He’d had to come up here to get away from the stench. Samira’s body was liquefying, turning black and melting into the floorboards, covered in blossoms of green mould, crawling with flies and maggots. The decay had accelerated after he’d cut her stomach open. He should never have done that. Let all that foulness out. Released the bacteria that lived in there. He couldn’t eat any more of her and he was getting hungrier and hungrier. He needed to eat again and Boney-M wasn’t helping. All the filthy bird did was screech into his ear, his voice drilling into Paul, burning through his eardrum like acid. Mashing and mangling his brain so that he couldn’t think straight.

He itched all over, wanted to scratch his skin off, to let the heat out somehow, wanted to drive a spike into his brain and release the poison that was pooling inside his skull. The air pressed down on him; even the light seemed to want to get at him. It was drilling its way in through every window, every crack and gap. It hurt his eyes just thinking about it.

There was only one thought that eased the pain. The thought of fresh meat.

He had to go down there again. He had to find one he could catch, just a little one, even at the risk of being spotted. Because he had to eat and the only thing he could imagine eating was one of them. The thought was like a warm, safe spot deep in his heart. Deep in his guts.

He’d been so close last night. If that stupid girl hadn’t stopped him he could have dragged Cameron up here. Fresh meat. That’s all he wanted …

‘Fresh meat.’

‘What’s that? Did little Pauline pickle-dickle say something?’

‘I need fresh meat.’

‘Well. What’s stopping you, darling?’

‘Nothing.’

Paul sat up and licked his dry lips. He could hear Boney-M still shouting, but couldn’t see him, and it wasn’t only him: there were other voices, distant and small, hundreds of them, thousands, yammering, buzzing like bees, humming bees, jabbering out their nonsense.

He wished they would all just go away and leave him alone.

‘SHUT UP!’

He lifted his knife and slashed at the stale air, stabbing ghosts. He looked at the blade, flashing and shimmering. Held it close to his face. Sniffed it, taking in the sick smell of death. There was a faint red smear on the steel; he licked it off, tasting the harsh, metallic tang of the knife and the warm, electric jolt of iron in the blood sizzling through his tongue. Electric. Plugging him back in. Ready for action.