He’d had multiple conversations with Stan, until eventually he just stopped answering his calls. For the first few weeks, it was multiple times a day. Then it became once. Then it became a few times a week. A letter came in the post saying that he had terminated their arrangement. He couldn’t represent him anymore due to circumstances beyond his control. Robin knew what he really meant. Standedge—and his actions in Marsden. Whereas before no one had heard of the Standedge Incident, now you would be hard-pressed to find a person in the whole of the British Isles who hadn’t. And with the details of the Incident there was always Robin’s name and how Matthew McConnell came to disappear. No one in publishing was interested in Robin Ferringham anymore, and he couldn’t exactly blame them.

He kept track of the news. Loamfield was finally out of hospital, Claypath was still hanging on to his job by a thread, the Monster and McConnell were still at large. People were apparently flooding Marsden just as the locals didn’t want—taking pictures by the tunnel and wanting to see the place where the Five disappeared into thin air.

Every day, hell, every hour practically, there was a new theory about how it had been done. There were websites dedicated to it, forums with strings of millions of comments. Some theories were outlandish—tales of lizard people and Star Trek beaming—stuff the Ghosts of Marsden could barely dream of. Some theories were less so—puzzles of body doubles and secret hatches. Robin let it wash over him—he couldn’t avoid it but he didn’t engage in it.

There was only one thing he was looking for.

He turned the kettle on for his Pot Noodle, switched on the television and used the bathroom. He surfed the channels for something to watch that definitely would not be about Standedge. He settled on an episode of Most Haunted, narrowly winning out over an episode of Resident Detective.

He started back toward the kitchen and passed the door. He saw it out of the corner of his eye, felt the weight of the key in his pocket. He could always work instead. He turned to the door and nodded.

He made his meal, then unlocked the door, reaching in to turn on the light. The small box room lit up. This was his work, the real work, not serving stupid chicken.