He ran the torch round the edges of the slab. It was overgrown with grass and weeds, bedded in with a thick layer of mud. Steel stood beside him, staring down at the septic tank lid. 'There you go: no bugger's moved that for ages. No need to go guddling about in crap after all. Oh dear, what a shame.' She consoled herself with one last cigarette. 'Time to call this little disaster to a halt and bugger off to the pub.' 'Yeah, I suppose you're right.' He stood, torch grazing across the lid one last time. There was a faint glimmer of something white ... Logan bent down and peered at it - a scrape in the side of the concrete, pale cream in the torch's yellow glow. It was the only thing not clarted in mud. 'Come on then, I'm parched.' He took a handful of grass and pulled - it came away from the lid in a slab of spiky green, like a punk toupee. 'It's been peeled off and slapped back on again, so no one would know. Look.' Steel did. 'So, maybe they had it emptied recently, and ...' She stood there, smoking furiously. 'Ah bugger it, we're going to have to search the bloody thing, aren't we?' 'Yup.'
Mr New's voice was a painful whisper in the darkness:'That's him! Are you ready?' Heather shrank back against the wall. 'I don't feel well ...' A rattle and clunk from the door to the prison. 'It's our only chance!' And then Mr New was silent as a shaft of light rushed across the rusty floor. He was lying on his side, arms and legs arranged as if he were still unconscious. As if he weren't dangerous. Enter the Flesher, carrying a bucket of soapy water; the smell of pine disinfectant cutting through the bitter reek of Mr New's vomit. One step, two steps, three steps ... She glanced at Mr New who was mouthing,'Now. Scream now!' at her. Heather moaned. Clutched her stomach. Mr New glared at her, forming words without sound:'Please!' She screamed. The Flesher ran to her, water and foam slopping out of the bucket. Mr New lurched to his feet and charged, lips curled back in a snarl, exposing missing teeth and bloody gums, his face covered in bruises. He slammed into the Flesher's back and they both crashed into the bars. The metal room reverberated with the sound of flesh and bone against metal. The bucket hit the rusty floor and bounced, end over end, the contents spraying out. Mr New reeled backwards, and charged again. BOOOOM! The Flesher staggered. Mr New grabbed the back of the rubber Mrs Thatcher mask and rammed the Flesher's head into the bars. 'Grab his hands! Grab the fucker's hands!' Duncan was right behind her.'
