Just past the opticians into which Daksha and Amit Joshi have just disappeared are a couple of shoe shops. Above the signage and flaking white paint, behind the net curtained sash window of a second storey flat, scenes from the biblical epic King of Kings throw light on the walls and bed where Kieran Monaghan lies back and reaches inside his pants. Monaghan’s room a damp box where bedbugs no longer seek sanctuary in the creases of mattresses or seat cushions, roaming in brazen packs across the walls. Small brown smears mark where they have been beaten with a rolled up Kerryman, their bloated abdomens bursting onto the woodchip. Friday by Friday, the landlord sends one of his boys to collect the seventy pounds for Monaghan’s bed, bills and fresh toilet paper. No work on Easter Saturday and cement caked boots lie kicked over by the door. Monaghan not religious, but it feels profane to be nursing an erection as the Messiah staggers towards his execution at the hands of Roman and Jew. He tries to blank the voices out but it’s no good, his heart’s not in it

“Fuck you, you little bastard".

He reaches for the paper to murder a bug as it crawls quickly over the wall beside the bed and a roach already creeping across a picture of the victorious schoolboys from Pobalscoil Chorca Dhuibhne holding aloft the silver Hogan Cup scurries off onto the maroon carpet.

“Cunt!” Monaghan shouts, as Christ drags his burdensome cross slowly to the place of the skull, called Golgotha.