In spite of a few hours of the two interrogators’ rigorous questioning, the suspect
remains at his ease. He rarely changes position in his chair. He doesn’t fidget or fiddle with his cigarette pack or lighter. He only very rarely glances at the cctv - but not more often than at the door, the light, or for that matter at either of his questioners. However, apparently, he can neither be tricked nor trapped.

Eventually, they have to let him go. He’s one of the very few who’ve beaten them at their game.

They review the cctv recording. During the entire session, he has smoked three cigarettes, often gazed at the ceiling, smiled pleasantly at occasional light-hearted exchanges, (but not actually laughed out loud). They agree that either this man’s conscience must be completely at ease - highly unlikely given his deplorable activities - or he is the best actor they’ve ever had the bad luck to encounter.

Towards the end of the playback, they ‘freeze-frame’. He has left his water bottle behind. It is still full. They replay. He had swigged from it quite a few times; but now they’ve seen that every time he has replaced it on the table, the bottle has remained full, with the top still on!

So far, neither of them is believed to have mentioned it.
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Itchy memories (HOISTED!)

Tehran. I was hoping to do some English teaching there. So, a modest hotel in a passable area, to keep the costs down.

A very amiable receptionist responded to my request for a room, with a “follow me please sir,” as he jangled off along a corridor. I trotted after the echo of his shuffling slippers until he selected a key from the bunch and unlocked a door, passing in before me. Yes. It would do me.

I asked him how much. I didn’t hear the actual amount of rials quoted, except as a warning bell. Far too much! I took care to avoid going down in his estimation by asking him if he had a smaller, (rather than a cheaper), one. “Smaller?” he smiled. “Certainly sir. Follow me please.” And off we went. We turned into another corridor, then up one flight of steps, along a further corridor, and another flight of steps. (Ah, the cheaper rooms would be more remote, of course.)

We arrived; he unlocked: we went in. It was indeed smaller. “Very nice,” I said; “how much is this one?” With an amicable smile, he reassured me: “oh, same price as the other one sir.”

I had to take it, naturally.

I think I’d learned something; but I’m too embarrassed to try to remember what it was.

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Itchy memories
(SNAPPED!)

Milan. Springtime. Twilight. I’m looking down from my window on four men gesticulating at each other. However, I can’t hear any actual sounds. It is as if they are mouthing the words rather then enunciating them. Could they be four mutes having an argument?! My camera’s at the ready.

They are formally suited, each attired with a trilby; two of them are wearing ties. Their gestures appear to be intensifying. Now, a fist is raised, a finger is prodding at a shoulder; one foot has advanced.

This is it. One man menacingly leans forward with three fingers held high as though readying a starting-pistol. I “CLICK”.

Everyone in the street turns towards them as their song fills the early evening.
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