Page 15 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

I shook my head, and he sighed.

“Well, if I can’t tempt you away from your corner, I’ll wish you a goodnight. It was... a pleasure to meet you, Emma. Really, it was.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you too.”

He smiled, then turned and walked away, and a little voice inside my head screamed, ‘What the hell are you doing, Emma? Call him back. Go and sit with him’, but I didn’t.

Instead, I stood there with my jumbled thoughts, wondering what the fuck had just happened. And why a man like him had taken the time to get to know me tonight.

I slid the peony inside my handbag and put my bag on the floor. Then I glanced around, discreetly trying to find Alex in the crowd, but I couldn’t see him. It was as if he’d disappeared into the night.

Would I ever see him again?

At that moment, the lights began to dim, then everything went dark as the crowd hummed with excitement. It was showtime.

In the corner of the courtyard, there was a blue velvet curtain hanging about twelve metres high, and a spotlight fell on that curtain, catching all our attention.

Staccato piano notes began to play. The abrupt, sharp sound coming from the speakers set up around the courtyard made us stand to attention. All chatter subsided, and everyone turned to face the velvet curtain, bristling with anticipation.

Each beat of the piano chord seemed to vibrate right through me, waking my soul as I stared intently at that spotlight. And then, it stopped, and a gentle rhythm from the strum of a guitar began to play as the curtain slowly opened to reveal a tall, brick wall. Our focus wasn’t on that dark wall, though; it was on the man who stood on it, wearing a blue boiler suit, with a cloth sack over his head to hide his identity, secured firmly by a thick rope hung around his neck.

He looked like a character from a horror movie. An eerie figure who’d appeared straight from our nightmares ready to take us to hell. His arms hung limply at his sides, and he wore black leather gloves to cover his hands. Hands that looked like they were ready to do wicked deeds. But he stood still, waiting, as we watched with bated breath.

Then, his voice reverberated around the courtyard. An electronic voice.

He was using a voice changer.

“Pride,” he stated loudly. “What does it mean?”

The crowd mumbled around me, as I thought about what pride meant to me. They were probably thinking the same too, but his next movement shut down our thoughts and silenced our minds.

He stood like a saviour on the wall, with his arms outstretched in front of his captive audience, earning their rapt stares and gasps of awe as he began to perform his art.

“What does it mean?

To a world that’s always chasing the green.

What is it that makes us proud, I ask.

Is it the things, the thoughts, the words, the tasks?

Is it the mansion you bought with your hard-earned cash?

The way you thrived through that stock market crash?

Or the car you drive?

The holiday you took?

Sitting in first-class reading your pretentious book.

Watching the workers slaving away.

Making sure that yours is the better day.

Better than theirs because you have more.

Take pride in your place, son.