Flesh House

'There you are,' said the voice,'all you need to do is slip that into His guts when He comes back.' 'I've never killed anyone ...' 'If He's hurt Kelley, doesn't He deserve to die?' 'But I'll be trapped in here.' 'Oh, I'm sure He has the keys on him ... In fact, is it even locked? You've not checked for ages, have you?' Heather's eyes drifted across the bars to the heavy Yale padlock. 'Who are you?' 'Who do you think I am?' And suddenly Heather knew. 'You're the Dark.' 'The knife, Heather. That's how it works. If you want to be my favourite, you have to use the knife.' 'But ...' She stepped across to the small gate set into the bars and reached up for the padlock. The Dark was right: it wasn't even locked. Heather sat down on the mattress, the knife cold and vibrant in her hands. The Dark wanted her to do it. Kill the Flesher and be the favourite. Save Kelley. Take His place at the top of the food chain. Live forever in the Dark ... A clunk and He was back, carrying a plate of food that smelt delicious. Liver, onions and creamy mashed potatoes. He stepped up to the bars and Heather tightened her grip on the knife.

The abattoir car park was nearly full. The sounds of cattle and sheep echoed out from round the back of the huge building, where the unloading docks and pens were. Alaba Farm Fresh Meats was back in business. The convoy slipped past and up the small road on the other side - the one flanked with five dilapidated and deserted houses: their windows boarded-up or broken; gardens overrun with weeds and yellow grass; their red sandstone walls stained and blackened, glistening in the headlights. The vans bounced to a halt on the potholed road. Then the doors were flung open and armed officers piled out, charging up to number three in the growing gloom. Logan sat in the car with his fingers crossed, watching as the firearms team took their positions. Alec and his minder from the BBC bringing up the rear. Warped plywood sheets covered the downstairs windows. The door looked as if it hadn't been touched in twenty years - the paint blistered away by weather and time, until there was nothing but grey wood left. The portable battering ram sent it flying inwards. The black-clad figures swarmed inside.

Heather wasn't sure where the noise came from, but the Flesher looked up, His dark eyes invisible in the depths of the mask. Staring at the ceiling. She slipped the knife out from behind her back and slid it into His belly, all the way up to the hilt. Hot blood poured over her hand, making the handle slippery and sticky at the same time as she pulled the blade out and plunged it back in again. And again. And again. The Flesher didn't even make a sound.

The place was a mess: rotting carpet sending up clouds of dust as the firearms team swept through the building. Detective Constable Simon Rennie lurched into what had to be the lounge, the torch attached to his machine pistol picking details out of the darkness: a mouldering sofa; a couple of disintegrating armchairs; a fireplace full of broken crockery; windows boarded over.