Andrew’s Day.

The wasp buzzed loudly outside my window. It hung around the mirror like it was some type of strange looking flower. Cynthia was getting tired in the seat beside me. Where was Mum gone?

We had a great day – I built seventeen sand castles. The biggest one was the twelfth – that’s also my favourite number. I had three big white shells on one side and three black ones on the other. I had little sticks sticking out of it like poles without flags. It was brilliant looking!

But then that big boy with his Dad and their football knocked the white shell side down with their stupid football! I shouldn’t say it ‘cos Dad would kill me if he heard me say it loud – feckers! The boys’ Dad said sorry but I know his brat of a son meant it. He even stuck his tongue out at me as they walked away. I’d never do that! I’d get a slap on the back of me legs!

I made the next five bigger and better just to show that boy that I wouldn’t stop building – my Dad says that us Treacys’ are made of stern stuff. I don’t know exactly what that means, but it sounds serious.

Cynthia grabbed her dolly tight – she was now about to go asleep. It was still hot outside so I tried to open the window just a little to cool us down. The window  was slightly open in the seat in front of me but I was afraid to touch that button just in case the wasp got into the car. And we didn’t want that to happen! I hated them even more than Cynthia!

My window didn’t open ‘cos Mum hadn’t stuck the key in the starter thingy. She was gone what seemed like a long time now. She had promised us ice-cream if we got in the car without any fuss. She seemed a bit angry and tired too so neither of us wanted to annoy Mum – it had been a great day all along.

My day started when Jodie – our dog – who is older than me by the way – came into my bedroom and licked me on the face to wake me up! That was disgusting with the slime all over my face but I love Jodie. He is a great dog and has the shiniest black coat. He gets that from the little bit of oil in his dinner every day, so Mum says. My hair is shiny too, but Mum says that’s from the shampoo we use. I don’t understand adults all the time – not everything they say makes sense.

Anyhow – Cynthia and I had breakfast  in the front room watching TV while Mum and Dad talked in the kitchen. We watched Dora for Cynthia and then Bob the Builder for me. Bob is great – he’s a brilliant builder and has friends that are both cars and trucks too. But as we sang Bob’s song, we heard the shelf in the kitchen fall.

When I ran in to see if everything was alright, Mum was picking up the dishes that had fallen off it. They were all broken except one big plate – the one that holds the turkey at Christmas. Mum said the hinge had come loose and that Dad had gone out to get stuff to fix it. He left quickly in the car to get another hinge. I don’t know what a hinge is either but we must need it to hold the shelf up. 

I got the sweeping brush to help Mum tidy up the broken pieces while Cynthia watched another episode of Dora. Then we put on our clothes to go to Nanna’s. It was getting very hot so I asked Mum if I could wear my new Manchester United shorts and jersey. Dad bought them for me a while ago – was it after Christmas? I can’t remember but they felt nice and cool on and Nanna said I looked great in them. She liked Manchester too.

I liked playing football in them too and sliding on my knees along the grass when I scored a goal. You could slide so much further with them on. I remember doing it once with other shorts on and I hurt my knee. I had to wear two plasters for two days so I swore to Dad that I wouldn’t do it again unless I had the right shorts on me.

Cynthia likes sleeping. She wanted to go back to bed after breakfast but Mum said no. Cynthia is much smaller than me ‘cos she’s only three. I am six in September – I can’t wait for my birthday! I would like a bigger bike ‘cos I like cycling with Thomas – he’s a boy from next door who is in my class at school. He has lots of blond hair and he likes cats and the colour yellow. My favourite colour is green but I like red too. I don’t know what Cynthia’s favourite colour is. Is it pink? Yeah it is ‘cos her bedroom walls are painted that colour! Like duh Andrew!

After Mum dropped us off at Nanna’s house I played on the trampoline. I’m allowed to play alone on it ‘cos we have a net that goes around it and stops you from falling out. The net is really soft too. I got really tired and hungry after six hundred and seven bounces. I’m great at counting. The trampoline makes me laugh too – it’s a weird feeling being up high in the air.

I ate four mini sandwiches and a small piece of chocolate. Cynthia ate two and Nanna ate the same as me. Mum arrived to pick us up and Nanna wasn’t happy. They told us to go into the front room while they talked about Dad. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I heard Mum crying.  

In the car going to the beach, Mum took some tablets to help with her hay fever. She drove without her seat belt on, as the bing-bing noise of the car kept ringing in the few minutes it took us to get there.

I asked Mum if we could get some jelly and ice-cream after the beach and she agreed. Normally I have to plead with Mum, but she said yes and gently rubbed my face. She looked deep into my eyes and before we got out of the car she asked me if I knew how much she loved me and Cynthia? Like, of course we do Mum.

Anyway, myself and Cynthia now sit here waiting on Mum.

I hear the sound of a fire engine, just like Dad's, and see one fly right by us heading toward the pier. Then I see an ambulance going up the road and then over the sand, in the same direction. There's a lot of people on the pier, pointing toward the water.

