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By Mark Gatiss

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The balls zoomed towards the pockets as though magnetically attracted. The points mounted inexorably. ‘Speaking of angles’ I said at last, as she whacked the black into the top right pocket. ’ She brushed a coil of hair from her eyes but didn’t look up from her cueing. ’ ‘You seem a very capable young woman to be mouldering away in a Scout camp,’ I said quietly. ’ The cue shushed between her fingers. The white smacked into the red but it made an ugly noise. The ball hit the cushion and bounced off.

One, its suckers big as two-shilling pieces, was clamped to the glass. The creature seemed to consider Box with detachment, then, tentacles spreading like petals, it darted away into the cloudy water. He moved silently on, the thrumming metronome of the generators keeping time with his own thumping heart. Shaking his head, he tried to clear the image of Stiletto from his mind. He needed to be alert now as never before. But the girl’s shimmering beauty, the memory of her body–warm and urgent beneath his–jutted to the forefront of his mind like the Hammerhead against the glass wall of its prison.

An unnecessarily ginger vicar droned through the usual eulogies and then clapped shut the soggy pages of his Bible. I tossed a posy of flowers into the grave: crimson roses for mourning, violets for modesty, sunflowers for loyalty and baby’s breath for love everlasting. Propped against a nearby headstone was a rather ugly arrangement of blooms, done up into the shape of a bottle of squash. The ‘M’ for ‘Miracle’ trademark had been picked out in poppies. I noticed my gloves were smeared with wet mud but Miss Beveridge was there in an instant, proffering a clean handkerchief.

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