The black limousine crawled along the rainy High Street with the rest of evening traffic, and paused near a bus shelter filled to overflowing with soaking wet pedestrians. A motley crew of workers, pensioners, shoppers, and tourists, each of them tried to appear nonchalant as they probed the limousine’s windows. But the one way glass was giving none of its secrets away, and absorbed by the misery of their own sodden reflections, they completely ignored their fellow pedestrians, who were forced to squeeze between them and the adjacent building.

James Windburn watched the scene from the comfort of the limousine’s leather upholstered interior, and the image of cattle being herded through turnstiles into pens flashed through his thoughts. They haven't got a clue, he thought, the fools.

The limousine indicated and turned down a side road. It passed an office block, a shopping plaza, a slum block, and a few twists and tight turns later, it pulled into an empty market street and parked alongside two small shops. The tobacconist’s and fishmonger’s were at once attached and detached by the cavernous arched mouth of a narrow, unlit passageway. James sat forward and stared into the pitch black shadows. It’s strange, he thought, I’ve lived in the city all my life, I must have gone past here a thousand times, and yet I’ve never noticed it before. And to think, though Father never mentioned it, somewhere down there is the place he spent many of his waking hours...