed, “despite what you may have heard, this is not the bit I enjoy.”
Randall shifted in his seat across the table. The room was comfortable enough – certainly there was no light shining in his eyes, or straps holding him down – but hearing the voice of his interrogator was enough to make the bravado he had demonstrated ever since they had brought him in slip into the cool evening air. While Randall certainly didn’t know the man sitting opposite, he did know of his reputation and that was quite enough to set him on edge.
“However,” the interrogator continued, after drawing a long breath, “I do have other personalities who do.”
His eyes sprang open and a smile cut across his face like a gutted fish.
Randall lost control of his bowels.