Where is Mum gone?

This Old House.

The old oak floor groaned under the weight of Tom Deasy finally lowering himself into his favourite rocking chair. This might be the last time he sat in this chair, in this old house. He blew out a loud sigh that filled the air with frosty breath.  The cold shook him all the way to his toes. He fastened the second loop of the handcuffs to the radiator. There was no going back now. They would have to rip out the rickety brown-stained heater from its fastenings in the wooden floor.

Here sat a seventy-one year old man with blankets over his shoulders and knees. How the mighty had fallen hard. He zip-tied the table to the radiator too, just to make it that bit harder for them to shift him.

Tom allowed himself a brief smile, comfortable in the knowledge that he could have some sort of comfort in his last few hours. He had strategically placed himself here to face the door – just so he could look the feckers in the eye when they crossed the threshold. On the table within arm’s reach, were the flask of tea and a pack of stale jammy dodgers.

His great grandfather had bought the house with inheritance money belonging to an aunt of his. She had married well and passed the proceeds onto him. Four generations had been brought up in this dwelling, and he was to be its final occupant.

The heating and electricity had been turned off months ago. His wood and turf had run out in the past few days, and the old house had suddenly lost its last source of heating fuel. In the hearth lay the embers of burnt remnants, to stay there for however long it took for the next owner to come clean it out.

Tom rubbed his wrinkled hands together to generate some heat in his weary bones. He nodded off at 8pm as the deadline came and went. He would be ensconced in the chair for one more night at least. Relieving himself seated wasn’t a major problem. Only creaky boards minus carpets lay beneath his feet and chair.

The sound of liquid dripping from his shoes echoed the empty cavern of the hallway and front room. He regretted doing it the moment he finished. Those feckers might think he was incontinent, and he didn’t want to give them the added pleasure of literally rubbing his face in it. He threw the smallest blanket over the spill.

Alone with his thoughts, Tom reminisced. How the house seemed so big to him as a child. Playing hide and go seek with his older brother, who had died three years ago from lung cancer. They would play for hours on end as their mother tried to get them to come to the table and eat dinner using proper napkins and tableware. Those were the days of cooks, nannies and servants. That was a long time ago now.

Bringing up his only son Jack, Tom employed a lady by the name of Suzanne as a throwback to when he grew up. She occupied all three roles and did so with aplomb. She was now dead too.

As for his son, he had long abandoned hope that his only flesh and blood would ever return. Last he had heard, Jack was living in Peru with another man called Carlos. That type of thing never happened in Tom’s day. It was spoken about in hushed tones and explained to friends and family that their son was taking a “sabbatical”.

The person he missed most was his wife and soul mate, Anne. She was the quintessential mother and provider. She was the one who organised everything and was his rock. He missed her presence, beauty and smell. Pulling a photo from his wallet, he caressed it gingerly. Under the photo of his wife and young son, a white business card fell to the floor. The logo faced upward. Irony was something that haunted him his entire life.

The Anglo bank fiasco and plummeting world markets threw Tom into disarray. Slowly but surely, every last cent of his fortune slipped through his fingers. He could do nothing about it.

And the most annoying ironic bit?

He had once sat on the board of Anglo.

Not even the old dogs and pals that were once his cohorts in the trenches around St. Stephens Green could help him out. No dig out like the “Golden Circle” got. No whispered word in the ear. Like a freight train running completely out of control with madmen at the wheel.

He lost absolutely everything.

The house in the south of France was first to go. The boat moored in Howth then went. The golf club membership was discontinued. The apartment in Galway for the races went in a heartbeat. Membership of the Rotary Club went too. All his shares in Anglo went up in a puff of smoke. The remainder of his portfolio was cashed in to maintain dwindling losses - they soon became savage losses.

But the bills kept coming. And bankruptcy soon followed. He tried to put the house in Jack’s name, but to no avail. They got ahead of him on that, those NAMA bastards. And then one morning last week, they came while he out and took every single piece of furniture. Apart from his chair and the table, where his elbows now lay upon. Only he pleaded with the creditors, he wouldn’t be sitting in the chair.

Had it really come to this? Would they throw an elderly man out on the street with no family or real friends left?

Tom soon got his answer.

As he began to drift off once again, a key was slipped into the lock. He glanced at his watch, seeing it was just after midnight. He steeled himself for a final fight, knowing they probably had bolt cutters. His resistance might be in vain but it would be firm.

But what came through the door was not what he expected. What came sauntering in the door was his knight at the eleventh hour.  

His son Jack walked in with the deeds of the home in his hands. His hands were shaking, expecting a rebuke from his father and his outdated thinking. He wasn’t alone as Carlos stood supportive behind him.

Tom lifted his handcuffed arms up in relief. Jack rushed to his stricken and seemingly broken father. They embraced more out of long endured separation, rather than awkwardness. Jack explained that Carlos had used his own money to bail them out.

