pretendy-pop, it was no wonder he couldn't find anyone with the musical intelligence to understand what he was trying to do. He wrote his university years off, filed under 'Wrong place, wrong time', and set his sights on a more metropolitan future. He intended to head south and take whatever job would pay the bills, subsistence living while he honed his playing, developed his ideas and assembled the right personnel.

But that was reckoning without his dad dying a few weeks before his finals, the true state of the family finances emerging literally in the wake. With the onus on him and him alone to save his mum from losing the house and ending up in some council high-rise concentration camp, he was forced into the previously unthinkable endeavour of applying his degree in the job market.

He had undertaken a BSc in Geography and Earth Sciences because it was the subject he'd been best at (and symbiotically most interested in) at school, but there had been absolutely no vocational aspect to it. These days, he knew, university courses were increasingly focused on specific careers, whereas back then there was still an ethic of 'learning for its own sake', even if that did translate in practice into 'learning for the sake of annual metriculation and thus renewal of the cheap-drink season ticket that was student union membership'. His degree, like most, didn't specifically qualify him for much other than further study, but that hardly mattered because at no point had he ever really imagined his studies leading to a job. The term 'career' for him was going to be something measured in albums and tours, not appointments and promotions. And he didn't even joke about ending up a teacher, unlike those other sad bastards who could obviously see further down the tracks than they'd care to admit.

211.

However, when he suddenly found himself having to join the eager hopefuls at the 'Milk Round', he was grateful that the substantial Geology part of his degree did open a few doors. Unfortunately, they were all situated on the front of grey granite buildings in 'Europe's Oil Capital'.

He had tried to look on the bright side. A proper job with proper wages meant that he'd be able to afford some decent kit, even after the slice he'd have to send south. Maybe he'd be surprised and find some willing musical collaborators up there, where they might be grateful to have someone among them with fresh ideas instead of all looking out for the next bandwagon to leap on. Besides, it would just be for a while, until he could get things on an even keel.

Yeah right.

'Just for a while': Death's opening chat-up line in His great seduction, before He drugged you with soporific comforts, distracted you with minor luxuries and ensnared you with long-term payment plans. Join the Rat Race 'just for a while'. Concentrate on your career 'just for a while'. Move in with your girlfriend 'just for a while'. Find a bigger place, out in the burbs 'just for a while'. Lie down in that wooden box 'just for a while'.The light wasn't quite ready to fade by the time they arrived, so Simon pulled the Espace off the road under cover of some trees and waited. An inventory passed some of the time, though he knew May's equipment-check was merely an exercise in going through the motions. He wouldn't have left the farmhouse if he wasn't one hundred per cent sure everything was operational. Inflating the mini-dinghy killed another few minutes, after which there was more uncomfortable silence, punctuated occasionally by redundant questions confirming technical and logistical 212.

details they had already long since worked out, serving only to emphasise the growing tension. It would pass when they had work to do, but it was hard going in the meantime. By the time darkness finally began to fall, Simon was about five minutes off starting a game of 'I Spy'.

They crossed the road and got changed into their wetsuits at the waterside, hitting the floor any time a set of headlights approached. The first one came by when they were both down to their underwear.

'If somebody stops, we'll have to pretend we're shagging, okay?' Simon told May. He looked back, confused and horrified until Simon laughed to let him know he was kidding.

'I'd die of the shame. Rather go to jail,' May said.

'Didn't know you were so uptight that way.'

'I'm not. It's getting seen with someone as ugly as you that I'd never live down.'

'Aye, right. You couldn't pull me in your dreams, pal.'

The smiles were wiped off both their faces when they had to get wet before pulling their rubbers on, northern European waters being less than inviting on a September evening.

'Next job has to be in the Med/ May muttered.

'That's a given.'

May placed the plastic crate containing his gear into the inflatable and pushed it away from the shore as he waded in behind it. The bridge was a two-hundred-yard swim away, on the other side of a small outcrop which masked the moonlit-glinting waves from the road. It spanned two spiked inlets that otherwise would have forced the road against the steep hillside, the waters plunging deep only a few feet from the edge, following the same sharp gradient from the summit to the abyss. The shoreline was jagged through much of the long, snaking, narrow valley, scars of the glacier that had carved it.

213.

Unlike most of the rudimentary and frequently ancient pontoons you'd expect to find in such rural spots, this one was a sturdy and modern affair, one of several erected on this route to accommodate the abnormally large vehicles used in constructing the target. The bridges had to be built so that it could be built. Kind of appropriate then, that demolishing one should be a necessary overture.

