Blazoned on the front of every morning newspaper on every breakfast table in every home for hundreds of miles was devastating news of an unprovoked attack on innocent citizens in a place that had never seen such violence before. Printed in stark, merciless colour were images that showed people that had suffered horrific injuries lying dead in pools of blood that ran down the roads in rivers and others surrounded by walls of fire. Pictures printed on the inside pages showed people being put in ambulances offering some hope to those that viewed them that some people had survived, what the pictures didn't show were sheets being drawn over people's heads once behind the closed doors of their ambulance, a sure sign that they were dead. Beyond the people were buildings gutted by fire, windows irreparably blackened by smoke or stained by blood, blood that could never be washed away. Each of the pictures had been taken by journalists more interested in getting a scoop or award for their 'brave acts in the face of disaster' than they were helping those that were injured or dying. In particular newspaper a small obituary had been printed commemorating the sad demise of one of their photographers, a small price to pay for sheer stupidity and faceless bureaucracy.

Some newspapers had numbered the death toll after the attacks in the hundreds while others played it down to the mid fifties, the truth was that no one was sure how many people had died that night. Speculation was rife over who had committed the attacks; some said terrorists while others had claimed that it had all been carried out by some mad man who had been in search of a good time and who had worked alone with frightening skill. So far none of the known terrorist groups had owned up to the crime or claimed responsibility for planning such an attack. An article had been published in a little respected tabloid that commented that one terrorist group had commended the attack, something that didn't bode well with anyone that had happened to read the paper.

One of these newspapers had found its way onto Doctor Malone's desk in the outreach clinic, a place of respite for him from the chaotic nature of the safe house. In his hand he held a cup of Earl Grey, his favourite blend of tea, while his eyes lazily scanned the front page. After working two night shifts in a row his mind refused to focus on anything as technical as a report of a senseless massacre. Without looking at the words on the paper it seemed as if the pictures were telling him the story, giving him all of the gory details in the simplest fashion. Despite the sheer exhaustion clouding his mind something caught his eye, something or rather someone in one of the photographs. Laying his cup of Earl Grey down he picked up the paper, the sudden shock of seeing what he'd saw breathing new energy into his sleep addled brain. Studying the picture more closely now he shook his head, this couldn't be real, this couldn't be happening, it couldn't be him in the photograph. Finally deciding that he ought to make some enquiries he tucked the newspaper under his arm before leaving his office. He hoped that he was awake enough to make the drive over to Lazytown.

Once, twice, three times he said her name. Once, twice, three times she ignored him. Her eyes were shut tightly in sleep, a sleep more peaceful than any attempt he'd made to ease his exhausted body. Turning over he breathed deeply into the soft pillow supporting his head, he could still smell the sweet perfume of her hair upon it, even now, long after she'd gone. For months he'd not disturbed her bed but recently he'd felt a growing need to be close to her, to something that belonged to her and that would refresh his memory of her. In his bed laid the woman he'd been trying to awaken but she resisted him. It was just as well, as pleasurable as he found her company there was something that put him on edge the more time he spent with her. More often than not he had pushed that feeling aside; this was one of those particular times. Apart from her had no one; one of the most important people in his life had disappeared without a trace and it had been he that had pushed her away.

Telling her his secret had eased his pain a little, she'd pursed her lips while remaining silent for some time but she'd not condemned him. He'd not turned from him or told him that he was better off dead. Once she'd broken her silence she'd spoken words of comfort while wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him to her. This had made him open a door that he had kept firmly shut for years. He told her about Lily, about his parents and their dislike of what he'd done; he'd told her about his fears, about what he wanted for the future; he told her how disgusted he was with himself for letting his self-control slip allowing Lily to seduce him like she had done with so many of her conquests, he told her about trying to strangle his own sister and how he'd been secretly glad that she was dead but how that had been overridden by sorrow that he'd not been able to save her despite all she'd done to him. After he had filled the air with the depth of his soul he'd listened to Ellen's silence, it gave him peace despite the current climate.

Now, after opening his heart to her, she lay distant from him. Never before had he ever talked with anyone like that or shown that he too had his weaknesses. It seemed odd that he'd shared his deepest fears with someone he'd only known a matter of months compared with someone like Ché whom he'd known for years. There had been a time when he would have spoken to Ché like he had done with Ellen but now that he realised just how deeply his shameful behaviour went he was scared of his friend's reaction.

Something stirred in the deep darkness of the room, darkness that her eyes had yet to adapt to. She had no idea how long she'd been here, time seemed to have no dimension in this room. For longer than she knew the thick darkness around her had been filled with an even thicker silence. Breaking that silence had not been easy, like breaking a brick wall, it had resisted her every attempt to force it from the room. She had shouted until she was hoarse but still it hadn't moved. Something deep within that impenetrable darkness made a sound that shifted the silence somewhat more than she had done. Someone was in the room with her and from what she could make out they were walking towards her.

Hands reached around her head, they came to a rest at her nape. Fingers coursed their way gently through her hair. Their touch was soothing until those same gentle fingers turned into a fist that held a clump of her tightly making her cry out. Silence overcame her cries as lips pushed themselves roughly over hers and a tongue tried to grind its way into her mouth. She tried to move her hands but something was stopping her, it felt as if they'd been tied by something to stop her using them. Lost in the darkness and unable to fight she let the lips carry on as the tongue entered her mouth. Waiting for the right moment she chose a time to form some kind of defence against the intruder, steadying her heartbeat she bit down hard on the invading tongue. Instantly it was removed with a cry of pain from its owner but this attack did not go without retribution, she felt a hand strike her temple causing the darkness to become that little bit thicker as her eyes closed.

Rapid knocking on the front door of the house forced Greta from her chair; she and Ché had been staying with Robbie since Robyn's disappearance to keep a close eye on him in case he tried to do anything fatally stupid. Stopped over she walked to the door and opened it to see Doctor Malone standing on the other side. The man looked very tired and it was evident that something was bothering him greatly. Without another moment's delay she stepped aside and let him pass.

"Where is Mr Rotten?" The Doctor asked his words rushed, "I need to speak to Mr Rotten."

Hearing his name Robbie emerged from the kitchen, "I'm here, what is it?"

"You have to see this."

"See what?"

Doctor Malone walked hurriedly over to Robbie and practically shoved the newspaper in his hands into Robbie's face.

"The picture. Look, look at it closely and tell me what you see."

Not sure what exactly the picture was supposed to tell him Robbie did as the Doctor said, the man seemed much too agitated to accept any refusal. Slowly he let his eyes wander over the picture but he failed to see what he was so desperately wanted to see. In spite of this he tried again. This time his eyes registered something in the picture, the same something that Doctor Malone had seen.

There, walking through crowds of people, was Kit; safe, sound and searching. Looking more closely at the picture Robbie saw another face that made his blood run cold with fear.