The room was quiet, with that sour hint of damp that clings to cellars. A light bulb with a rosy, floral shade over it hung incongruously from the ceiling, as if a little girl had tried to decorate a nuclear bunker. Phyllis’s doing. As the period between his coughs lengthened, I took a walk around, checking what had changed. It was tidier, certainly. Phyllis had a fussy gift for personal organisation that Big Jacky had never demonstrated. There was a pillow in the corner. She kept a small canvas holdall down here with clean underwear, clothes and a face towel in it, and a make-up bag decorated with sprigs of flowers, in case she had go out and meet her friend straight from work. Phyllis loved all that stuff. Too much boredom in her life had led her to make a mild cult out of preparedness.

McGee was asleep now, snoring, full of stewed booze and rotten convictions. His mouth hung half open, a skinny line of congealed blood snaking towards it from his right nostril. A slim gold chain with a miniature dagger on it dangled from his neck. I thought of him carefully picking it out in the shop and handing over the money.

I sat and looked at him. If I were going to smother him, now would be the moment. That pillow would do, held down with sufficient force. There would be a brief, gurgling struggle and then it would be over. What was left of Titch would be lowered into the ground tomorrow, to the sound of his mother’s sobbing. McGee deserved this. It had a finality about it. I got out the thick roll of masking tape and wound it round his legs several times, tying them tight together. Then I did a few more loops to fix him to the chair.

I picked up the pillow and stood beside him, staring down at him.

And then what? How to dispose of him? I hadn’t quite thought that bit through. I couldn’t just leave him here afterwards for Phyllis to find, stiffening among the coupon stacks. If I could keep him here for a day it might be possible to come back in the night with a wheelie bin, cram him in and wheel him far away.

I began to feel very tired. You might think that killing someone you hate will free you, but unless you plan to make a habit of it and rack up so many you can’t count, it just bonds you to them for ever. Looked at that way, murder is a stronger glue than sex. I don’t suppose you ever forget someone you kill, unless you’re in the thick of war and can’t even tell who it was. This stuff soils you, becomes difficult to scrub off. With each ebbing breath, they will etch themselves on your memory.