They worked slowly and carefully, torchlight supplementing the rippling reflected illuminations of what might accurately be described as a Bomber's Moon. May asked for tools and components like he was the surgeon, Simon supplying them like the admiring assistant. Water splashed around their waists, the inflatable bobbing gently next to them, lapping sounds echoing around the sheltered inlet. The buzz was growing, and it felt good, really good. He'd been right. The tension was gone, transmuted into exquisite adrenaline by the purifying sacrament of action. It was always exciting, always, but this one... this one felt special. This one felt like a homer, with a personal edge to the thrill that he hadn't experienced since his amateur days.

Back then there was this sense of infinite possibility, the feeling that he could hold the power of life or death over anyone: from the prick who'd just ruined his day to an unknown face in a magazine. And acting on that impulse was an exhilaration that started in your toes and ended in the stars. Better than sex? Please. He'd had wanks that were better than sex; he'd had shites that were better than sex. It was obviously the 'ultimate experience' yardstick of people who didn't get much. Oh make no mistake, sex could be good, it could be great, it could even be worth some of the conversations you had to endure before you got it; and then it was over, and you just wanted to be somewhere else, or more accurately you wanted her to be 214.

somewhere else. The LDB, in one of his more lucid and perceptive moments, compared it to the curse of the mortal condition: in sex (for the male at least), what you work towards, strive towards, crave and desire is in itself the end. Death comes in spurts.

Standing on a stage, facing a mic, hands on an electric guitar, singing a song you'd written - even with three numpties backing you up and a hundred fucking yahoos out front - was way better than the best sex he'd ever had. Why else would The Stones be touring into their dotage when they had enough money, power and kudos to have a different sixteen-year-old sliding up and down their poles each hour, every hour for the rest of their lives? But nothing - nothing - could compare with the feeling that electrified every molecule in his body when he was doing what he now knew he did best.

The first time was . . . well, the first time; better than sex, but not unlike it. Same as that first shag, it was unforgettable in every detail but hardly a masterclass in panache or technique, and too clouded by fear, anxiety and the consequences of it going wrong to actually be enjoyable. In his case it was also too personal, too coloured by emotion for the physicality of the act itself to transcend its deeper meaning. The best sex, like the best killing, was with someone who didn't mean everything to you, but didn't mean nothing either; though as a matter of preference he would always choose the latter. Too personal and it could feel a little squalid: rank with the self-disgust that followed getting what you had wanted just a little too much. When it was utterly impersonal you could concentrate more on the moment and your own desires rather than worrying about what the other person was feeling. But it was at its best when it was just personal enough.

215.

Like fine wines, it was difficult to choose a favourite: so many different flavours, nuances, memories, associations, and the fickle palate could revise its evaluations at each time of asking. However, there were certain vintages that would always make the list, such as Jeremy Watson- Bellingham. That one brought a smile to his face every time. He'd deserved to die just for the fucking name alone, but there was more, so much more. It wasn't murder, it was a selfless, public-spirited civic gesture that in a more civilised society would have earned Simon some initials after his name, as opposed to a life sentence.

'Jeremy Watson-Bellingham. JWB. Judgement. Wisdom. Brains. Jump With the Ball. Job? Work Better. And that's what I'm going to help all of you do.'

Tit.

'Your name, sir?'

'Simon. Simon Darcourt.'

'Simon Darcourt. SD. Stand Defiant. Strength and Diligence. Super Dynamic. And yours, madam?'

'Helen Woods.'

'Helen Woods. HW. Hard Worker. Heading Way up. Hopefully We can achieve great things together this weekend. All right!'

Tit. Tit. Tit.

JWB. Jobbie. Wank. Bawhair.

The occasion: Sintek Energy's annual conference weekend. The location: Craig Dearg Hydro Hotel, Deeside. The Tit: a management consultant and 'Motivational Guru', into whose hands the company had delivered its staff for an inhumane twenty-four hours, along with fairly unambiguous impressions of what would happen to anyone who didn't participate with maximum enthusiasm.

The introductions were just the beginning of the ordeal, 216.

his 'preparation for self-empowerment through harnessing just a tiny part of the power within the self: viz, glib wee phrases that abbreviated to more or less the same letters as your name. As 'preparations' went, it ranked alongside having Vaseline smeared liberally around your ring by a guy with a sack full of ferrets.

