Extended Weekend: A Deadline Story

We landed in Valletta on a Friday, for an extended weekend. We wanted to escape the routine, be together, unwind, and visit the historical sites of this ancient fortress island of the Knights Hospitaller. It was already mid-afternoon when we checked into the hotel. We took advantage of the remaining daylight for a walk around the city and then enjoyed the traditional rabbit stew for dinner.

It was at the restaurant that I received their message. They paid so well and entrusted me with so many missions that I agreed to always be reachable and to keep them updated on my location. I discreetly opened Signal, hiding the phone under the table. They instructed me to dispatch a certain Tim Philby—photo attached—who was staying at the Osborne Hotel, the same as mine. Damn! Just my luck. I couldn’t refuse; it would break their trust in me. At best, they’d give me fewer jobs—and I certainly needed them. With rising interest rates, my mortgage payments had become astronomical.

The task was complicated: the clock was already ticking, I hadn’t brought my tools, and I didn’t know the terrain. Besides, things were tense with my wife; she suspected—with good reason, I confess—that I was messing around with her best friend. Leaving her alone with the kid, even for just a few hours, claiming “I’ll be right back, I have a quick matter to handle,” was out of the question. What to do?

The next day, at breakfast, I spotted this Tim, a scrawny fellow who left a few minutes later, heading towards the room area. I pretended I’d forgotten my phone in the room and dashed up the stairs behind him. I just saw him entering room 201. Before closing the door, he suddenly leaned back, turned his head towards me, and looked at me suspiciously. This happened quite often: it was prey’s sixth sense in action, like antelopes lifting their heads sensing a predator nearby. It complicated things, as surprise was my greatest ally: if they fled, everything became harder. I pretended nothing and kept climbing.

Luck was on my side. I found a room-cleaning maid, a Filipino immigrant, for whom 200 euros were a great help, and who found me a card to open door 201.

We had an excellent day, enjoying a guided car tour of the island. After returning, I claimed a headache and went out to buy ibuprofen while they stayed drinking hot chocolate.

Entering the hotel, I saw Tim at the bar, drink in hand, laughing loudly with a young blond man. They were both clearly drunk, which was encouraging. The more impaired he was, the better my chances.

We put the kid to sleep in the adjoining room and continued our reconciliation in bed. Afterward, she fell deeply asleep. The diazepam worked. Along with the ibuprofen and another small bottle of ethanol, it had cost me another 200 euros discreetly passed to the pharmacy clerk—another poorly-paid immigrant who pretended to believe the sob story I gave him.

In the bathroom, I crushed the remaining diazepam tablets and dissolved them in the small ethanol bottle. It had to be done tonight. There wouldn’t be another chance. The plan—poorly devised but the best I could muster—was simple: put Tim to sleep as soon as he entered the room, pour this mixture down his throat, hang the “do not disturb” sign, and make my exit. By the time someone ignored the sign and opened the door, he would be long dead. All discreet, no fuss, no collateral damage, minimal risk for me.

I left my room in pajamas and slippers, attire perfectly suited for an innocent strolling the hotel corridors in the middle of the night. My only regret was that the pajamas were so flashy, red with a huge yellow heart pierced by the words “Together Forever,” but it was a gift from her on our last Valentine’s Day, so I had to bring them.

I entered room 201 and hid inside the wardrobe. Motionless, I waited in the dark. Around three in the morning, I heard laughter and loud voices, then the door opening. I realized, dismayed, that he wasn’t alone. Bad luck!

Despite their noise, they were just two drunks. The smell of whiskey reached me first, then marijuana. Their conversation slowed, replaced by different sounds.

I waited resignedly for the giggling, sighing, and moaning to cease. When I heard two distinct snorings, I stepped out of the wardrobe, smiling at the irony.

The room was dark. As I tried to discern who was on the right side of the bed, the bedside lamp suddenly switched on. Sitting up was a young guy. His vacant, red-rimmed eyes stared at me without seeing. He was high.

I gently pushed him back onto the pillow with my left hand while turning off the light with my right. He lay motionless and soon resumed snoring.

I circled the bed. Approaching the headboard, a punch caught me off guard, throwing me to the floor. A shadow jumped over me and ran to open the door, but the security chain stopped his escape.

I leaped up. From behind, I struck him with flat palms on the ears. He collapsed, stunned.

The room lit up, and a falsetto voice asked:

“What’s going on? Who are you?”

I turned toward the bed, where the guy stared at me, his hazy mind struggling to comprehend.

“H-h-help!” he squealed.

I advanced on him. He flailed his arms like a child fighting another, attempting louder cries for help. A punch to the solar plexus silenced him, gasping for air.

The guest in the next room began pounding on the wall.

“Damn! That’s all I needed,” I thought, feeling arms wrap around my neck from behind.

“Help!” Tim shouted, holding me firmly, much louder than the kid.

I bent forward and flipped him over, crashing onto the floor. Change of plans: I put that otherwise useless room phone to work, wrapping the cord around Tim’s neck and strangling him.

Across the room, the thin kid stared wide-eyed, paralyzed like a bird facing a snake.

A siren approached from the street. Had someone called the police? No, hotel staff would surely check first. Time was running out—and I couldn’t afford any delay.

I approached the young man and gently put my arm around his shoulders. He started whimpering.

“Easy, easy. It’s over,” I comforted, stroking his head.

After a moment, I asked:

“Better now?” He nodded.

“Here, drink this. It’ll help.” He opened his mouth passively. I helped him sip the mixture, then eased him back onto the pillow.

I cautiously left the room but encountered no one. Back in mine, not a sound. Just how I’d left it. I crawled into bed, and she snuggled against me.

We woke around nine. We rushed to catch the catamaran for a day in Gozo. On the boat, before falling back asleep, she noticed the swelling from last night’s punch.

“What happened to you?”

“Don’t you remember? You elbowed me hard yesterday…”

“Did I? Poor thing!” she blushed apologetically, kissing me.

Returning later, there were police at the hotel. I asked what happened. The receptionist glanced around, lowered his voice, shrugged, and said:

“A crime of passion… two gays… drugged…”

“A bit prejudiced, this fellow,” I commented to my wife.