“As long as a Deasy lives here, I don’t care who does. You’re more than welcome here Carlos. And thank you. Jack, I'm sorry for being a stupid old fool. Your mother would berate me for letting my pride drag this idiocy on so long. Thank you both for saving a man’s soul – and this old house.”

Long Way Back.

The circle was near complete. Two years of tears, heartache and then being told "No, it wasn't possible." But Kathy persevered. Call it determination, guts or just plain pig-headedness, she didn't care. Today, she closed the book on frustration.

One Monday afternoon almost two years ago, Kathy's life changed. A series of events led to her losing her right leg below the knee and her left foot, just above the ankle. She had had both amputated within days of the incident.

The initial outpouring of love from friends and family was much appreciated. Fundraising efforts went a huge way toward financially supporting her recovery, but then the support ended. And depression set in. A sense of loneliness that Kathy had never once felt before.

It began to consume everything in Kathy's life. Her husband, despite his best efforts, was pushed away. He was emotionally scarred from the events of that tragic day too, but when pushed, he fell. He wasn't as strong as Kathy.

When the medical bills kept pouring in, the funds dried up. Kathy was left with the most basic of prosthetics. Budget spending cuts in the health system meant Kathy was out of time and money.

Her day-to-day life continued, but the pain and darkness was enveloping her. Her family were soon at arms length, as her dependency to painkillers and other softer narcotics increased. She was soon seen as an embarrassment to be around.

Then under the neon glow of a flea bag motel, clarity came calling.

Kathy happened to be limping along a dank hallway, when she heard a gun go off. She hobbled back to her room, spotting a gunman escaping down the fire escape.

After being interviewed by police for her statement, a local news reporter called Lauren Justice, saw the deep despair in Kathy's eyes.

She recognised her from the terrible tragedy that cost her the natural ability to walk. She asked if she could do a feature news piece on her struggles since the accident. Lauren wanted to point out the deficiencies in the health care system and the vulnerable people that it left in it's wake.

Kathy initially hesitated, sensing that this stranger in the lemon suit was just out to make a name for herself. But Lauren didn't push too hard. She handed Kathy her business card in a handshake, with a hundred dollar bill wrapped inside.

The turning point was Kathy seeing her own face on television.

She was disgusted at what she saw.

Cracked lips, greasy blonde hair that once was flowing and pockmarked cheeks that showed a malnourished soul. That was enough.

The pig-headedness that drove her down was now working in reverse. She called Lauren, asking for a meeting. She agreed to an interview and made a startling claim. This story could be beneficial for both their lives. Lauren would get her exclusive and Kathy could save herself from an early, despairing death.

That day was the turning point. Kathy had achieved everything and more, since that meeting on camera. If any person thought that during that interview that Kathy was anything other than a nut job, they would have been correct.
But they didn't know the spirit within Kathy.

In the eleven months since the exclusive interview, Kathy had gotten clean. With Lauren's help, she had got a job and her own place. She had reconnected with her family, who were very happy to aid her recovery. With the exposure from the interview, Kathy had reestablished the victims fund.

With one major selling point - she was going to run the marathon that had crippled her.

She was told it wouldn't be possible. But after seven months of physical torture in training, here Kathy was lacing up her sneakers. There was only twenty minutes before the start.

She had done fourteen interviews, with all the major networks and radio stations. She was the inspirational story of the year. Several agents had approached her, asking her to do motivational speaking. 

And none of this would have happened, unless she was standing in the wrong spot at the wrong time, two years ago. But now Kathy was ready for the race of her life. A life chapter closed.   

Debut.

Jamie hadn't really slept all night. His father had told him to try and relax, but the excitement and the impending prospect of what might lie ahead - was making his hands sweat at the mere thought.

Jamie had just turned seventeen and was pursuing his lifelong dream. He had taken the advice of his dying grandfather, and took the boat across the Irish Sea. Many had failed in their quest before him - but he was determined to succeed.

And now he was within touching distance of achieving it.

The whistling hiss of the boiled kettle woke his father. He had paid almost four hundred euro for a late flight to Manchester that lasted only forty minutes. But because he didn't have time to book a hotel, he had to endure a night on a lumpy sitting room couch.

Jamie was delighted that his father had dropped everything and come over. He always had been there for Jamie - and he sure as hell wasn't going to miss this special moment. Jamie urged him that today might not be the day.

"I might not get a run out Dad. It could be next week or next month before I get my chance."

"I will pay the same for every weekend for the next year just to be in the crowd to witness your moment. Son, I'm gonna be there to see this with my own eyes. No matter what the cost!"

The small two bedroomed flat was home for the past two months. Jamie shared it with another Irish lad called Matthew. He hadn't been called up to the first team squad just yet. They had followed more or less the same career path, but now Jamie had pulled ahead of him.

Jamie packed his gear bag, double checking he had everything. Before leaving the flat, his Dad stopped him.

"I have something for you. Something that your grandad wanted you to have. He made me go out and buy these for you before he passed."

"What are they?"

