He waited.

At 7:30 p.m., he was very concerned.

He waited.

At 7:45 p.m., he called Jack.

He gave the order because he simply couldn’t trust Cormac. He promised him he wouldn’t do it until 8:05 pm, but he simply didn’t like the look of that stationary green dot on the screen. If Cormac was going to mess him about, then he was going to pay. He hung up and poured a vodka in honour of Annie. It wasn’t her fault her father was a coward right till the end. He sat in front of the screen. It flashed 7:53 p.m.

The buffet banquet was in full glorious flow. The Queen arrived at 7:50 p.m. through the Great Doors that opened to the right of the platform where the Ulster Youth Orchestra was enjoying its proudest moment, playing Vivaldi to Her Majesty and other distinguished guests. Her Majesty’s arrival caused a great stir, even amongst the battle-weary old statesmen in the room. All eyes were firmly fixed on her, apart from the two men who slipped unnoticed to the far end of the room and now stood, framed in the large oval window, staring at the bustling but discreet activity in the distance.

At 8 p.m., he picked up the phone, more in hope than expectation. The green dot hadn’t moved its position on the screen since it settled to the right of the red dot at 7 p.m. He knew deep in his gut Cormac hadn’t kept to the agreement. The conversation with Jack at 7:55 p.m. was some small consolation. Mission accomplished, he’d said. Annie O’Reilly was an unfortunate casualty of war and of her own father’s cowardice. He dialled the number and watched as the green dot disappeared from the screen.

No one in the room registered the dull thud which was audible over Vivaldi and the hum of excited conversation. The two men watched the small flash dislodge the first layer of sandbags. An army of ants quickly moved in to begin the efficient work of clearing the debris, before the guests arrived on the terrace for post-banquet drinks to the accompaniment of Ireland’s premier solo harpist. Cormac turned to the older man, who was anxiously reading from his BlackBerry.

‘When can I speak with Annie, Prime Minister?’

The door to the upstairs room at Lalor’s crashed to the floor with a deafening bang. He hadn’t had time to put the phone back onto the desk before the first burst of automatic fire ripped through his neck and chest. The second burst hit him on his left shoulder and sent him swaying to the right. The third and fourth bursts, which tore the right side of his jawbone off and ripped into his gut, ensured he was dead long before he finished the dance and smashed his mutilated head against the blood spattered wall.

The two boys died where they sat transfixed in their chairs. One was armed with an ancient revolver, the other with a can of Diet Coke.