"Jolly good, that man." Julian's accent is plummy, camped-up; he peels one of the strips of meat off the plate and stuffs it in his mouth.

Jonquil follows suit, passing the plate to Gareth. "Nom nom nom," she says around her mouthful. "Chewy!"

Goatfuckers, I think fuzzily, then everything goes blank.

The next thing I know, Jonquil's hand is hovering in front of my nose. She's holding a couple of white cylindrical tablets. "Here, swallow these—oh." Her other hand tugs at the glove. I let go of it. She drops the tablets into my mouth, careful not to let her fingers close enough for me to bite. As if I would; all she'd need to do is breathe on that fucking hole in my arm. It's kind of hard to bite someone's fingers off when you're screaming in mortal agony. I try to spit the tablets out but she pinches my nostrils shut. "Naughty naughty!" I hold out until my lungs are burning, but there's only one way this contest of wills can end. "They're only pain-killers," she chides. "By the way, if you don't swallow them toot sweet I'll grind them up and inject them into you, there's a good boy."

Fucking Goatfuckers. She's entirely capable of making good on the threat; I swallow. "What do I taste like?" I ask, trying to distract myself.

"Like raw pork, only not as smoky. Want some? Oh, sorry: the boys have eaten it all." She giggles again. "Don't worry, give the Coproxamol time to work and you'll feel fine for your interview with Mummy."

My heart's still hammering, and I feel a little dizzy. My arm is cold and damp all the way down to my wrist. I don't want to think about how much blood I must have lost. Half a liter? More? Fucking bastard goatfucking cultists. I flash on a momentary fantasy, digging my thumbs into her eye sockets—but only momentary. I have a bad feeling about my right arm. It's throbbing like an overheated diesel engine, sending waves of pain radiating up to my shoulder and down to my elbow. I don't know whether I can bend it. Hell, I probably need surgery to repair what these fine young cannibals have just done. Anything that takes two arms—forget it.

"What are you going to do with me?" I ask.

"Patience, patience! You're going on a magical mystery tour! It'll be fun!" She turns to Gareth. "What's he got in his pocketses?"

"This." Gareth produces my wallet and opens it in her direction. She jumps back with a hiss as my warrant card falls out. "Ooh, nasty! You naughty boy!" She grabs the wallet and turns it round. "Credit card, debit card, driving license, library card, Tesco clubcard. Huh." She pulls out a solitary twenty-pound note. "Civil servant. Right."