The Killer watched the two old ladies through the kitchen window as they prepared and drank their tea. It felt very odd to watch this homely ritual performed by two grey-haired old ladies, knowing in his heart that they countenanced the evils performed by the young men who stayed there. But they would pay, in time. In his head he heard Father McAlister’s burr “Well done lad. You’ll be a true Christian yet.” Or perhaps it was God. He couldn’t tell the difference any more. There were so many voices now. And anyway, Father McAlister had always been a God. Even as Father fucked him or beat him, the Killer had known that it was really God who was doing it, and that he deserved it, because he was a sinner. Because he enjoyed it, despite the pain, despite the humiliation. Because what they did was against God’s laws, and Father McAlister had told him again and again that it was his own fault: that he tempted the older man; that he wasn’t manly enough; that God despised him for his evil, but that Father McAlister would rid him of it.