[…]Your rat prods at the lock with a pick[…]and shakes his head pityingly. 'Even if I could, guv, which I can't,' he says, 'it'd cost yer more than my weight in gold to get this off, an' that's before we're talkin' the parts to put it back together.'
[…]There is nothing in the room. […]But a sort of sack is flopping emptily on the floor by the door.[…] Maroon veins snake across the surface, and a caul of slimy white fat sits round it like a net. Protuberances reach towards the door like arms[…]