'Initials. Beginnings. We're beginning. We're initialising. Initialising the system, prepping for ignition, counting down to blast-off. And that system is you.'

The guy got paid a fucking mint for this.

Throughout one of the longest and most excruciating afternoons anyone ever endured without anaesthetic, he subjected them to an interminable, audio-visually enhanced lecture, the crux of which appeared to be that greater dynamism and efficiency lay via the simple expedient of using new verbs that had previously led an unmolested existence as nouns. Simon had previously heard words such as 'action' and 'showcase' bashed forcibly into this unintended use like square pegs through round holes, but had until then been unaware that one could 'simultaneously desktop multiple homogenised throughput channels' (take more orders), or even 'striplight retro-referenced identifiers' (no idea, but the Tit was looking at the girl who booked ad space, if that helped).

Even dinner provided no respite. Before they could all head off for a change of clothes and a desperate ramraid on the mini-bar, the Tit produced a suitcase from underneath his table and dished out these huge sparkly silver wigs. He ordered that they be worn from then until midnight as a 'team-building exercise', though he declined to elaborate on how a sense of comradeship and a commonality of purpose was likely to be engendered by spending the evening looking like a twat or picking strands of tinsel out of your dinner.

217.

When they sat down to eat, all obediently be-wigged like reluctant delegates to a Glam Rock convention, they discovered placecards between the cutlery, bearing what looked worryingly like lyrics. Sure enough, before any of them got even so much as a sniff of a prawn cocktail, JWB, Jumbo Wig Bastard, was demanding they all stand to attention and join in 'the Sintek power-chant', accompanied by a beatbox routed through the dining room's PA system.'Okay one-two-three. Sin-tek En-er-gy!

There for you and me. Sin-tek En-er-gy!

Oil from the North Sea. Sin-tek En-er-gy!

Okay one-two-three. Sin-tek En-er-gy!'Seriously.

And it got worse. They were told to turn over their place- cards, finding the reverse blank, and instructed to each compose a rap by the end of the meal. Following the postprandial coffees, the chanting was to be reprised, with each chorus followed by an individual contribution, cued by the circulation of a cordless mic. Then just in case anyone was misled as to how hideous it was going to be, Jazzmaster White Boy pumped up the volume and gave them an example.'Well here I am, my name is Je-re-mee, And my game is enhanced ee-fish-en-see.

I'm the man with the plan, sim-ply the best, And I'm teachin' you the secrets of success.

So follow my lead, har-ness the power, And this could be your finest hour.

Okay one-two-three. Ev'rybody! Sin-tek En-er-gy!'

218.

To fully appreciate the impact, you really had to be able to see this balding little fatso, sporting the only syrup in the room more embarrassing than the proliferating silver ones, and to hear his nasally supercilious public school accent. Also, for a guy undoubtedly pulling down six figures, you'd have thought the cunt could afford some deodorant.

There were people at Simon's table praying for food poisoning. The meal wasn't up to much anyway, but it tasted of nothing with their thoughts so occupied by the coming horror and their appetites so ruined by the ordure of the task in hand.

The ordeal itself was a bit like being a female prisoner- of-war during a systematic mass-rape. You wanted to avert your eyes and cover your ears so as not to witness your fellow victim's humiliation, already aware of how hard it was going to be to look at each other when this was over.

The Tit got them all clapping their hands as the chant started up again - Okay one-two-three CLAP. Sin-tek En- er-gy CLAP - then repeated his own rap before passing the mic on at the next chorus. The first up was an utter fanny from the personnel department, Grant Hughes, who (difficult as this was to believe) actually made it worse for everybody by being enthusiastic, swaying as he, er, rapped, and throwing in the occasional 'yeah'. Mainly, though, the verses were delivered in mortified mumbling, eyes fixed firmly on the placecard, small smiles of relief on each face as the mic was lifted from his or her hands. Alice McGhee from sales burst into tears one line into her rap, dropped the mic on the table and ran from the room, too distressed to remember she was still wearing the silver wig.

Simon's own contribution was instantly purged from his memory, though nothing could erase the residual sense of embarrassment and boiling fury. It was easier to banish the 219.

words than the emotions, and to this day he could still feel a tightening in his guts any time he recalled standing there in front of everybody, sparkly locks bouncing around his face and that fucking beatbox thumping in his ears. And etched permanently in his memory was the sight of Just Won't Bugger-off dancing next to him, jabbing the air with a side-on fist like he must have seen on VH1, going 'ooh ooh' in the background and 'Aw yeah!' after every line.

