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“The rhythmic creak of quiet footsteps came from the other side of the door. Ruth paused before bowing down to peer through the same keyhole her son had looked through. There was nothing in there except an empty room in worse condition than theirs, peeling walls, mould, grime, no bed, no nothing, save for an undeniable draught of melancholy blowing through the keyhole.”

“And for a very brief moment, the boy thought he was the audience at a strange black light theatre play, where the daemonic hand puppets come up out of the ground from screaming Hell far below. If they were the hand puppets of brooding horror, then the 14-year-old could only imagine the demon’s hands up inside them, working their innards.”

“Big Tom Daly didn’t regard himself as squeamish, but in that infinitesimal moment, Big Tom did indeed scream as an eight-year-old boy might. Never had he felt more alive as he landed on that soft-limbed bed of death. He let out a helpless rollicking wail before rolling off his uncomfortably comfortable rigour Mortis mattress with prickling fear and repulsion.”

“Bill’s conscience whispered to him: Only Billy isn’t your son, not really, and you know that but you don’t want to admit it. Billy was a baby you rescued…stole maybe…from Halloween cult freaks seven years ago, almost to the night. You talk about girls being an unknown quantity? Wrong, Bill, wrong. Those things… those Satanists maybe…on the moors that night are the only unknown quantity you need to worry your sweet little head about. What was really lurking inside those Halloween costumes? That’s right, Billy, the one-in-a-billion-baby, lotsa B’s, never returned to his rightful parents.”

“You’ve done something wrong and you know you’ve done something wrong. Sometimes we’re caught, sometimes we’re not. Justice comes in the strangest of forms. It will float to the surface sooner or later and wash up on your doorstep.”