Apart from the area which made up the studio floor, the entire cavervous room was in darkness. Kelly saw rows and rows of people before her, their attention directed towards the four men who sat in front of them.
She caught sight of Blake.
The doorman ushered her towards an empty seat near the back of the studio where she settled herself, mouthing a silent Thankyou’ to him as he slipped away. A man seated in front of her turned and looked at her briefly before returning his attention to the discussion being conducted by the four men.
Kelly glanced around the studio.
Cameras moved silently back and forth. She saw a man with headphones hunched close to the interviewer, a clipboard clutched in his hand. He was counting off seconds with his fingers, motioning a camera forward as one of the four
men seated amidst the modest set spoke.
Blake was seated between the interviewer and an elderly priest who was having trouble with a long strand of grey hair which kept falling over his forehead.
He brushed it back each time he spoke but, within seconds, the gossamer tentacle had crept back to its original position.
Arc lights burned brightly, pinpointing the men in their powerful beams while sausage-shaped booms were lowered carefully by the sound engineers, all of whom were intent on staying out of camera shot. The sound was coming through loud and clear but Kelly seemed not to hear it. Her gaze was riveted to Blake who was in the process of pouring himself some water from the jug on top of the smoked-glass table before him. He smiled cordially at a remark made by the old priest and sipped his drink.
Kelly watched him, unable to take her eyes from the writer’s slim frame. She heard his name spoken then his voice filled the studio.
‘In the course of my work I’ve come across all manner of religions, each one as valid as the next,’ he said.
‘But you mentioned voodoo earlier,’ the old priest reminded him. ‘Surely you can’t class that as a religion?’
‘It’s the worship of a God or a set of Gods. As far as I’m concerned that makes it a religion.’
‘Then you could say the same about witchcraft?’ the priest countered.
‘Why not?’ Blake said. ‘The deities worshipped by witches were thought to be powerful in their own right. A God doesn’t have to be benevolent to be worshipped.’
‘Do you have any religious beliefs yourself, Mr Blake?’ asked the interviewer.
‘Not in God and the Devil as we know them, no,’ the writer told him.
Kelly sat motionless, watching him, her eyes filling with tears once more. She touched the Magnum inside her handbag but, somewhere deep inside her, she knew that she could not use the weapon. What she should be feeling for Blake was hatred but, in fact, she felt feelings of love as strong for him now as she had ever known. Could this man really be evil? This man she felt so much for?
‘What do you believe in then?’ the interviewer asked Blake.
i believe that there is a force which controls everyone’s lives but I don’t believe that it comes from a God of any description,’ the writer said. ‘It comes from here.’ He prodded his own chest.
‘Don’t you, in fact, use this theory in your forthcoming book?’ the interviewer said. ‘This idea of each of us having two distinct sides to our nature. One good, one evil.’
‘That’s hardly an original concept,’ said the psychiatrist, haughtily. ‘Surely every religion in the world, in history, has revolved around the struggle between good and evil.’
‘I agree,’ said Blake. ‘But never before has it been possible to isolate the evil side of man and make it a tangible force independent from the rest of the mind.’
Kelly shuddered, her mind suddenly clearing as if a veil had been drawn from it.
She slid one hand inside her handbag, her fist closing around the butt of the .357. She slowly eased back the hammer, glancing around furtively to see if anyone else had noticed the metallic click.
There was a man standing directly behind her.
He wore a short sleeved white shirt and dark trousers and, Kelly caught a quick glimpse of the badge pinned to his chest: SECURITY.
She took her hand off the Magnum and hurriedly turned to face the studio floor once again, her heart beating madly against her ribs.
She glanced at Blake.
A camera was moving closer towards him.
She realized the time had come.
‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ the interviewer asked, smiling.
Blake looked into the camera.
‘Everyone can be made to commit acts normally abhorrent to them,’ he said.
The camera zoomed in on him.
Kelly allowed her hand to slip back inside the handbag, and, once more, she gripped the revolver. She could hear the low breathing of the security guard behind her but she realized that she had no choice.
She began to ease the gun slowly from its place of concealment.
Behind her, the security man moved and Kelly swallowed hard as she heard his footsteps gradually receding. The next time she saw him he was a good fifty feet away, to the left of the studio’s set. Kelly watched him for a moment longer then turned her attention back to Blake.
He was staring into the camera, motionless in his chair.
The other three men looked at him in bewilderment and, after a minute or so of silence, some impatient mutterings began to ripple through the audience but Blake merely sat as he was, his eyes fixed on the camera as if it were a snake about to strike him.
The cameraman was not the only one in the studio to feel as if iced water had been pumped through his veins. He shivered.
Kelly too felt that freezing hand grip her tightly but the tears which ran down her cheeks were warm.
She could not take her eyes from Blake and now the cold seemed to be intensifying, growing within her until it was almost unbearable.
She slid the Magnum from her handbag and stood up, holding the gun at arm’s length, fixing Blake hurriedly in the sights.
The man in front of her turned and opened his mouth to shout a warning.
From the studio floor, the security guard spotted her. He raced towards her, his eyes fixed on the gleaming Magnum.
The noise was thunderous.
As Kelly squeezed the trigger, the .357 roared loudly. The savage recoft nearly knocked her over and she winced as the butt smashed against the heel of her hand. The Magnum bucked violently in her grip as it spat out the heavy grain bullet. The barrel flamed brilliant white for precious seconds and, in that blinding illumination, members of the audience dived for cover, most of them unaware of what had made the deafening blast.
The bullet hit the floor and drilled a hole the size of a fifty pence piece in the hard surface.
Kelly fired again.
The second shot shattered the smoked glass table in front of Blake who turned and looked up into the audience, the muzzle flash catching his eye. Shards of glass sprayed in all directions and the old priest yelped in pain as one laid open his cheek. He felt himself being pulled to one side by the psychiatrist.
Blake rose, his arms outstretched.
The writer presented a much bigger target and, this time, Kelly didn’t miss.
Moving at a speed of over 1,430 feet a second, the heavy grain slug hit him squarely in the chest. It shattered his sternum and tore through his lung before erupting from his back, blasting an exit hole the size of a fist. Lumps of grey and red viscera splattered the flimsy set behind him and Blake was lifted off his feet by the impact. He crashed to the floor and rolled over once, trying to drag himself away, but Kelly fired once more.
The next bullet hit him in the side, splintering his pelvis, decimating the liver as it ripped through him.
He clapped one hand to the gaping wound as if trying to hold the blood in. His chest felt as if it were on fire