"Arm sweatbands."

"Oh! Didn't he wear something similar when he played?"

"It was his trademark. He used to get stick for it, but he still wore them. He wanted these for you, if your special day ever came."

"So grandad held these?"

"He did. And he wanted me to buy them in your colour - red."

The trip in the taxi to the ground was made in silence. Jamie listened to his ipod, drowning out the nerves. The noise level around the ground was relatively quiet. Within an hour that would change. Forty four thousand excited people would change that.

They walked through security and this is where Jamie had to part ways with his father.

"If today's the day, just do what you always do. Play your best. Be yourself. And listen to what the boss wants you to do. Don't let anything distract you from what you can achieve. You are special."

With his father's ringing endorsement, Jamie entered the changing room of the matchday first team for the first time. A murmur from some of the senior players in his direction made Jamie nervous. He didn't really know many of the senior players all that well. Glances and nodding in his direction mildly reassured him.

The club captain and giant of a man that was Ashley Nicks, walked over to him. He asked for everyone's attention. He said that it was the club's tradition that any new matchday trainees had to perform a rite of passage. They had to go around the room and kiss the leather of every players football boot. Jamie hesitated, not knowing if this was an actual tradition or a very silly prank of induction.

The silence told him that it wasn't a prank. He rose seeing almost twenty sets of eyes on him. It was only as Jamie kissed the boot of the last player that the laughter started. Belly laughter. But captain Nicks gave Jamie a big hug and the tension that Jamie was feeling earlier was gone.

The manager walked in just as the laughter started to die down. Seeing all the boots lying on the floor in a semi-circle, he realised what had just happened.

"So I see that the boys caught you out Jamie?"

The boss knew his name?

"Well don't worry Jamie - they'll all be kissing your boots in the days, months and years ahead. Because you're starting today on the left wing - I hope number twenty one sits well with you?"

Jamie could barely utter a response. He managed a nod.

He pulled on the red jersey and shorts. He checked his shin pads were in place about five or six times. He laced up his black boots and drank some fluids. The bell rang inside the dressing room. The boss spoke passionately, giving everyone instructions on their role.

The last thing Jamie did before entering the maelstrom of noise was pull on his granddad's arm sweatbands.

The long journey was over. Jamie stepped onto the turf to make his debut. His father cried tears of joy.

Ghost Fires.

Cracked timbers. Rotting remains. Exposed and tarred metal beams. Loose wiring hanging from every possible orifice of the near crumbling entrance. The smell of sweet magnolias drifting in from across the street brought a harsh contradiction to the scene in the detached old Georgian house.

It was the third inconclusive fire Joe had inspected in the past seven days. All the fires had occurred within four square miles of the city centre. Something was beginning to smell, and it wasn't the stench of water damaged debris.

"Inconclusive initial evidence of foul play," read the lead officer's report from the night previous. Joe flicked through the preliminary photographs. The Chief on scene was a good man and third generation firefighter. He knew his stuff inside out.

Joe entered a familiar scene. He was one of only three fire investigation officers in the greater Dublin area. He had put in the hard time as a firefighter himself, but decided after twelve years of putting them out - he wanted to know what started them in the first place.

He stepped carefully through the remnants, making notes on a small notebook. He felt a distinct chill in the air of the front room, despite the muggy July evening. He inspected the electrical outlets first, avoiding the wires that protruded from their caging. Water continued to drip here and there. Puddles gathered in corners of the first floor. In the far corner of the study, one puddle was frozen over. Joe rubbed his temple with the onset of a headache, probably due to dehydration.

Only the first floor had been badly damaged by the fire. Joe crept slowly onto the second floor of the Georgian house. The staircase creaked and the red carpet squelched stickily underfoot. As he entered the rooms upstairs, he heard a noise downstairs. A metal ping. Like an old typewriter.  Shouting ‘hello’ and hearing nothing back, Joe continued his investigation. His ears popped suddenly.

Finding no evidence of the fire upstairs, Joe went back down. He checked the four rooms on the ground floor for any signs of accelerant. None seemed obvious. Joe looked for smoke and burn patterns. Old electrical wiring systems shorting out, was also discounted. This was consistent with the two previous fires. Fire starting on the ground floor. Point of ignition starting in multiple rooms, all in the centre of the room. His ears popped once again, this time hurting his head for a moment.

The fire seemed to burn over on itself, consuming all available oxygen within the rooms. Each room had the same signature. A knot began to develop in Joe's stomach.

As Joe considered his thoughts he noticed that the black hairs on his left arm were raised – but they weren’t on his right arm. He felt cold air on the nape of his neck. It was time to leave. He heard the ping again, just as he exited the gap from where the front door once stood.

Once outside, he rapidly began to sweat. He felt as if he was being watched, and not from the neighbours. Trying hard to dispel the notion of other worldly beings, he considered the evidence in front of him.

