“Got it in one,” Susan replied. “Thank you so much for the invitation, by the way. I was just telling Gordon here how much of an honour it is to be at one of your Halloween parties.”

“Ah, yes, Gordon Edgley,” said Fawkes, shifting his gaze and holding out his hand. “Very good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Gordon, smiling broadly as he removed one of his gloves. The handshake that followed was unsatisfying and dry. “I’ve loved your books since I was old enough to read,” he said. “I don’t wish to embarrass you, but you’ve been a huge influence on my own work.”

“Have I?” Fawkes said. “I haven’t read your books so I wouldn’t know if I’m supposed to be flattered or insulted.” He laughed. Susan laughed, too, but it was hesitant and accompanied by a frown. “And how are your sales, Gordon? Robust, I hope?”

“I can’t complain.”

“Well, you could,” said Fawkes, “but who would listen, eh? Sales can always be better, can’t they? It still astonishes me, even to this day, the kind of tripe that sells. Are you one of these exponents of splatterpunk that I’ve been hearing about lately? Writers who value vulgar gore over genuine chills?”

“I wouldn’t count myself as such, no.”

“Dreadful stuff. No finesse to their writing. Violence and bloodshed in graphic detail. Where’s the character? Where’s the theme? Where’s the nuance? Cheap shocks, cheap thrills. Blood spills, cheap thrills, eh?” He chuckled at his rhyme. “I’m sure you’re successful enough, Gordon. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Oh? There’s a sales criterion, is there?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Fawkes. “My associates go through the numbers, pick out the writers who are currently in vogue, like you, writers who sell enough books, and their names go on the list.”

“I feel so special.”

Fawkes’s smile faded a little. “I’m sorry, Gordon? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I didn’t quite throw it.”

Now Fawkes’s smile was looking decidedly strained. He took a small spiral-bound notebook from his inside pocket, and flipped through it. “Edgley, Edgley… here we are. Gordon Edgley. Writer of, among others, Caterpillars. Oh, dear… was that the book about the killer caterpillars?”

Gordon reddened. “That’s it.”

“The killer caterpillars who eat people?”

“When they swarm, yes.”

“I’m interested – are caterpillars known to swarm?”

“I took… liberties with the science.”

“I can see that,” said Fawkes.

“They’re a mutant strain of caterpillar that feasts on human flesh.”

“Oh dear Lord.”

“I wrote it when I was nineteen,” said Gordon, a touch aggrieved. “It was my first published book.”

“You’re hugely fortunate it wasn’t your last, dear boy. Carnivorous caterpillars, eh? Have you written the sequel yet? Butterflies? Or the prequel? Larvae?”

Gordon ground his teeth. “They’re in the pipeline.”

Fawkes roared with laughter. “Oh, that is brilliant! That is wonderful!”