God! thought Lucy, it was just like one of those films, where the heroine is captured by the serial killer-rapist and yet finds herself strangely drawn to him. 'What am I thinking about?!' Lucy suddenly brought herself up short. 'Aaaaaah! Aaargh!' Screaming really seemed the only sensible alternative.

'Didn't you hear what I said?' The Killer-Rapist was now glaring into her eyes once again. Lucy felt her bowels go soft with fear and her breath grew even scarcer than it was. 'There is a bomb. I have to find the bomb.'

Lucy went quiet, and thought about this. A bomb was clearly not good news.

The murderer returned to his victim and continued examining his pockets - of which there were rather a lot. Scraliontis had always been an expensive dresser, and you could always reckon on his suits having more pockets than anyone else's - that being the fashion of the day.

'Suffering supernovae!' thought The Journalist, I've never seen so many pockets!'

'Why are you doing that?' Lucy surprised herself with the steadiness of her voice.

'I'm looking to see if he's got a plan or anything to show where the bomb is,' said The Journalist.

'Why should he have?' asked Lucy.

'Stop asking questions,' snapped The Journalist.

'I just asked why?'

'Because he planted the bomb.'

'Oh,' said Lucy. 'Thank you.' And then thought:

'Why on Earth am I being polite to someone who's just about to kill me? Maybe even rape me first! Or maybe he isn't.' Maybe there were mitigating circumstances. Maybe the Psychopath wasn't a psychopath? Maybe he was a caring family man with a flair for initiating excitement, who was resourceful in danger and yet prepared to submit to the will of a strong and loving woman...

'Is that why you killed him?' Lucy felt surprisingly childish asking the question. 'Because he planted the bomb?'