The apartment is freaky neat, but cold. There’s a tube of wind coming in through a hole in the window.

She notices me looking. ‘I was having a moment,’ she explains. ‘Goddamn satsuma. Can you believe that? Made a helluva hole.’

Something to do, thank Christ. Take my mind off those eyes.

Get those idle hands to work, soldier, and do not even contemplate strangling this woman.

You learn to use your hands in the army. Things break down in the field and they need to be fixed; no use waiting for a requisitions crate. Ireland is a long way from the Lebanon, and even if your package makes it through the grifters on both ends of the pipeline, you’re still talking half a year. There was a guy in my squad fixed an old 77 radio with parts from a Rolf Harris stylophone he bought on Mingi Street. A real live MacGyver. I wasn’t good with electronics, but I could manage basic household repairs.

So I size up the window with a squint, then go foraging underneath the sink for something I can use.

‘Hey, Irish, what are you playing at?’

Maybe Delano thinks I’m looking for trash bags to wrap her body.

Good.

A pity she doesn’t know about my pro-tective instinct. Perhaps I’ll tell her later.

Nothing under the sink to plug a hole, so I rifle the storage. This woman has more pills than a New York pusher and more drawers than an underwear store.

Boom-boom, chuckles Ghost Zeb. You’re a funny killer, Daniel McEvoy, yes you are.

‘Stay out of my drawers, Irish.’

I laugh. ‘No need to worry on that account, Mrs Delano.’

‘Screw you.’

‘You screw?’ I say, twisting her words. Childish I know but I need a laugh.

Most of the drawers are half empty, so I pour one into another and punch the board out of the first. The wood comes away clean, nails red with rust like they’ve been sealing a coffin.

Stay away from the imagery, Simon told me once.

Because it deepens my pain?

No. Because you are shite at it.

I’d like to read the manual that came from. Chapter Six: Shiteness At Imagery and its Effects on Latent Arseholery.

Delano doesn’t ask what I’m playing at, but she’s pulling hard on that cigarette now, tip pulsing red and white.

Showboating is what I’m doing. I could just tape over the hole, there’s a roll right there, but this board seems a more appropriate expression of the shape of my mood, as a mate of mine might say. I place it over the broken pane, then hammer the nails into the frame with a meat tenderiser from the draining board. The wind is downsized from a gale to a whistle. Not too shabby.

For once Mrs Delano is dumbstruck. She sits like a statue, smoke curling out of her fist.