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Wizard of Oz and he had never developed a fascination for chasing rainbows.

6
    Los Angeles, March 1996

    An indistinct figure makes its way through a misty pine forest and looks down upon a patchwork of lights. Go back, go back, the man in the seventh row shouts silently. The little figure seems to purr in wonder, but still we do not see him. There is a roar like a lion as a vehicle grinds to a halt. Other vehicles appear all bright light and violent movement, shattering the tranquillity of the misty night. They seem to encircle the figure.
    The man in the seventh row remembers how Rosebud shook her head, eyes never leaving the screen when he asked her if it was too scary. He would hold her hand and assure her everything would be alright.
    On screen the little figure screams, like a cat, in alarm. The ferns dance wildly as the figure dashes through them. It seems to give off a light as it goes. Torches cut the night air like light-sabres. The men from the cars pursue the half-seen figure as it dashes towards the point where it knows its friends are waiting. Almost there.
    'Quick, hurry,' Rosebud would entreat, having watched the film numerous times. She knew the figure was hurrying back to the spaceship, but she refused to accept that it would never make it. Maybe this time. Maybe this time it would get there in time. Oval like an Easter egg, lit like a Christmas tree, the craft rises above the pine trees.
    And E.T. is left behind. Alone.
    'Don't worry. Everything will be alright,' the man in the seventh row would assure Rosebud.
    The man in the seventh row sits alone now. And he sobs too. Great, heaving, silent sobs that shake his shoulders and grip his whole body. Tears stream down his face. He rises and makes his way to the exit. He can watch no more. He can take no more.
    The man from the seventh row stumbles out into the day, momentarily blinded by his tears and the shock of bright sunshine after the darkness of the cinema. He was alone in the cinema with his thoughts. Now he is a figure in a busy urban landscape. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. Two young men watch him with little curiosity. Tiredness shows in his face and sunshine glints on three-day-old stubble, black in stark contrast to the hair on his head. He pulls mirrored sunglasses from the inside pocket of his crumpled black linen suit. One youth says something to the other. The man starts to make his way along the sidewalk and the youths follow him with their gaze.
    He walks unevenly, as if slightly drunk or shell-shocked. Perhaps sensing a kindred spirit, an old man silently proffers a brown paper bag to the passing stranger, who ignores or does not see the outstretched arm. He keeps walking as if in a daze, leaving it for others to get out of his way, until he reaches a newspaper dispenser at the side of the road. Through the window of the contraption he stares at the headline in the Los Angeles Times – 'City gripped by new terror' – but it is unclear whether the words register. He puts several quarters into the slot, hesitates and walks on without taking his paper. A blue Ford pick-up blares its horn when he steps out onto the road, the sound quickly lost in the din of men drilling and traffic moving. The aroma of bacon and coffee drifts out into the sunshine from a diner. He climbs the steps of an old stone building and enters beneath the sign 'Police'.
    His stride seems surer now. He walks with a new determination, along a white-walled corridor towards an inquiry desk. Just short of the desk he stops and asks a uniformed officer a question. The policeman glances at the newcomer and resuming his previous conversation gestures with a thumb over his right shoulder. The man follows the direction indicated, down another long corridor, at the end of which is a door marked 'Homicide Division'. He enters.
    Plain-clothes officers are sitting around desks. The man asks to see someone in charge. He is shown into a room, where a middle-aged officer in