[ WP ] You are a parishioner at St Patrick 's Church , Mass just ended and Father Murphy is shaking hands and talking to his flock as they exit the church .

``... a visitor'' the old priest murmured. 
 
 I neatly palmed the crucifix into my jacket pocket and kept walking. The weight in my chest was heavier than the little wood in my pocket. A visitor. 
 
 Across the street the Auxiliaries sat there watching. I did my best not to look them in the eyes, afraid they'd see the hate that lived in mine. Any gathering of Catholics was a threat to them, and Mass doubly so. I had no doubt that a few members of the parish were informers. Confession is n't just a sacrament. 
 
 I took the long way down Francis Street to the Liffey. Every few corners I'd pass another group of soldiers or a constable and it felt as if the crucifix would burn a hole right through my coat. We hoped that if they found it when I was searched it would be ignored, or at least abused no differently than usual. If they kenned its secrets, prayer would do me very little good. 
 
 Crossing the river, I made my way to the simple town home I shared with two other families. Reliable people, we thought, who would n't take much notice of my visitor this evening. Still, I drew the shades down tight, and pushed the table in front of the door before I dared reach into my pocket. 
 
 I twisted the little figurine clockwise until it clicked. The spring inside pushed out a sliver of paper wrapped in a tight cylinder. I was always in awe of these little toys... the clever detail that deliberate hands had crafted. The same hands that might make a windup train for your kids or fix your father's watch. I rarely went into any of the jewelers' shops, but I knew that somewhere in the city was another brave man fighting the struggle with those delicate hands. 
 
 My hands are n't for building things, but for breaking them. 
 
 I took the scrap of paper and unrolled it. Three red exes greeted me. Assassinations. Three men to kill. I took it over to the tiny brass candle tray and held it before the flame. In the heat the date 6 April 15 appeared before me. Swearing, I let the paper burn and then snuffed the candle. Two days. Two days! 
 
 Once I was sure all the pieces were burnt, I scraped the table away from the door and stepped cautiously into the garden. The high fence kept out inquiring eyes from the neighbors, and I had the only room that looked down into this little patch behind my home. 
 
 There in the yard was a cistern covered with a large flat rock. I stuck my arm down nearly to the elbow and felt along the underside of the well until I found the familiar rope. Gently, slowly, I pulled up the bucket with its oilskin bag. Hunched over the hole I was careful not to bring the bucket up any further than I had to. I reached in and felt the familiar weight of my Webley double action revolver. A sympathetic, or at least enterprising, quartermaster with the RIC had let a case of these go missing two years ago, and the boys had spread them around to the men of action like myself. 
 
 I took a box of cartridges too, deftly slipping the gun and rounds into my pocket that had so recently held the crucifix. Neatly, I lowered the barrel back down the hole and replaced the rock. A few quick scuffs of dirt and it looked as if it had never been disturbed. With a furtive glance about the yard, I returned to my home. 
 
 I spent the next few hours cleaning the gun, preparing the speed loader, and feeling the satisfying click click click of the action as I pulled the trigger. Satisified, I loaded it and snapped it shut. With its reassuring weight in my belt, I finished a quiet meal and waited for the knock on my door. 
 
 A visitor was coming to see me, one of the men who decides who lives and who dies. I never ask why, and I never fail to complete my mission. Four men are sitting at supper somewhere in the city, and in within fourth-eight hours three of us would be dead. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

