The crazed man, after he was satisfied, placed his hands around the throat of the helpless Irish girl and squeezed powerfully. He continued his attack, until he was certain Beverley was dead. He turned his back to the wall and masturbated, squealing in delight when he was done. He then composed himself, straightened his clothes, and ascended the steps. Hopefully, he thought, the tide would wash away the body before morning.

Sore, hungry, and dehydrated, Naomi Robertson lay on a festering bed and opened her eyes to the unfamiliar surroundings. Her head throbbed and she struggled to focus, due to the intake of Rohypnol. She ran her dry tongue between the gap where her front teeth had once been. Slowly, she made out the interior of the huge-dilapidated brick building

As they drove on the quiet A3320 towards Notting Hill, Doris spoke. “He won’t, you know. He won’t pay the ransom.”Wolfe offered her a reassuring smile, but inside his stomach housed a million butterflies. Shamefully, he passed wind again, the words of his captive disconcerting him on his journey to Shepherd’s Bush.

He shuffled up to the stake and examined the impaled, naked, dead man. The stake entered his anus and protruded through his gaping mouth, his death mask frozen in a look of horror.

Bloody global warming. Funny breed us Brits. We moan when it rains cats and dogs and complain when it’s too hot. Let the protestors emigrate to bleeding Siberia. That’s what I say, eh?