He told the old man he didn’t want to fall out with him. He liked him, for fuck’s sake! He begged him to let him have the goods and he’d never trouble him again. He even told him he would make sure the rest of the money would be there before the end of next week. He informed him of his duty to provide what he needed. He must do it, not for himself, not for the money, but for Ireland! It was then he knew. He knew as soon as the old fucker said Ireland didn’t pay his bills. He knew the old man was not a true patriot. He was like so many others he’d met in the movement. He was a phoney; a fraud; the enemy.

It was surprisingly easy. Once he saw the old cunt for what he was, he felt the rage overtake him. He’d seen it at the door on the way into the dingy little room. The sun was glinting off its shaft. He made up his mind in an instant. He relished the moment to come. He enjoyed telling the greedy cunt he was leaving. He savoured the slow walk to the door, feeling for the grip of the club behind the coat that partially obscured it. He spun in an instant and caught the old cunt above his left ear. He’d helpfully walked right onto the perfect spot. The shaft bent slightly as it swished its arc through the air before it hit his head with an exhilaratingly loud crack. The collision of club and head sent a shudder right to his shoulder. The cracked head followed the rest of his body in slow motion to the floor. The greedy old fucker was looking up at him, begging him to finish it. On the sixth swing, he was sure the job was done. It was not like the others. There was no crack. There was no resistance. It was like sliding into fudge.

He cleaned himself up in the stinking bathroom. He worried for a moment about someone finding the body. He was concerned this might complicate things a little. Then he remembered the old man complaining he was the only other person he’d seen in months. No, it would not be a complication. In two days’ time, this would be an irrelevance. He closed the door gently on the traitor with a golf club in his brain and made his way here with the goods, the money, and the contents of his cabinet.

His bandaged hand was pounding from the jarring of the golf club. His shoulder ached from the weight of the holdall. He felt desperately tired from the afternoon’s exertions and tried to close his eyes to sleep. It was useless - the adrenaline from the kill was still raging through him. He sat up, rummaged through the bag, opened the contents of The Chemist’s cabinet and poured two thin parallel lines onto the bedside table. He paused for a short while, deciding whether or not to ‘hoover‘ the table. He knew the safe thing to do was to stay in the room until his transport arrived in the morning. He stared at the holdall on the floor next to the door and contemplated his day’s work. The lines on the table meant he would not be in control of his evening and would never stay in his room after having them. He thought about Cormac and Annie enjoying their day in Dublin. Friday would be a big day for all of them - if they were having fun, why couldn’t he?