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The psychiatrist stared at Brant. All round the office were signs that thanked you for not smoking.

The psychiatrist wore a tweed jacket with patches on the sleeves. He had limp, fair hair that fell into his eyes, thus causing him to flick it back every few seconds. This doctor was convinced he had Brant’s measure.

He was wrong.

Said:

‘Now, Sergeant, I’d like you to tell me again about your violent urges.’

For the interview, Brant had dressed down. Beaten bomber jacket, blue jeans on their last wash, a pair of Dockers he’d bought in New York. He hadn’t shaved and this gave his granite face a blasted sheen. Now, he reached in his jacket, extracted a pack of Weights and a Zippo. The lighter was as worn as Brant but barely legible was the inscription:

‘1968’

Brant, smiling at the memory, cranked it. A cloud of smoke rose.

The doctor said,

‘Sergeant, I must insist you extinguish that.’

Brant took a particularly deep drag. The type that sucked your cheeks till you resembled a skull. Blowing out, he said,

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