‘Look, Stanislav. Look at me. You remember me, don’t you? You remember Dalip Singh, who you taught to fight with a knife, to save his life in the pit? You remember training me, all the hard work you put in, the way we escaped in the end? You remember that? Because that’s you, that’s the real you. This thing in front of me now, that’s not Stanislav. It’s not the man I remember. That’s—’

The gurgling sucking noise came again, and between the pops and bubbles he could hear distinct words.

‘Me. This.’

‘You were never that. You were never a killer, never a murderer, never a …’ Dalip’s voice dried up. He realised the truth, and put out an arm to reach across in front of Mary, to push her behind him as he stepped back. ‘It doesn’t have to be this way. We all got a new start, every one of us. Even you. It doesn’t matter now what you did then. All that matters is what you do now.’

He could feel Mary press the hilt of the knife into the palm of his hand. His fingers closed around it.

Stanislav seemed to melt in front of them. The effort of keeping human form was no longer required. He slumped, the top of his head sinking and flattening, his legs turning to puddles of wax. Eyes popped out like bubbles, and the skin twisted and rose into ropes.

They were outside. The wind was tearing at them, and the sky was ablaze with ragged streaks of light. Inside, the transformation was almost complete. Stanislav swelled and undulated, but rather than follow them, he started back towards the stairs.

‘Hey,’ shouted Dalip. ‘Not that way. Look at us. Us.’

Stanislav ignored them, and continued his slow advance toward the staircase. The mass that was his torso divided, and divided again: the first of four legs of protoplasmic flesh felt its way to the top of the first step, dragging the body along after it.

‘We have to do something.’ Mary stood in the doorway and the debris on the floor rose up at her command. She flung it, piece by piece, at Stanislav’s back.

Such was the concentrated barrage that Dalip couldn’t get anywhere near, reduced to watching lengths of wood, bottles, and pans snap forward, accelerated into a blur and crash into the figure on the stairs.

Except it had little effect. Stanislav had no bones to break, no muscle to bruise. Everything seemed to bounce off him. Mary tried harder, putting extra effort into each missile, grunting with the effort.

Now that did get them noticed. Stanislav writhed, tentacles bursting out to bat the hurled objects aside. Eyes congregated, blinking wetly in the shine. Mary was throwing everything at him, and he took it all.