Aw, look, look, it's him. Thon lanky fucking SIS wanker, strolling about like he owns the place. And what's that fucking umbrella all about, eh? Who does he think he is, fucking Mr Banks? No, no, I forgot, he was married, with children. He was an actual human being, not just a stretched-out streak of pond-scum that's took itself down to Jermyn Street. Oh, look, he's trying to smile! He's trying, bless him, look. Jesus Christ, it's like watching the second hand try to tick after the clock's stopped and trust me, mate, that clock has stopped, that clock stopped long ago, that clock never started if you asked me. Something went wrong there. That's a child that should have been miscarried. Nature should have looked at that forming up and said, Nah, wait, back-up, lads, we've made a fucking mess on this one, bleed that out the twat ASAP. But no, he survived. He probably talked his way round that and had the pending miscarriage shot and poured into the concrete of the extension they put up to build his nursery so he'd grow up on top of the reminder of his inborn powers. He had to survive; the British Government isn't going to run its-fucking-self, after all, is it? Oh aye, he's fucking built for this. None better.

Look at him, standing there, shaking hands, pretending he's a person. He's got the theme from The fucking Avengers playing in his head, all day every fucking day, on a fucking loop. You can see it, in there behind the eyes. Where a fucking soul ought to be…