“Sunday Bloody Sunday.” That’s what the headlines read the day I left home. The social worker had seen me looking at the paper and turned it over. Like I had cared. Seriously, those people were so gullible. All I had to do was huddle up in the back of a closet and wait for them to arrive, they ate it all up. Whispering voices saying that I’m the boy, the only one who’d survived. What a laugh. Then a couple of years in foster care, those were quite fun, everyone thinking I’m so traumatised, walking around on eggshells. And finally, this, my freedom. So what do you think? Am I doing okay? What’s that? Are you having trouble talking with that gag in your mouth?
I’d tied the man to a kitchen chair which I’d placed in the middle of the living room. So much nicer in here. Mozart emanating from the CD player, the view from the window quite exquisite. I must say, Mr R Dobson had done quite well for himself. The furniture must have used a small zoo and his artwork, well, I’m not too conceited to admit it humbled even me. I had to say, it would be an honour to aid in turning his boring white carpet a delicious shade of red. But not yet. No, it was still Saturday night. Twenty minutes to go before Sunday. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, willing myself to be patient. I do so enjoy Sunday Bloody Sunday.