Outside the prison walls a hush falls over those gathered there as the seconds tick inexorably towards twelve o'clock. Midnight - the witching hour, a time for evil to be abroad. For some gathered here, this particular transition from night to day will see a strike against those forces of evil. For others - in this instance a minority - it will merely be a perpetuation of the same.

Those with differing ideologies are separated by a token presence of police. Whatever the outcome of tonight's proceedings, it is unlikely that trouble will flare and that they will be needed to intervene. A fourth group completes those attending the vigil - the media news corps, here to inform the world of this night's events via TV, radio, newsprint.

Within the prison, final preparations are underway. In a silence that mirrors that outside the perimeter, a man is laid on a cruciform table, his arms - spread as if in supplication - are secured by leather straps at the wrists. The same restraint is applied to his ankles. The straps are pulled tight - not as a means of preventing escape -in any case a redundant fear, but to prevent the body falling from the table should there be excessive convulsions when the lethal injection is finally administered.

The room is little more than a booth. One wall is solid with a doorway granting access into the room. The other three walls are windowed, glass from waist-height almost to the ceiling. At present, those windows are hidden behind shutters. There is no need for those gathered in the viewing gallery to witness the final preparations. Once the main event is ready to begin, the shutters will be drawn back.

Straps secured, the guards step away from the table. A white-coated doctor steps forward to clean the skin of the restrained man's arm just below the crook of the elbow with an alcohol wipe. This done, he carefully inserts a needle into a raised vein. The needle will in turn be connected to tubing that passes out through a hole in the wall, ultimately to a syringe containing the lethal cocktail of drugs which will end the man's life.

Throughout the whole process, the man on the table says nothing, betrays no emotion. He does not watch what is happening, instead his unwavering gaze is towards the prison chaplain who stands in a corner of the room. The chaplain finds it difficult to meet the man's gaze.

This is a difficult situation of course but not a new one. Too many times he has stood here in a vain attempt to provide solace, too many times has he tried to console and calm hysterical men as the reality of their situation once again, and finally, hits them. This one is different though, this time there have been no histrionics, no counselling has been required to get the man to accept his fate. Indeed, the calmness of John Smith - the chosen name of the man on the table in front of him, a true everyman - has been disconcerting, unsettling. Not only his calmness, but also the intensity of the man. As the medic begins to attach the tubing to the needle in John's arm, the chaplain recalls his conversation with the condemned man earlier in the day...

"I've come to hear your last confession John. Are you ready to repent your sins?"

John Smith stares at him, the look on his face is a combination of pity and amusement. "I have no need of confession Priest" he replies.

"You feel no sorrow for what you've done - the crimes you've committed?"

"My fate is sealed. Nothing more is necessary."

"You've done terrible things John, things you confessed to and which have brought you here to this place. In a few hours they'll come for you John, take you away and take your life for the things you did. Is it not time now to make some kind of peace with your Holy Father?"

A momentary anger flares in John's eyes at those words but is rapidly replaced by amusement. He laughs. "My Holy Father?" He leans towards the chaplain and suddenly the table between them seems that much smaller, hardly any distance at all, "it is my father who has brought me here."

"I don't understand John... your father...?"

"My father's work. It is my father's work that has brought me to this place. Would that this cup could pass me by..."

Anger now flares in the chaplain "Be careful John, don't add blasphemy to your list of sins..."

 John laughs. "Blasphemy? You've come here to save my soul Priest, the irony is it's me who can save yours!"

The chaplain can not meet the intensity of the murderer's stare. "Are you claiming that the hideous crimes you have committed were done in God's name? Is that what you are saying?"

 John sits back in his chair and smiles. "His will, not mine."

"But the children John, those innocent souls...?"

He stretches out his arms in front of him, palms up, the chain between them swinging, "Suffer little children, to come unto me..."

The guard's voice, the hand on his shoulder, brings the chaplain back to the here and now. "We need to go." He nods, follows the procession out of the room, relieved to get away.

"Goodbye Priest" - a voice from behind him - "Until we meet again..."

He makes no reply, does not even acknowledge that he has heard the words. Along with the guards, he makes his way to the viewing gallery to join the others gathered there - the Governor of the prison, families of some of the many victims of John Smith's murderous campaign. The doctor does not come with them, he has other matters to attend to.

Through the now un-shuttered windows he looks at the man who is about to die. No eleventh hour reprieve has come this time, the execution will go ahead as planned. For the first time in his life he is happy that this is the case, so disturbed is he from his encounter with Smith. The second hand on the wall-mounted clock begins its final sweep towards midnight. A restlessness born of anticipation and fear settles on the audience around him. And, as he watches, he sees John Smith raise his head - as far as his restraints allow him - enough so that eye contact can be established. Somehow the condemned man has known exactly where to look. He speaks and - though the glass and the distance between them renders his words inaudible - the chaplain can still understand what is being said.

As John Smith says "I forgive you..." the chaplain watches in horror as a line of red beads appears across his forehead. The beads increase in size and then start to run down his face in bloody streaks. The chaplain lurches to his feet, staggers to the window and collapses against it. He groans "Oh dear God, no..!" as he sees the condemned man's hands, sees the pools of stigmatic blood that fill them, watches them spill over to pool on the table on which he lies.

And John Smith laughs, a ferocious, hysterical noise as in an adjacent room the plunger of a syringe is depressed and death floods his system.

*

Outside, placards are lowered, fires doused as the disparate groups slowly begin to leave.

Far in the distance, lightning illuminates the sky followed seconds later by an ominous roll of thunder.

The storm will soon be upon them.