The doors were closed in all the rooms. This would have restricted the movement of the fire. Fresh oxygen would make the blaze grow faster and stronger. But this got hot and would have been fairly easy to contain. Joe consulted the Chief's report. It stated that the fire was under control within sixteen minutes. This was consistent with his initial findings. The pressure from his headache was rapidly building.

Joe wiped his brow from the heat of the setting sun. He grabbed his Ipad from the car and pulled up the reports from the previous two fires. Both followed the exact same pattern. Fires initiated on the ground floor. He heard the ping again, louder and more insistent.

But how would someone start a fire in multiple rooms, at the same time? Keeping doors closed so that the fire would not spread upstairs? As if to only damage the first floor? Joe scratched his head in despair – the heat and feeling of someone crowding him was muddying his thought process.

Glancing through the details of the two previous fires, he found the exact same details popping up again and again. Nothing electrical or suspicious jumped out at him. The ping sounded louder once again.

This was someone out for revenge. Trying to send a message. But who had this capability? Even the most skilled of arsonists would have trouble figuring out the complex logistics of such an elaborate scheme.

There was something here. Trying to get his attention.

Staring back at the now charcoal covered red brick at the front of the house, Joe saw a blue and white circular plaque to the left of the front door. The type of plaque that adorned the front of historic buildings.

That was it. His headache lifted. He felt taller and stopped sweating.

Joe scrambled through the pictures of both houses from the past week. They too had blue and white plaques. He hadn’t noticed them before. He didn’t consider them to be relevant.

They were all former homes of the poet and writer Theodore Priestfield. Joe had seen newspapers reports in the past few days, exalting his works. Bringing his name up on Google, it stated that the poet had died exactly one hundred years ago - today. It also mentioned the fire from the first house earlier in the week. The article went on to state that his four houses were now part of the Literary Bus Tour of Dublin.

Four houses?

Joe scrolled frantically through further archived articles. The fourth house was rebuilt entirely with money from the National Lottery. It had burnt down and was knocked for the public’s safety.

Joe read the urban myths at the bottom of the page. Theodore apparently did all his best works on the ground floor of all his abodes, in the study. His wife grew tired of his love toward his work and not her. She reputedly had many affairs with many young men of the Dublin social scene.

The myth continued to say that Theodore Priestfield was killed in a fire by one of his wife’s ex-lovers. In the only house still standing unscathed. That same house also was rumoured to be haunted. Even the Literary Tour seemed proud to mention this in their literature.

Joe quickly started the engine. The final piece of the article of the urban myths section sent a shiver throughout his body.

Theodore was killed in a fire that started at sundown.

Joe had seven minutes left.

Bastard.

I couldn't move. The creak on the top of the stairs announced his nearing presence. He roared my name knowing that no one would hear his cry. No retribution for his evil actions.

He sniffed the air, taking in the pleasure of knowing my impending torment. He knew I was nearby. The haze of alcohol was impeding his judgement though.

I tried to stifle everything - breathing, movement and voice. I wanted to scream out but knew no one would hear my cries of desperation.

I swallowed hard. He paused on the second to last step.

He consulted his phone. He flicked a few numbers and slipped it back into his torn jeans breast pocket. I could see his wobbliness through the crack of the door.

Then it came. It assaulted my nostrils with an acrid venom. The stench of a man who hasn't washed in many days. Mix in rolled up cigarettes, physical labour and bourbon whiskey. And a fascination with eating fish.

I brought my knees up to bury my head between. I tried to muffle my gag reflex.

I breathed in the remaining embers of fabric softener that still clung to my dress. It took me away from the moment. To a time when my mother sang in the kitchen and cooked apple pies. His deepened roar brought me back to the present.

I could tell that he was getting impatient.

This happened nearly every Sunday evening. He would fall out of his truck, stumble up the two wooden steps on the porch and come looking for me. He would raid the few last pieces of food from the fridge and then come charging. He was predictable.

I was getting to the point where I no longer cared. I wouldn't fight back like I used to. I think I had no fight left in me. I lifted my head out of the scrunch from underneath the stairs. I opened the latch and expected to hear him shout at me.

But all I heard was a dull thud. No shouting.

Then I heard wheezing.

I walked into the back porch to see my prick of an abusive father clutching his chest.

His left hand grabbed at his food stained shirt. His right hand clutched a chicken drumstick hung near the carpet. His eyes wavered in desperation at me.

I slowly approached him and was amazed at how calm I was. He was gasping for air. His wheezing asked me to call for an ambulance.

I shushed him and rubbed the damp sweaty hair out of his eyes. My reassurance seemed to settle him for a second or two.

Then I picked up the chicken leg and sat on the opposite couch.

Then I watched the bastard die.

Tom, Peeping.

The coffee cup was drained of its last dregs. Tom sucked on the polystyrene, leaving teeth marks on the edge. He cast it aside onto the floor of the back seat. He couldn’t risk pissing in public in the alleyway adjacent to his car. The foot traffic was heavy and this neighbourhood was respectable.

