Baboons should be shot on sight in my book, the little fuckers. Make no mistake, investigators camping near a pack's territory are in for a rough night. Baboons are absolutely fearless. They throw stones, brazenly break into vehicles, steal equipment of all kinds, eat rations and vigorously masturbate at every opportunity. Just like the kids of Moss Side. While they spend their lives bickering and screaming at each other, in combat they act as one. The preferred tactic is to grab a leg and snap it with their immensely powerful jaws. Once downed, the pack tear the victim to pieces. They use this tactic to kill leopards, and have been known to attack human villages in the wild.

There is a way out of Timsdown West, if you know where to look. There’s a place just beneath the roof of the northern block, in the maintenance space between the top floor and the roof itself. It’s dusty and dirty, covered with rat droppings and illiterate graffiti. Used condoms lie in the corners, a reminder of local kids' attempts to relieve the boredom. But there’s something else here, too. There's a door. A door to the other side.

These agents apparently neither saw nor heard anything unusual until screaming began from within the bedroom at around 11.15 pm. They then forced entry into the room to find Petrucci on the floor, "writhing in pain". Over the course of the next few seconds, the Marshals reported that Petrucci’s skin began to blister and char.

He will start getting passing glimpses of a disquieting figure, a street person, a bum wearing an ages-old anorak, the hood pupped up and completely dark. The shadowy figure stands on corners or at the end of alleyways, or along the highway as the character drives by, but will be impossible to track or to contact.

People who have joined ISAS talk of how they found themselves haunted by the ghosts of Atlantis. A television snows over; the picture clears and suddenly shows a group of Rmoahals striding across long-sunken mountains, airships soaring above the clean Atlantean canals, Atlantean priests enagaging in rituals for the evolution of their race. The phone rings, and the voice at the end of the line is crackly, inhuman, shares a few of your secrets, tells you that the Masters are watching over you. You get a hundred text messages, and they all say the same thing, and it’s in classical Greek, Hebrew, and in languages nobody seems to recognise. If you’re followed around by these things, you’ll nearly always somehow find your way to ISAS.