Peter Clutchworthy was out of control! He knew that it was true, but couldn't quite figure out how it had happened. A few hours ago he had been respectful and sophisticated. Now he was hunched over a surgical table, his trousers around his ankles with the still quivering form of Molly Fippersnitch panting beneath him. And he didn't quite know how he'd got here. The melting snake-like things that had been obscuring his vision for an eternity, seemed to be clearing, but he could still see the figure of Heinrich Himmler doing the charleston out of the corner of his eye. Just how much Seraphim had he taken? Even though he couldn't remember, there was no doubt that he had, because he always hallucinated high ranking Nazi officers when high on the stuff.

Peter Clutchworthy exited the monorail at Town Hall Station and made his way to the escalator. All around him large video screens displayed ads, in both English and Japanese, that seemed to be directed solely at him. He stopped briefly at a netstand, downloaded all of the Tunbridge Wells newspapers to his iPhone and then left the ultra modern Town Hall complex at Mount Pleasant Road.

In the kitchen, Clutchworthy was deep in conversation with Lenka, the head housekeeper, Gustav, the chef, Tonto, the boot licker and Polly, the mechanic. The conversation, as usual, revolved around the purchase and distribution of illegal materials amongst the Bumbridge estate staff. In this case the material being discussed was Seraphim, a powerful drug manufactured only in the tunnels of Tunbridge Wells.

On a balcony above Pantiles Market, Lord Terence Bumbridge stood looking down at the milling throng. A typical day in the market: stalls, food, smoke, street performers and far, far too many people. The noise, as always, was unacceptable. Lord B grumbled into his tea, and mouthed the words “Fucking cattle”, as he did every morning while fingering open the days edition of The Subterranean, one of Tunbridge Wells’ local newspapers.