Bella was due home anyhow. He would have to leak into a large empty two litre bottle and concentrate on the job at hand. As Tom fished around the floor underneath the drivers’ seat, he heard the distinctive click of her heels on the pavement.

His window was ajar and the waft of garlic and rosemary from nearby Italian restaurants filled the air. A light breeze tickled the branches on the trees, now fully in peak summer’s bloom.

He checked the battery on the long lens. It was full. The short range handheld was three quarters full. His notepad and pen sat on the passenger seat, on top of the greasy wrapper from the local sandwich delicatessen. Tom pulled his glasses from the top of his head and placed them over his eyes. It was time for work.

He first noted the time of Bella's arrival. She was on time, as per usual. Her long, slender legs climbed the eleven steps to her front door. Her navy blue suit and three inch heels complimented her fine shapely figure. Her jacket was unbuttoned at the front.

Tom clicked away on his camera, catching a brief glimpse of her torso through her fluttering blouse as she turned the key in the front door of the brownstone. She held the door open while she disabled the alarm system.

Her dark brown hair was released from the tight grasp of her clip as she entered the front living room. She stood for a moment in front of the window, running her fingers through her tousled, wavy locks. Tom continued to click away, revelling in the fact that this was easily the most satisfying stakeout he ever had. Her husband obviously had his reasons for suspecting her of infidelity.

She left the living room and her shadow informed him that she was venturing upstairs. Curtains were drawn in the bedroom, leaving the imagination to wonder in the world of silhouettes. Slowly, she undressed.

The extractor fan began to spew out steam from the master suite. Almost ten minutes later, her shape reappeared. Tom was sure he could make out her brushing her hair, sitting at her bureau.

Tom continued to make notes. After almost one hour upstairs, she returned downstairs to the kitchen. She poured a large glass of red wine and proceeded to make some phone calls.

A delivery boy from one of the local restaurants skipped up the steps at a little before 10pm. She answered the door in a plain white silk dressing gown, which continued to accentuate her ample bosom. The delivery boy noticed it too, tipping his hat in the air as he descended the steps.

Tom noted the constant flicker of a television screen as the night began to draw in. Bella walked around switching off lights, before retiring to bed just at 11.30pm. She then reset the internal alarm. A nearby car slammed shut, stirring Tom as he himself began to think about drifting off.

Bella wandered around her bedroom for approximately five minutes before finally extinguishing the her bedside lamp. Tom took one final picture with his time stamp before turning the key in the ignition of his beat up Toyota.

Then he heard a scream come from the direction of her bedroom.

Then he saw the briefest flash of light. It then flashed twice more.

Muzzle flashes. But no sound of gunfire.

Tom scooted down in his seat and angled his long lens on the house. He shot a rapid burst from the camera.

He captured the shot of the man who had employed him in the first place.

He was briskly walking directly toward Tom’s car.

Tom’s foot suddenly searched for the gas pedal.

Intrusion.

I bolted upright. The apartment buzzer rang long and loud. I glanced quickly at my watch which read 3.27am. I moved deftly toward the front door. Living on the ground floor, I could hear whomever was pressing the buzzer was mumbling - something very incoherent. And they weren't alone.

Staying within the confines of my own apartment, I listened intently. All six apartments were buzzed in the hope that someone would release the lock on the communal door. I hoped everyone like myself would ignore it. Then the lock disengaged.

I checked the panel display on the alarm system - it was still armed. I heard shuffling on the carpet as they entered. I couldn't make out the accents or what was being said. Then I heard a dull thud. And whispered voices.

I walked to my bedroom window to peer out. A taxi hadn't dropped off our two intruders. They had come on foot. I picked up my phone and scrolled down to the number of the local Garda station. Then the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

The rattle of keys only inches from my front door.

My keys were already in the lock - they fell to the floor as the key entered from the far side. I dialled the number on my phone and picked up my keys.

"Hello? This is not your apartment! You will set off the alarm if you enter! You have the wrong apartment!"

"Open the fucking door! NOW!"

"I am ringing the Gardai right now. You are trying to enter a private residence!"

"Open the fucking door Marie!"

"Marie does not live here - you have the wrong door and wrong apartment!"

"You have two seconds to unlock this door before I kick it in Marie!"

"I don't know who Marie is! No one by that name has ever lived here!"

"Don't try to bullshit me! I know she has a new fella! What's your fucking name?"

"I repeat - I do NOT know a Marie. Marie has NEVER lived here! You have the wrong apartment! This is apartment 6B!"

"Open the fucking door asshole!"

I knock his key from the door and reinsert my own. I turn the key to prevent it being knocked out again. Then the attack begins. It near knocks me from my crouched position as I try to peer out of the keyhole. All I see is a boot coming toward the keyhole. Two grown men trying to kick the door down.

I get through to the Gardai. An officer, sounding very groggy, answers. I state the facts clearly and concisely. He takes a moment to write down the details. He can clearly hear the commotion going on in the background. The noise is deafening and the lock is loosening.

The Gardai won't get to me in time.

