Crunchy

The bathroom was a testament to bodily function. The only reason Meinwen and Winston weren't driven out by the smell was that it was so old it had hardened to a dry crust over every surface.

Blood, faeces, sputum, vomit and lumps of flayed flesh made a crust over ever part of the room. It looked like the kerb outside a kebab shop when the nightclubs closed on a Saturday night. Meinwen turned green and left the room in a moment. Winston stood surveying the area.

"Aren't you sickened by the sight of this?" I said. "I've seen the depravity of the torture pits and I'm a little queasy about it."

Winston shrugged. "I had a mate who went to Oxford," he said. "His dormitory bathroom looked worse than this."

"Ah." I nodded. It was rare but I occasionally picked up a suicide from the University and had had seen sights you'd never imagine by going to a comprehensive. The graduates were generally destined to follow a path of damnation.

I leaned over the sink. Clinging to the plughole, amidst a small quarry of extracted teeth, was a small spider. I lifted him out and tucked him into a pocket. The poor chap deserved better than this.

Winston had prised open the bathroom cabinet. "Sweet!" he said, pulling out slightly rusty tin. "Old fashioned cough drops."

"Not just old fashioned," I said. "Best before June 1954."

He opened the tin and popped one in his mouth. "They taste a bit fusty."