It came forward a bit. It made sounds, there was an old rusted fork that was scraping against a small rusted pan lid, making scratches that were like talking, something like talking, as if it was trying to say something to me. There was the moustache cup again, in the centre of its chest, spinning round and round and round, faster than all the other objects.

‘We should get out of here,’ I said. ‘It isn’t safe for us down here.’

Some lids, pan lids, tops of pots, bottle caps, about its person snapped up and down, like many mouths opening. Was it hungry?

‘I don’t have anything,’ I said, ‘nothing on me. I had a door handle once but that’s gone.’

It came closer, there were knives, I saw now, small dirty knives where its hair should have been were it human, and these were striking against each other, making a slashing, scraping sound. I thought, it’s hungry, it’s hungry and it doesn’t understand. It held out a hand to me, a hand wriggling with old piping and handles and bits of old brush, a comb or three, a finger made of an old ointment bottle, another of a teapot spout, one was a bit of pipe stem, its neighbour most of a penny whistle, the thumb was the brass lens of a magic lantern and the little finger the shell of a shotgun cartridge.

‘What do you want?’

More scraping, more whining, more lids snapping, knives snipping. I’ve got to go, I thought, it’ll keep me here too long and then we’ll be found. How to get rid of it, such a sad, longing collection as that? I pulled open a drawer. Nothing much there but a few napkins. A napkin flew out, a saucepan lid opened and the napkin rushed inside. I opened more drawers, I opened drawers all along the dining room wall, and soon the air was thick with things rushing towards the staggering person-thing, and that thing was growing larger. And it seemed to me to be clacking in approval, as if it was laughing. That’s it then, I thought, now’s your moment, if it follows you they’ll have you in an instant, get out now while it’s growing, run, run. Uphouse. Clod.

Footsteps. People coming. I ran. Downstairs then. Downstairs away from them. I could still hear them, getting closer – down I went and down. Where was I, I couldn’t say – deep down, deeper than I’d been before, under the station for sure. Down away from the footsteps. And calling, there was calling too.

‘Closing up! Closing up! Hatches down! Hatches down! Shall be flooded, come up! Come up!’

I ran further along, deeper, deeper into the back rooms.

‘Out! Out!’ I heard. ‘This side! Come up! Hatches down! Hatches down! Come up! Come up!’

On I went, on and on, away from the words.