I have to make a decision to fight or flight. Putting on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and slipping into my runners I grab the spare set of keys. I hear wood splintering with drive of shoe leather. I lock the bathroom door and slip the key into my pants pocket.

I guess I have about ten seconds left. I grab my hurley from the coat cupboard.

Running from the bedroom through the hall and past the front door I open the window to the living room. The alarm goes off immediately as I open it ajar. Adrenaline fuels my every sinew. I leap out the window as I hear the door giving way. I close the window over and hop over the banister. I hear loud shouting amongst a wailing alarm as the two men enter.

It takes me only fifteen or twenty seconds to run around the apartment block. A small crowd of neighbours and semi-sober Saturday night clubbers are just passing and wonder what the commotion is all about.

I have the element of surprise.

My neighbour upstairs peers cautiously out from her front door. I wave her back indoors. The constant hammering of boots on wood has made utter smithereens of the four inch thick wooden front door.

I grab my hurley at the midpoint and take a deep breath. The two men are now kicking intently at the bathroom door. My plan is working. The alarm screams and muffles my approach.

I am less than five feet away and they do not turn around. The smell of alcohol is almost overpowering.

Their gait and stances are faltering. They are tired from pummelling the front door.

I have the legal right to defend myself against unwanted intruders.

I will defend my castle.

Exacting Revenge.

He wiped his nose in his sleeve as the verdict was read out. He didn't even stand. The lead juror stated what I feared was coming. The prosecutor told me that a worst case scenario was possible. I crumbled to the floor, hitting the side of my head off the wood in front of me. I bled, but a deeper darkness enveloped me. I was numb.

The next thing I remember was being lifted into an ambulance. My only remaining family member, Jessica, held my hand through muffled sobs. My twelve year old daughter was fast becoming a woman. My health suffered in the months after my wife and son had been brutally and savagely taken from us.

The stress of hospital bills, funerals and prosecuting one of the city's top officials all took their toll. That bastard, Brendan Houston, had driven home drunk and killed two members of my family. My wife, Imelda, survived on a life support machine for three weeks, but it was all in vain. My son, Jason, was killed instantly. He was six years full of innocence.

Brendan Houston was a city councillor, sitting on two of the five most lucrative executive boards in New Mexico. He was in his early fifties and was one slithery customer. He had never run for office as affairs and two failed marriages all but counted him out by top Republican brass. But he had uses and they had kept him on for more nefarious schemes. Houston was a cigar-smoking, back-slapping, scotch-drinking, plaid-sport-jacket wearing, red-cheeked asshole.

I knew I couldn't prove it, but I knew he was behind pushing my medical insurance beyond it's threshold. There were tests performed on my wife that weren't necessary, that pushed the bills beyond a certain point. I was then liable for the shortfall - money of which I couldn't spend to investigate and prosecute the bastard. I worked in the IT department of the hospital where my wife had died.

I could testify first hand that Houston was a dangerous man. Three nights before the trial started, one of his goons paid me a visit. My strength hasn't been what it used to be, and I could barely raise my wrists to defend myself. Even my bruised face in court didn't seem to make a difference to the jurors. A journalist friend told me six months later, that he suspected that two of the jurors had been bought. He had no proof of that action either.

On returning to work, I was informed that because of my ill attendance, I would have to re-apply for my old position. His influence was fast becoming a joke at this stage. But considering I was one that had suffered tremendous loss in the past year or so, my bosses threw the paperwork in the bin and reinstated me. If I had lost my job, I may have thrown in the towel. I would have had no means to pay bills, pay for school for Jessica - I owed my co-workers a huge debt of gratitude.

Almost two years had passed since then, and my level of anger toward that bastard still had not dissipated. Not only was I reminded of his sins whenever I saw his picture in the papers, but he seemed to be gaining further influence. He was now sitting on the Republican Committee for Presidential Nomination.

Now he had power outside the state. This asshole had to be stopped.

His downfall began when "on a night out with friends", he had a mild heart attack. I had heard that he was in the company of two hookers in a sleazy motel, off route I-96. And his attack wasn't mild - it near killed him.

His file actually passed over my desk as I input the list of patients up for stent, bypass and pacemaker heart surgery. I nearly fell off my chair when I saw his name.

This is where I decided I had to be the one to stop him. I had to kill Brendan Houston.

That morning's paper gave me the idea. It was the technology section of the Albuquerque Journal. I deemed it was fate's way of telling me to carry out karma.

I told no one of my plan. This would give plausible deniability for everyone if anyone suspected anything untoward. If I did this right, it would look like an accident.

I rented a flat in the city, paying cash and using an alias that only my former wife, Imelda, would figure out. It felt right to use the pseudonym, like she was playing a part. I paid in cash for three months rent upfront, including deposit. No one actually saw me come in or go out of the flat.

I purchased a small laptop, mobile phone and mobile Internet key and left it in the flat, later the following night. I placed them in a sealed plastic bag under a dingy looking bed, out of sight.

