Mutton

Fires on the hillside...

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Once, this simple fishing village was part of the London suburbs, before London fell and the waters rushed in. Smoke spirals from cottage chimneys. A lonely hill rises behind town.

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As you enter, the singing stops. The locals, crammed into the crooked taproom, turn to look at you. A table creaks beneath a lavish spread: bowls of plump ivory beans and peas as big as bullets. Golden potatoes, crunchy with fat. A vast roasting dish, in which a human carcass - trussed neatly with twine - sizzles in its juices. A Custodial Chef carves it like a Sunday roast.

“Ah,” he says, lifting his knife. “Regrettable timing. Capture them, brothers and sisters. We'll string them in the well, in anticipation of less fortunate times.”