Down in the laboratory Sir Clive found Rita sitting on the edge of the divan, she looked terrified and her eyes were swollen with many hours of crying.
“There, there my dear, no need to cry, it will all be over soon.” She looked at him uncomprehendingly, accusingly clutching handfuls of her shaven-off hair. Sir Clive calmly filled a hypodermic with sedative, she sat unresisting as he jabbed it into her arm, big warm tears rolling down her face. Merciful oblivion followed shortly. Sir Clive laid her on the operating table, donned a surgeon’s gown and with his pathologist’s shiny tools set about removing the top of her skull.
“It's all to do with the brain.” He repeated softly to himself like a mantra.