Obviously, he had to die.

Simon found out where the Tit, or rather his company, M Power, were going to be torturing SSC wage-slaves over the coming weeks, setting his sights on a date in Glasgow a fortnight hence. He had long since sorted himself out with a new credit card under a false name, and booked himself into the hotel that was hosting this latest crime against humanity in the name of ViaGen Pharmaceuticals. Simon had also, by this point, acquired a gun and a silencer, but where was the fun in that? The appropriate tools of the trade for this occasion were therefore purchased at Tam Shepard's joke shop in Queen Street, and at M&S round the corner.

Simon checked in after doing his shopping, popping his head round the door of the hotel's main conference suite to confirm that Jumped-up Wee Bawbag was in da house. Sure enough, there he was, coordinating the 'raft game' that had been Sintek Energy's pleasure on the Sunday morning. It involved everybody kneeling down in a square formation, pretending to row an imaginary raft down an imaginary stream while he threw figurative obstacles into their way: 'the dead tree trunk of indecision', 'the boulders of complacency', 'the floating corpse of a wee baldy fat guy'.

Simon treated himself to an excellent a la carte meal in the hotel restaurant, the leftovers of which would probably go into the mass-catering table d'hote in the function suites.

220.

After that he retrieved his briefcase from his room and had a seat in one of the public lounges, close enough to the ViaGen suite to hear the rap get underway. Through a gap between the partially open double doors he could see silver wigs bobbing to the beat, and the repetition even extended to a distraught female exiting at speed shortly after, makeup streaked with tears, giant pom-pom still stuck on her head.

Simon waited until he saw the Tit heading for the lift, content that his work for the evening was done and that the process of empowerment was well underway. If it was anything like the Sintek do, now that the annoying little fucker had vacated the room, everyone left would rapidly become too empowered to stand up. He gave it a few minutes, then went to one of the lobby telephones and asked to be put through to the Tit's room.

'Hello, Mr Watson? . . . Bewington?'

'Watson-Bellingham,' he replied testily.

'My apologies. It's the handwriting on this thing. This is Guest Services. We've just received a package for you by courier.'

'Oh, right. I'll come down and-'

"That's not necessary, sir. I'll send someone up with it right away. You're in room 432, yes?'

'Ye ... No. 432? I'm in 327.'

'327? Are you sure?'

'Well it's my room, isn't it?'

'I'm sorry, you're absolutely right. 432's flashing on the switchboard here, got me confused. Your package will be there in two minutes.'

"Thank you.'

'A pleasure, sir.'

He took the predictably deserted stairs to the third floor, 221.

avoiding any potential witnesses in the lifts, then checked the corridor was clear before knocking on door 327. The Tit answered in his trousers and semmit. Simon could hear water running in the bathroom behind him.

'Jeremy Watson-Bellingham?'

'That's me. JWB. Just Wunning a Bath. Ahahaha. You have something for me?'

'Oh yes.'

Simon stuck his gun into the Tit's mouth and pushed him backwards into the room, kicking the door closed behind him with his heel.

'Any noise you make will be your last, you understand?'

The Tit nodded rapidly, eyes bulging almost out of his skull in fear and surprise.

'You cooperate and this will all be over in no time, okay?'

More eager nodding. He was also, Simon realised, gesturing towards his wallet, which lay on the tabletop next to the TV.

'Oh no, don't worry. I'm not a thief.'

The sad sack actually looked relieved.

Simon flipped open his briefcase and removed a pair of tights and a small plastic Teletubby. He withdrew the silencer from JWB's mouth and replaced it with the doll, then secured it by tying the tights behind his head.

'Say "Ah".'

'Mmmff mmm.'

'That's perfect. Now, get undressed.'

The Tit furrowed his brow, possibly thinking about defiance. Simon kicked him in the balls, dropping him to the floor, then knelt down next to him.

'You are going to cooperate, right? I'm not going to have to do that again, am I, JWB? Just Walloped Bollocks?'

The Tit shook his head, tears leaking from both eyes. He 222.

climbed tentatively to his feet and removed his clothes as quickly as his throbbing nads would allow, stopping at his Y-fronts. Simon gestured with the gun, and they came off too.

'Very good. Now put these on.'

He handed the Tit a pair of stockings and sussies, the look on the guy's face getting more and more priceless with each development. Simon turned off the bath taps while the Tit sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on the stockings, the poor mite struggling a little with the suspenders, which were at ninety degrees to the correct position.