There was applause and I was dragged towards the main door, covered in confetti and made to pose for a wedding photograph. For the picture the sticking plaster was removed so I had time to make my protestations.

'No coerced wedding was ever recognised by law!' I bellowed. 'Let me go right now and I may not report you!'

'Don't worry, Mrs Townsperson,' said Mrs Passer-by, addressing me, 'in ten minutes it really won't matter. You see, we rarely get the opportunity to perform nuptials as no one in here ever gets married – the Well never went so far as to offer us that sort of luxury.'

'What about the others you mentioned?' I asked, a sense of doom rising within me. 'Where are the other brides who were forced into marriage?'

Everyone looked solemn, clasped their hands together and stared at the ground.

'What's going on?' I asked. 'What will happen in ten minutes—?'

I turned as the four men let go of me, and saw the vicar again. But he wasn't cheery this time. He was very solemn, and well he might be. Before him was a freshly dug grave. Mine.

'Oh my God!' I muttered.

'Dearly beloved, we are gathered …' began the vicar as the same townsfolk began to sniffle into their hankies again. But this time the tears weren't of happiness – they were of sorrow.

I cursed myself for being so careless. Mr Townsperson had my automatic and released the safety catch. I looked around desperately. Even if I had been able to get a message to Havisham I doubted whether she could have made it in time.

'Mr Townsperson,' I said in a quiet voice, staring into his eyes, 'my own husband! You would kill your bride?'

He trembled slightly and glanced at Mrs Passer-by.

'I'm … I'm afraid so, my dear,' he faltered.

'Why?' I asked, stalling for time.'

'We need the … need the—'

'For Panjandrum's sake get on with it!' snapped Mrs Passer-by, who seemed to be the chief instigator of all this, 'I need my emotional fix!'

'Wait!' I said. 'You're after emotion?

'They call us Sentiment Junkies,' said Mr Townsperson nervously. 'It's not our fault. We are Generics rated between C-7 and D-3; we don't have many emotions of our own but are smart enough to know what we're missing.'

'If you don't kill her, I shall!' mumbled Mr Rustic, tapping my 'husband' on the elbow. He pulled away.

'She has a right to know,' he remarked. 'She is my wife, after all.'

He looked nervously left and right.

'Go on.'

'We started with humorous one-liners that offered a small kick. That kept us going for a few months but soon we wanted more: laughter, joy, happiness in any form we could get it. Thrice-monthly garden fetes, weekly harvest festivals and tombola four times a day were not enough; we wanted … the hard stuff.'