One afternoon I see this cunt leaving the house and locking up, this ugly-looking cunt with the shaved head, disgusting. Once I was sure he wasn’t coming back any time soon, I pushed my way through the hedge and I crawled round the back of the house to the garden. Now this neighbourhood was a fucking hotbed of Huns. If anyone had caught me at it, it would’ve been like Kathleen’s man’s brother, or whoever the fuck he was, getting carted up the road. There was a window cracked open at the back. I couldn’t resist it. I climbed in.

The place is like a morgue in there, or a wax museum, it’s so still. I can tell that there’s nobody home. There’s a little drinks tray on wheels in the living room with a full bottle of Bushmills on it. I go to grab it but then I think to myself, I’ll come back later and celebrate with that fucker once I’ve cut the pair of their throats. There was a pile of video cassettes on the coffee table. The French Connection. Rollerball. I creep out into the hallway and I edge my way up the stair. I had grown up in a house with the exact same layout, so as I knew my way about. I checked the bathroom. Blue with brown carpets. Just like my ma’s. Then I spot a loofah floating in the filled-up bath. The water’s still warm. There’s still bubbles on the surface. Ah fuck, I says to myself, somebody’s home after all.

*

I take my gun out and I tiptoe across the hall. I check the two extra rooms. I’m counting on whoever it is to be in the main bedroom. Sure enough, both of the other rooms are storage rooms piled high with boxes. I slip the silencer onto the gun and I edge the door of the bedroom open. There’s somebody in bed, asleep. I can make out a shape under the covers. I squeeze into the room as quiet as I can …

It’s Arlene, in bed. And it throws me for a loop. It’s not how I expected it to be. I can see her breasts, rising and falling, wrapped in these silk sheets and with nothing underneath. She looks good. I can see the appeal. The electric blue of the sheets is the same as Patrick’s suits. I’m getting all confused. I should wake her up, I says to myself, I should tell her why I’m here and why she has to die. But she might scream, I says to myself, she might cause a fuss. Before I even know what I’m doing I empty three bullets into her chest and I hear a sound like air escaping, nothing more to it than that, and then it’s like the room itself is wrapped in cotton wool.