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was already grabbing a coat, anxious to get going. ‘I’m not doing it for money,’ she said.
    I couldn’t resist the crack, said, ‘Very noble of you.’
    As she opened the door to send me on my way she added, ‘And I’m certainly not doing it for you.’

 
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12

Dark Preparation
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    Benedictus was naked, staring in a full-length mirror, and with the left hand traced the tattoo along the stomach.
    Then, taking a very sharp knife, began to remove the tattoo. The pain was almost unbearable, and yet exquisite agony.
    Benedictus began to envision how the killing of the nun would play out – lure her into a trap, then very slowly strangle the wretch to all damnation.

 
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13

All That Shines
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    I was in Busker Brown’s, a pub just off Quay Street. They have a jazz morning on Sundays and it is always packed. Today, though, a weekday, it was quiet. They do a very fine Colombian roast – no, not dope, coffee – and I savoured the sheer bite of it as I opened the paper, the taste in my mouth moving from bitter to acrid.
    A nun had been killed. She’d been found strangled in the Claddagh church where she’d been saying her morning devotion. The papers put it down to some drug-crazed youth and lamented the state of the nation. I read the account with an icy chill in my gut. This was victim three.
    When I finally got home, I was wired. I rang theGuards, got through to Clancy, shouted, ‘Now will you pay attention?’
    He waited a moment, then said, ‘Ah, Taylor, conspiracies everywhere. We’ve already arrested a deranged person found with her rosary beads in his possession. Gold ones – he liked the shine on them. I think.’
    I argued, ‘It can’t be him. There is a list – I showed you – already three from it are dead and the person who wrote that wasn’t attracted by – ’ I could barely contain myself, ‘ – something fucking shiny.’
    He sniggered. ‘Language, Taylor. What have you be drinking? The water? Tell you what – if your letter-writer puts your name on the list, we’ll definitely pay attention. Might even buy him a few pints.’
    I threw my mobile across the room.
    I was beyond anger. I wanted to inflict serious damage on somebody. I was pacing up and down my small apartment, thinking,
Fuck ’em all. What do I care?
    Then the post arrived.
    Lots of offers to join video clubs, one letter informing me I’d won a million euro and all I had to do was ring the following number, a voucher for a free pizza . . . and then a white envelope. I recognized the writing, tore it open, saw the one single page and the typed message that read:
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    Three
    But who’s counting?
    Benedictus
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    I pulled open my door and ran smack into my gay neighbour, who was trying to fit his key into his lock. He was hampered by a broken arm and a crutch, his face a riot of bruises and cuts.
    I stammered, ‘Jesus, what happened?’
    He gave me a look of withering contempt. ‘The gaybashers. You said not to worry about them. But guess what? You were wrong.’
    I felt dreadful. He had asked for help and what had I done but ignore him?
    â€˜Let me help you with that.’ I pointed to the key.
    He near spat, ‘Help? I think I’ve had as much of your assistance as I’d ever want.’
    â€˜I’m so sorry.’ I meant it.
    He gave me his full attention. ‘Indeed, you are – a sorry excuse for a human being.’ Got his door open and slammed it in my face.
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    I went to The Quays on, yeah, Quay Street. I’d never had a drink there me whole life as it’s regarded as a tourist haunt. I stepped up to the counter, ordered a large Jameson and a pint of stout. The barman – non-national, of course – poured the pint too fast and didn’t let it settle, but I was in a hurry. AfraidI’d change my mind. I gave