He strides confidently, calmly. Well-dressed passers-by on the streets merely stare at him with dull eyes. Smog envelopes the alleyways. It does not deter him; he speeds through the urban dust like a knife through water.

His left hand clenches a paper bag. He makes sure his baggage is still secure. Once he nears the area where he calls home, he puts the brown paper bag into his pants' pocket. It is small and fits snugly, invisible to curious eyes.

The neighbourhood is gaily, pretty in its suburban colours of beige and terracotta with splashes of greenery. Warm lights are switched on; it is dinnertime. He takes in the scenery disdainfully. He knows that behind the facade of family, respectability and money, there is nothing but grey - boredom with life and the like.

Never mind. He enters his house, one of the most expensive-looking on the avenue. His pretty wife is preparing dinner with Francois, the new cook. His young children play with Lego. He dutifully kisses her and murmurs quiet approval of his son's Lego aeroplane.

"I'll be having a long shower," he says casually. "Call me when dinner is ready." His wife nods.

Once he enters his study, the veneer cracks. His hands are shaking manically, but he stills them with an inhuman effort. Out comes the paper bag. From a locked drawer, he takes out a spoon, a syringe. Needle, tourniquet - check. He meticulously arranges his kit on the study table. He empties a little of what is in his brown paper bag into the spoon. Placing the spoon carefully over a small flame, he waits. He knows that in exactly 5 minutes, it will bubble over. Then he'll take a breath and plunge the needle in.

In 10 minutes' time his grey world is awash with psychedelic colours. Sheer bliss floods his mind. He feels love for all of creation. He could dance, he believed he could fly. Piss off, he thinks of his pretty blonde wife, I don't need you anymore...

The exhilaration lasts for another 10 minutes and as abruptly as it came, it goes. He washes up, stores everything away. The steaming shower jolts him back to normality, albeit a stoned one. It doesn't matter. His mood is soaring.

He dresses, checks himself in the mirror, walks downstairs. Lamb is the main course, with smooth creme brulee as dessert. He eats with more relish than other days. Francois is satisfied and all is well.

After dinner, the family is lounging in the living room. The shrill tone of the telephone disrupts the tranquillity. His wife sighs and he moves to pick up the phone.

"Miss Scott? Your father, I see. I'll be there in a minute."

Before long, Doctor James Carter leaves his house for his patient's...