Back at work, the order was approved to process the health insurance information for Brendan Houston's new pacemaker. His slow-beating arrhythmia deemed that he needed the JP230 pacemaker.
Houston had the surgery, which went according to procedure. He was advised not to undergo any contact sports or strenuous physical activity for a period of a minimum of one month.

Once Jessica was asleep in bed, I would sneak out to my rented flat. This was where I could stop - but I didn't want to. The thrill of it excited me.

I downloaded dangerous malware software to my laptop. And then I sent it to one of the duty managers at the hospital under the guise of an email stating they had won money in a Sweepstakes competition. I then went home to sleep.

The following day my malicious email was opened. It caused chaos on our ageing internal system. Myself and another colleague were charged with fixing the problem. It was going to take some time, we explained. I accessed the one computer with all the information on installed pacemakers.

Knowing that Houston was at home recuperating from his surgery, I rang an escort agency. I sent him a present, wrapped in black silk and beige overcoat. I made sure that she told him that she was a present "from the party".

I sat outside in my car and opened my new laptop. I wore plastic gloves since opening the box. Giving them at least ten minutes to get acquainted, I watched their silhouettes dance amongst the shadows of the bedroom.

I entered the pass key for Houston's pacemaker.  I activated the short wave antenna on his pacemaker.

I didn't hesitate. I hit the enter key to "Deactivate."

I waited for three minutes until I heard the oncoming rush of ambulance siren. I drove to my flat and
dropped off the laptop. I started a slow fire and pulled the fire alarm as I exited. No one saw me enter or exit.

The next morning's front page headlines read:

"City councillor Brendan Houston has been found dead at his home in the city. Mr. Houston died from natural causes, having recently been the patient of heart surgery. He was a prominent member of the Republican Party and was recently elected onto the Committee for Presidential Nomination. According to an unconfirmed report, Mr. Houston recently had a pacemaker fitted and was undertaking strenuous activity with a friend at his home. The Police have unofficially deemed that this is a death by natural causes and that there are no suspicious elements to the case pending a full autopsy."

Now my family had closure.

A Feeling.

Madge couldn't believe her eyes. A former colleague was her new boss. The last time they had seen each other was a brief snog in the handicapped toilet - six years ago at the office Christmas party.

Her former equal had moved up the corporate ladder - Madge career hadn't. They were both on the same pay grade when they messed around. Now her new boss mingled with her co-workers, shaking hands and slapping backs.

The new boss proceeded on the rounds of the entire office, saying hello to everyone. Madge knew that her insignificant logistics corner would be last on the tour. It was a simple shake of the hand and "Nice to see you."

There seemed to be little realisation of their fumble in the dark, and if there was, her boss hid it well. However, something unexpected happened. As they shook hands, a shiver went down Madge's 39-year-old spine. Like an electric current.

As Madge stumbled back into her seat, nearly missing the chair, her boss looked back with concern.

"Are you okay?"

The simple question and mild embarrassment at her own awkwardness, could only muster a grunt in reply from Madge. Her boss looked on with soft eyes, pausing as if for effect.

"It's good to see your familiar face once again Madge."

Madge considered herself unlucky in love. She nearly got married nine years ago, but called it off at the last miinute. Something just didn't feel right.

For the rest of the day, Madge found herself staring off into space. She was always focused and achieved results, but the new boss's arrival had thrown her. During a moment of escapism, her stare wandered over to her new bosses' glass panelled office.

As Madge stared, the tiny blonde hairs on her arm stood to attention. Her palms became sweaty. She found herself biting the side of her bottom lip. The slam of a metal filing cabinet snapped her out of her daydream.

As 6pm neared, Madge got up to use the toilet before quitting time. Most of the office had already filtered home. As she sauntered down the hallway, her new bosses' door swung wide open. The new boss beckoned Madge inside. Madge straightened her skirt before entering.

"Close the door over Madge, would you? Thanks a million."

"Sure. What's up?"

"Take a seat. There's no need to be standing. Sure we're old friends. How long has it been? Five? Six years?"

"There or thereabouts. What did you want to see me about?"

"You really haven't changed one bit. I'm delighted to see you still with the company."

"Well, it does pay the bills!"

"Yes it certainly does. What I mean is, I'm glad to see you still here. We didn't part on the best of terms last time around. Let me make up for that last occasion."

"Oh! You don't waste time."

"Please don't take this the wrong way - I'm not trying to make you feel awkward here in any way. I just want to clear the air between us and eh, move on."

"Oh, okay. I would like that too."

"Good, good."

"But it is good to see a former cellmate doing well."

"Former cellmate - that's funny! Em, I'm nearly finished up here - are you?"

"Well I was just on my way to the bathroom before I head home to eat my dinner for one."

"You don't fancy a drink, do you? I've had one long day and would love to catch up with what's going on here."

"Yeah I suppose I could. But I don't know how to address you exactly. Is it boss or what do I call you?"

"It's Olive to you."