‘I’m glad you liked it,’ Bruce said woodenly.

‘I sure did, but what I’m saying is, no popcorn seller got shot.’

Bruce was getting irritated. ‘So what’s your point? I thought you were claiming diminished responsibility on account of my influence over you. Isn’t that what all this is about?’

‘Who was the guy who rang the bell and the dogs dribbled? Pancake or whatever. I saw a thing about him on Timewatch.’

‘I think you mean Pavlov,’ said Bruce.

‘That’s right, Pavlov. Well, you ain’t no Pavlov, Bruce, and we ain’t no dribbling dogs. There ain’t nothing specific here. I am talking generally. I’m saying that you make killing cool.’

Bruce leapt at the point. So far his heroic battle had not been going quite as splendidly as he’d hoped. He had allowed himself to be sidetracked. He had to regain the initiative.

‘No, Wayne. I make going to the movies cool. Let me put it plainly. You are sick,’ He addressed the camera directly. ‘These two people are sick. They have erred from the acceptable norm. They have diseased and unbalanced minds. Did I unbalance them? Certainly not. Did society? I doubt it. No, they are simply sick. There have always been murderers and sadists. Long before there was TV and movies, people got killed and raped. Now-’

Bruce was on a roll, winding up to utterly discredit these sad nobodies with the massive force of his intellectual power. Unfortunately, Wayne interrupted him.

‘Tell me something, Bruce. I’ve always wanted to know, do you get a hardon when you make that stuff?’ He said this with a wink at the camera. ‘I’ll bet you do, boy, ‘cos I admit it just thrills me. What’s more, I look round the movie theatre and I can see all the other guys and they’re just loving it too. Every one of them is just itching to haul out a gun and blast away. Of course, they don’t do it, but I can see them licking their lips and wishing, just the same.’

‘That’s the point, Wayne, nobody does anything.’ Bruce was slightly shaken. He wanted to keep the debate on what Wayne did, not on what he himself did. ‘It’s just a story.’

‘It ain’t no story,’ Scout protested. ‘First time I saw Ordinary Americans, I said to Wayne to tell me when the blood and gore happened so I could close my eyes. I guess I had my eyes closed just about the whole picture.’

‘That’s right,’ Wayne agreed. ‘Ain’t no room for a story in your pictures, Bruce. A story is like… um… so the dude kills the dude because of, like, this reason and that reason, and afterwards he goes away and does some other stuff. A story is, well a story – stuff happens. Showing the dude killing the dude, in slow mo’, now, that’s a fantasy.’

Bruce knew this was madness, nonsense. He made movies. These two killed people. There was no connection, and yet somehow he could not nail the debate down. It was slipping away.

‘To sane people, it’s a diversion,’ Bruce said. ‘It’s an entertainment, perhaps not a very edifying one, but an entertainment none the less. It’s only a fantasy to people who are sick in the head like you and your girlfriend here.’

‘So we’re sick, are we?’

Wayne shifted his gun on his lap but Bruce was determined to press the point. ‘You’re sicker than a rabid dog.’

From behind the couch in the back of Bill’s picture Velvet cried out in anguish. ‘Daddy, be careful. Don’t make him angry.’

In the control truck they cheered. They loved it when the cute little girl chipped in. Now that was television.

‘Sneak a closeup on the daughter,’ the producer whispered into his microphone, but Bill ignored him. As far as Bill was concerned, Wayne was producing the show by the authority of the gun he had on his lap.

Bruce attempted to reassure his daughter. ‘He isn’t going to kill you, honey. We’re on live TV. He’s pleading for his life.’

‘If I’m sick, Bruce, and you said I was,’ Wayne said, ‘what does that make you?

‘Excuse me?’

‘Well, don’t your movies exploit my sickness? Don’t you use the terrible, sick, mental condition that afflicts psychopaths like me, just to give people a thrill? You never saw no Aids or cancer movie where the sick people were the bad guys, did you? But that’s the way it is in your movies. You want to know what I am, Bruce? I am the exploitably ill.’

Things were beginning to go horribly wrong. The question seemed to be getting more complex. Bruce had set out to shoot down gloriously a fatuous contention, but his target was moving, putting up smokescreens.

‘Perhaps you’re suggesting that you committed your crimes as a protest against my treatment of psychotics as a class?’

It was a weak response. Bruce knew that this was not what Wayne had suggested at all. He was trying to buy time with smart comments, in order to collect his thoughts.

‘I don’t know what I’m suggesting,’ Wayne replied, ‘except I’m suggesting that it ain’t only the criminals who create a culture of violence.’

‘It’s only the criminals who commit the crimes. Violent people create a violent society.’ This was the point Bruce wanted to make. He needed to stick with that and not allow himself to be diverted. ‘It is violent people who create a violent society,’ he repeated, firmly and loudly.

‘Are you sure?’ Scout suddenly shouted. ‘Are you absolutely sure about that? Are you one hundred per cent absolutely sure that no matter how many times you show a sexy murder to a rock and roll soundtrack you have no effect on the people who watch? Because if there’s even one shred of doubt in your mind, then what right have you to make your movies?’

‘I am an artist. I can not ask myself that question.’ Bruce regretted it the moment he’d said it. It was true, but that wasn’t the point. He knew that claims of intellectual immunity would be unlikely to impress in the heartlands.

‘Why? Why can’t you? If you won’t take responsibility for your actions, why should we take responsibility for ours?’

Damnation, where did this bitch suddenly learn to talk?

‘Because my actions are peaceable and within the law.’

It was weak. Bruce knew it, she knew it.

‘A real man answers to his conscience, not to the law.’

‘And I am perfectly happy to do that. Is your conscience clear?’

Wayne laughed. ‘Of course, it’s not clear, man. We kill people we’ve never met.’

‘Yes, like every king and president there ever was,’ Scout added.

Bruce felt his bowels almost move with tension. This woman was pulling out red herrings like a demented fishmonger. Christ, if they were going to spread the debate that wide, he was finished. To Bruce’s intense relief, Wayne himself headed this one off. ‘Now I’ve told you before I don’t want to hear that kind of Communistic bull Scout. I do not respect much in this world but I do respect the American way. And in my opinion things’d be a whole lot better if the president was to shoot a few more people, ‘specially them damn Arab towel heads who keep burnin’ Ol’ Glory.’

‘Excuse me,’ Kirsten said nervously, looking up from her equipment. ‘Um, this is all very interesting, of course, and the producers are delighted, they’re very happy in control… it’s just that the ratings are beginning to drop – see here, it’s all displayed on my monitor. The chief wants to know if it would be OK to record this and then edit it for the evening news?’

‘No need for that, Kirsten. I have an idea. Hey, America!’ Wayne shouted at the camera. ‘Listen, phone your friends, tell them all to tune in, because in ninety seconds I’m going to shoot Farrah Delamitri. In one minute and one half, the wife of the guy who just got the Oscar gets shot dead live!’