He has this mental picture — a picture of a gun.

At first it is indistinct; a pistol, a rifle, a machine gun? He doesn’t know; only that it will project a missile.

He can see the projectile leaving the muzzle. It is in slow motion, deadly, unstoppable — twirling slowly on its axis — the blunted cone full of malice. It goes off into the distance — seeking its target.
But the gun… He has the sense of blued steel, of precision milled surfaces sliding effortlessly on fine oil. His imagination is now kinetic. He feels himself cocking the weapon, drawing back the bolt mechanism, hearing the click as the sear engages. Mentally he hefts the weapon. It feels military; it is either an automatic rifle or a light machine gun.

Mentally, he examines the ammunition. It is a heavy calibre, full metal jacket. Teflon coated to penetrate body armour. It will wreak havoc when it enters the body.
But whose body? His mind shies away from the question. He doesn’t dare.
“Henry! Come here at once. Do I have to do everything myself? Hurry up. We don’t have all day!”
“Yes dear. Coming dear.” And he hurries away, his mind carrying the gun.

© H.St V.Beechey 2005