Outside the storm raged and thunder rocked across the tattered roof of the old lairds house so forcefully it shook the lad’s internal organs. For twenty minutes H Butt, Betty, Will and Clive bickered in strained and terrified voices, as to who should undertake a reconnaissance mission, to the drawing room, to check on Goliath’s now horribly silent bassist. Everyone, except Clive, agreed that he should go – after all he was the manager. He found himself corralled and then shoved, with more force than he thought necessary, up the spooky hallway.

He felt his way along the wall; it was dark apart from flashes of lightning – each one felt like a jolt to his heart and made everything clenchable clench. Nearing the end of the hall he paused, until receiving a sharp hiss of encouragement from H Butt he reluctantly peered around the corner. His mouth dried and his bowel made tentative arrangements to void as a giant flash of lightning gashed across the room, illuminating a bloody smear, as wide as a body; it stretched from behind the sofa, across the dusty wooden floor to the large French windows that suddenly burst open and in roared a swirl of wind and leaves. Clive nearly passed out with fear but after he steadied himself it became clear the smear continued across the threshold and out into the furious night.

Betty took hold of Will’s hand, who squeezed it reassuringly, and H Butt hissed, “Brenda, what the fook is what?”

When Clive found his voice he hissed back that Fingers had ‘gone’. The lads crept forward, pushed Clive ahead into the room but waited to see if anything bad happened before nervously following. All jumped at the next crack of lightning, Betty knocked into H Butt who took an unsteady step to his right and skidded in what was left of Cyclon’s brain, pooled on the floor.

“Oh fook man what we goona do?” Whimpered H  scraping the jelly like substance off his enormous Air Force One ‘Anaconda skin’ Nike trainer. Clive knew there was only one sensible action to take – get the fuck off the island; everyone nodded, except for Will.

‘That there smear leads to our band mate,’ Will said softly, ‘We gotta find him, we gotta try…’aven’t we?”

‘Nah…sod that,‘ said Betty and H at once, each taking a fearful step backwards. Will looked at Clive for support, because he thought somewhere, trapped deep inside, surely there lived a better man? Clive crossed his arms and said, “You can fuck right off.”

‘Fair enough,’ sighed Will, guessing from the amount of visible blood that Fingers, the poor bastard, like Cyclon, was dead.

Fingers remembered being dragged over floorboards, across hard uneven ground but then he must’ve passed out from the pain in his shoulder. He woke gasping for breath, cold and naked. Curled on his side in an empty bath, in a small but clean, seventies era bathroom with the type of pink fitted floor rug, snugged around the toilet plinth, that is now deeply unfashionable with the germ conscious.

Outside the wind howled and nearby branches tapped ominously on the frosted glass of the small window.  His shoulder throbbed and his nose was blocked and swollen to the size of…a haggis perhaps or a vast pate sausage. Looking down, it was wide and black, with a blotch of pink and…carpeted in tough hairs? He gurgled in panic, dragged himself out of the bath, staggered the two steps to the mirror above the salmon pink sink, where for a moment any physical pain agreed a cease-fire. The face reflected back at him was not the one he’d admired the morning before. No, his face was now married (by blood scabbed, black wiry stitches) to Ruby’s snout.

Fingers squealed. Yes, it startled him too – so much so that his new piggy tail wiggled. The shock of which caused him to squeal again, exactly like a pig.

To be continued…