There was a barrel strapped behind the wheelchair.

‘It must be time for his gruel,’ said Boy Willie, putting a soot-encrusted pot on the fire.

‘Whut?’

‘JUST WARMING UP YOUR GRUEL, HAMISH!’

‘Bludy walrus again?’

‘YES!’

‘Whut?’

They were, all of them, old men. Their background conversation was a litany of complaints about feet, stomachs and backs. They moved slowly. But they had a look about them. It was in their eyes.

Their eyes said that wherever it was, they had been there. Whatever it was, they had done it, sometimes more than once. But they would never, ever, buy the T-shirt. And they did know the meaning of the word ‘fear’. It was something that happened to other people.

‘I wish Old Vincent was here,’ said Caleb the Ripper, poking the fire aimlessly.

‘Well, he's gone, and there's an end of it,’ said Truckle the Uncivil shortly. ‘We said we weren't going to bloody talk about it.’

‘But what a way to go… gods, I hope that doesn't happen to me. Something like that… it shouldn't happen to anyone…’

‘Yes, all right,’ said Truckle.

‘He was a good bloke. Took everything the world threw at him.’

‘All right.’

‘And then to choke on—’

‘We all know! Now bloody well shut up!’

‘Dinner's done,’ said Caleb, pulling a smoking slab of grease out of the embers. ‘Nice walrus steak, anyone? What about Mr Pretty?’

They turned to an evidently human figure that had been propped against a boulder. It was indistinct, because of the ropes, but it was clearly dressed in brightly coloured clothes. This wasn't the place for brightly coloured clothes. This was a land for fur and leather.

Boy Willie walked over to the colourful thing.

‘We'll take the gag off,’ he said, ‘if you promise not to scream.’

Frantic eyes darted this way and that, and then the gagged head nodded.

‘All right, then. Eat your nice walrus… er, lump,’ said Boy Willie, pulling at the cloth.