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face me, walking backwards.
    ‘There is a whole chapter devoted to people who exhibit your character traits Mr Darcy,’ she called after me, this time with a hint of humour in her voice.
    I stopped reading the brain book, and stared straight ahead of me.  What character traits is she talking about?
    Her voice then came from the book space on the shelf again.
    ‘The chapter is titled Stalkers,’ she added assertively.
    I turned my face towards hers.
    ‘What?  You think that I am stalking you Georgia? How sad and boring your life must be if you believe that!’ I spat at her, my words fuelled with bitterness.
    I snapped my book shut, grabbed the other two brain books and stormed off, back to my work space, dropping the books down and creating a loud ear splitting crack, disturbing everyone working on the fourth floor.  I looked around.  Eyes pierced me like daggers.
    Bloody book.  Women.  Worse!
    I rested my forehead against my left hand as I worked on in solitude, blocking out all reality in the library. Study of the brain made for fascinating reading. But it left me with more questions than when I started out.
    What is it that generates thoughts, where do they come from?
    What is conscience, and how is it formed ?
    Why do some seem to be void of conscience, knowing right from wrong ?
    What about creativity, how can one think up something from nothing?
    Why are some people gifted without even having had to learn what they are gifted in?
    W hat about belief in God and faith.  Where does that come from?
    Why do some believe and others not?
    What about conscious thought compared to unconscious thought?
    And dreams – why? How?  What is its purpose in the meaning of life ?
    I sat back in the chair and sighed in deep contemplation. There seemed to be an area of brain function that cannot be explained, or measured. Frustrated was a word used lightly to as how I was feeling right now.  Was it the brain research, or Georgia’s derogatory comment that pierced my heart?
    Whatever i t was, she was just like the rest of them.  How could I have fallen for a little bit of hope that she was different?  Stupid, stupid idiot!
    I ran my hand through my ha ir and looked at my watch.  7 pm. Time to head home. I called Max, gathered my stuff and then headed out of the library doors.  Max was there waiting me.  For once I was glad to see him.
    ‘Straight home please Max .’
    ‘Yes Sir,’ he replied, looking at me in the his rear vision mirror.
    The rain pelted down, and the sound of the squeak of the windscreen wipers began hypnotising me.  It was Max’s voice informing me of our arrival that pulled me out of my distant place.
    ‘8am tomorrow please Max,’ I instructed as I left from the taxi.  I sprinted to the apartment building entrance out of the pouring rain, and then slowed down considerably, walking slowly up the stairs to the apartment.
    I breathed in deeply.  It used to my apartment. My man cave. Not anymore. I now shared it with the prying eyes of security at the CAI, and goodness knows who else.
    I unlocked the door and entered my man cave, gently closing the door behind me.  The aroma of another home cooked meal assaulted my nostrils.  Beef Stroganoff I think.  I placed my bag into the study, and wandered into the kitchen and stirred the pot of food.  My stomach growled.
    They won’t kill me yet.  I haven’t finished their most valuable project. When I do, I am pretty sure that they will dispose of me.  I will be a high security risk to them otherwise.  I will know too much.
    The loud knocking at the front door made me jump.  I waited, and hope d whoever it was would go away.  But it continued, becoming more aggressive each time, until it became an urgent thumping on the door.
    I turned and made my way to the door and stopped, listening again. I heard one more thump, and then a faint ‘please open the door.’
    I smelled her sweet perfume before I saw her when I opened the door a fraction, and