Logan looked at the centrifuges and their unidentifiable grey loads. 'How much more you got to do?' 'Heaps.' 'OK, go get a cup of tea and--' 'Holy shit!' It was one of the male officers, he had something clamped between his thumb and forefinger, twisting whatever it was, so it glittered in the gloom. Everyone hurried round, peering at the tiny lump in his hand. He dropped it into Logan's open, latex-gloved palm. It was a gold tooth. Ten minutes later someone found another one - the crown for a rear molar. And that seemed to get their eye in. In twenty minutes they turned up half a dozen little lumps of grey-black metal: fillings, some still attached to their teeth. Whoever the Flesher really was, he'd discovered a nearly perfect way to dispose of a body. After the bone mill, the ovens and the centrifuges, whatever solids were left went into another hopper to be ground into powder and sold to pet food manufacturers. God knew how many victims' remains had gone through people's dogs and cats, but Logan got the nasty feeling Thomas Stephen was just the tip of the iceberg.
Warm. Heather rolled over onto her side, smiling in the darkness. She bunched the duvet round her body, enjoying the feeling of fresh pyjamas on her clean skin. The soft swell of the pillow beneath her head. 'It's not that surprising, when you think about it,' said Mr New. He'd calmed down a lot - death seemed to agree with him. Duncan sighed.'She's trying to sleep.' 'Stockholm syndrome they call it. She's been here for so long, dependent on the Flesher for everything: food, water, survival. She identifies with him. Not to mention the physical and mental strain she's been under.' 'She's not mental!' Mr New laughed.'Duncan: we're dead, remember? We're figments of her imagination and we're arguing about whether or not she's off her rocker. I think it's pretty much a moot point, don't you?' 'I ... Yeah, you're probably right.' Heather felt the weight of a body settle next to her in bed. 'And don't forget the knife,' said Duncan. 'Yeah,' Mr New sat on the opposite side of the mattress, the pair of them trapping her beneath the duvet,'you've got the knife now.' Even with her eyes closed she could see it shining pale blue in the darkness, tucked down the side of her cosy new bed. She had the knife - the one that had clattered against the bars when Mr New kicked the Flesher's tin bath over. The knife was long and sharp and glowed like death. 'You could kill Him.' 'He's too big, Mr New. You can't kill Him. He's the Dark. He's always been.' Duncan patted her on the shoulder.'Don't be such a flid, Heather: a person can't be the Dark. The Dark's a thing in its own right. The Flesher's just a man but the Dark ... the Dark is eternal.' Heather tried to get comfortable. 'Can you move over a bit?' 'Are you happy?'
