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Mister Blaklok. I’m certainly not in the business of hiring assassins. I merely require your talents in the capacity of domestic security.’
    ‘I’m no one’s fucking bodyguard, Spunkle.’
    The fat man frowned. ‘My name’s Arkell, Mister Blaklok. Clarence Arkell – it says so over the door in big gold letters.’
    ‘Whatever. If you want security get a fucking dog. That’s not what I do.’
    ‘No indeed. That’s not what you do. However, I’ll only require your services for two nights… three at the most. I’m sure for the recompense I’m offering you can spare that much of your valuable time.’
    ‘Expecting trouble are you?’
    ‘Oh yes, Mister Blaklok. Trouble is indeed what I’m expecting. And when trouble comes knocking, what better way to face it than with someone notorious for making trouble of their own?’
    This geezer knew far too much for Blaklok’s liking. Nevertheless, he was paying, so he could know what he wanted… within reason.
    ‘I’ll want payment up front,’ said Blaklok.
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Just three nights, then I’m gone, whether this ‘trouble’ you’re on about turns up or not.’
    ‘Naturally. But I can’t imagine that’ll be necessary. I’m expecting them long before that.’
    ‘What exactly is it that’s coming?’
    Arkell inclined his head to the left, creasing the jowls that hung down over his thick neck. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle, Mister Blaklok. By all account you are skilled in all areas martial and… occult. I’m sure with both those talents at your disposal the gentlemen I’m expecting will be no problem for you. I would only make one request though – hurt them… make them pay.’
    So the fat fella did want an assassin. But then again, if someone was coming here to do him over they were assassins too, so he guessed it balanced out.
    ‘Not that I’m overly bothered,’ said Blaklok, ‘but why are these people coming? What have you done to upset them?’
    This time Arkell smiled, a wide shit-eating grin that reminded Blaklok of an alligator after it had just filled its belly. ‘I’m an industrialist, Mister Blaklok. A businessman, and a very successful one to boot. It’s inevitable that over the years I will have made more than my share of enemies. This entire affair is simply time, and an assiduous past, catching up with me. In my time I’ve created jobs and wealth for others, my philanthropic endeavours are known throughout the Manufactory. I’m well loved – ask anyone. But there are those who would seek to destroy what I have created, those who look upon my work with covetous eyes. I’m not about to let them win – oh no – they will pay, Mister Blaklok. With your help, they will pay.’
    Arkell had the look of madness about him when he’d finished. Not that it unnerved Blaklok, he’d seen real madness aplenty, and this guy didn’t come close, but still, it gave him pause. There had to be more to it, had to be something this Arkell had done if someone wanted him dead. Blaklok had to admit, he’d never heard of the bloke, philanthropic or not, but then those weren’t the circles Blaklok moved in. He spent most of his time in the shadows, scrabbling round in the dirt, eradicating the filth rather than mixing with captains of industry. 
    And this geezer was offering a decent wedge for a couple of nights work.
    ‘All right, you’re on,’ said Blaklok. ‘But as I said – money up front.’
    Arkell smiled, opened the drawer to his writing desk and produced a stack of bills. 
    ‘It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mister Blaklok,’ Arkell said, pushing the stack across the desk.
    ‘We’ll see,’ Blaklok replied, stuffing the bills into his coat, and moving back into the shadows.
     
    The window slid open, silent as death, quiet as the grave. A bowler-hatted head peered in, the big beaky nose beneath its brim sweeping to left and right like the rudder of a ship, taking in the view of the long