Derkhan looked up from an armchair she had pulled into the middle of the back wall, below the window. She was crying fiercely and without a sound. She was clutching a handful of newspapers. Front pages were strewn around her. “Midsummer Nightmares Spread,” said one, and another asked “What Has Happened to Sleep?” Derkhan ignored these pages, cutting out another minor story from page five or seven or eleven in each paper. Isaac could read one from where he stood: “Eyespy Killer Claims Criminal Editor.”

The cleaning construct hissed and whirred and clanked its way around the room, clearing the rubbish, sweeping up the dust, collecting the old papers and fruit debris that littered the floor. Sincerity the badger meandered listlessly along the far wall.

Lemuel shoved Vermishank into the middle of three chairs by the door and sat a few feet from him. Ostentatiously he drew out his pistol and aimed it at Vermishank’s head.

Isaac locked the door.

“Right, Vermishank,” he said in a businesslike fashion. He sat and stared at his former boss. “Lemuel is a very good shot, in case you have adventurous ideas. He’s a bit of a villain, actually. Bit dangerous. And I am not in any kind of mood to defend you, so I recommend you tell us what we want to know.”

“What do you want to know, Isaac?” said Vermishank smoothly. Isaac was enraged, but impressed. The man was damn good at regaining and retaining his aplomb.

That, Isaac decided, would have to be dealt with.

Isaac stood and stalked over to Vermishank. The older man looked up at him idly, his eyes only widening in alarm too late as he realized that Isaac was going to hit him again.

Isaac punched Vermishank in the face twice, ignoring his old boss’s squawk of pain and astonishment. Isaac gripped Vermishank by the throat and lowered himself into a squat, bringing his face next to his terrified prisoner’s. Vermishank was bleeding from his nose, and scrabbling ineffectually at Isaac’s massive hands. His eyes were glazed with terror.

“I don’t think you understand the situation, old son,” whispered Isaac with loathing. “I have sound reason to believe that you’re responsible for my friend lying upstairs shitting himself and drooling. I am not in any mood for sodding around, playing games, going by rules. I don’t care if you live, Vermishank. D’you understand? Are you with me? So here’s the best way of doing this. I tell you what we know—don’t waste my time asking how we know it—and you fill in what we don’t. Every time you don’t answer or the consensus here is that you’re lying, either Lemuel or I will hurt you.”

“You can’t torture me, you bastard . . .” hissed Vermishank in a strangulated wheeze.

“Fuck you,” breathed Isaac. “You’re the Remaker. Now . . . answer the questions or die.”

“Possibly both,” added Lemuel coldly.