‘Phil?’ I asked, just his name being enough for him to know I was offering to refill his glass. ‘Thanks, Ron,’ was all that was needed in reply. ‘And you, mate?’ I said looking at the new guy. ‘Why, thank you, I’ll have a still orange if I may?’ he replied in what I thought was an unnecessarily loud voice. ‘Hey, look, grab a pint quick, whilst Ronny’s buying,’ Phil chimed in. ‘It’s happy hour and it ain’t that often the miserable old bugger offers to buy a round.’ Phil was right. Most likely I’d buy that first round and then sit at my corner of the bar and sulk for the rest of the evening. Of course I’d be drinking anything that was steered my way. ‘No, thank you very much, I don’t touch alcohol. I’m an alcoholic!’ The new guy announced. I do believe taking everybody in the bar except George by surprise. ‘Ex-alcoholic you mean. You look sober enough to me,’ Phil commented. ‘No,’ the guy said, ‘there is no such animal, I’m afraid. You’re either a drunk alcoholic trying to kill. Howard Suydam was no run-of-the-mill fornicator. That fair girl dangling so tantalisingly on her rope was supposed to be sacrificed to an unspeakable entity. We cannot have that, can we? Most people had a wrong picture of this avocation: There were no blokes in black cowls chanting ‘Hail Satanas’ around an upside-down pentagram painted on the ground. Things were a little more… serious. Sensing things starting to get serious indeed, Sibyl readied herself, taking aim through the scope. Three hundred and fifty metres — even with the weaker sub-sonic ammunition and considerable wind speed no problem. On the white carpet, Suydam started to tense up as his mind reached out beyond the protective hull of what humankind misconstrued as reality, bending time and distance to its master’s will. On the roof, the dark-haired woman leaned into the butt of her rifle. Sibyl exhaled halfway, then held her breath. Her index finger moved from the frame and found the trigger. Pulled. When the recoil.
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