As they and the other passengers disembarked it seemed to Apex that a horde of maggots abandoned a carcass bereft of further nourishment, and sought their food elsewhere in the larger fields of opportunity proferred by the ticket hall. Attracted by the rich fare, the maggots huddled about timetables and filled out the queues at the enquiry desks. Moans of frustration echoed through the huge Victorian building, rushing about the pillars to annoy people trying to talk on the telephones.

Emerging from the station, Alf and Jackie sought Princes Street and somewhere to buy a map. A heavy Scotch mist seeped through their clothing, dripping off to soak the paving stones under their feet. The rain began to beat the leaves from the trees, intensifying as the thunderheads rolled above and the atmosphere thickened and became more oppressive. The ground was a carpet of muddy reds and dirty yellows.

Passing a building society (closed since it was Saturday afternoon) the two saw themselves reflected myriad times in the sets of glass doors which barred the ingress. Jackie's brown eyes stared back at her set in the round small-nosed face, framed by her long bleached hair. Her thin denim jacket and light cotton skirt hung limply from her thin frame as they were pummelled still more by the rain.

Alf saw a thin-faced and gaunt man with icy blue eyes, dressed Marlowe style in long coat and floppy hat. Deep in the uncertain shadows cast by the multiple layers of glass, he thought he saw a reflection of another man. Also dressed in the coat and hat which screams 'PRIVATE EYE', this man had a fatter face which was meaner for all that. Small dull black eyes stared from the pits formed by his brow and an unpleasant smirk played about his carmine lips. Alf shivered and pulled Jackie towards the welcoming warmth of W H Smiths ahead.

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Apex moved to a different vantage point near Mon's Meg. He took his cue from the great cannon and imagined a cannon ball being fired. His mind followed the path of the great projectile and, landing, splintered into shrapnel, hook-sharp for the mind of du Plex. Caught...

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Alf's serene face seemed to transform suddenly into a mask of seething hatred, with the threat of violence hinted at in every twitch. His eyes snapped open and he sprang from the bed, a look of utter loathing settling upon his features. He desperately looked about the room and his eyes lit upon the sink.

As he stalked across the floor towards the basin, Alf started to mumble. Quietly at first, he began to chant in some language not heard for centuries. Reaching the sink, he picked up his cutthroat razor and opened it to reveal the four inch cutting edge. He gripped the blade in his right hand and began to dance in time to his chant.

The spins and kicks came awkwardly at first, but with each stamping shuffle the chant came louder and with more confidence. As the dance intensified the shadows cast by the nearly full moon seemed to gain substance and join in with the obscene travesty of human movement which the dance had become. The shades grew in stature: their horns grazed the ceiling and their glowing eyes blazed in their hideously goat-like skulls.

The shadows continued to dance around the bed as Alf halted his own steps and moved to hang over Jackie. He cast his arms wide and seemed to implore the heavens for a sign. The lightning that struck the hotel roof seemed to answer his plea, and he swung the blade down in a gleaming arc towards the sleeping woman's throat...

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