Hellsborough Exposed — chronicles

Van Hallam named me his trusted first lieutenant over a Double IPA at a table serviced by Foul Linda, while most of the bitterfinger sat close enough to hear. His reasoning, delivered with the confidence of someone who has never once considered they might be wrong: the others were reactive, he said — none of them had that yearnin' for learnin'. I have since learned that this is Van's standard method: compliment freely, then wait for you to make the thing he wants seem like your own idea.

Van Hallam has arrived at the Ripperthroats, which is either a great honour or a catastrophic administrative error, and the distinction matters less than you might expect once you are there. All denizens make this journey eventually, along the River Dun, and the milting at the Ripperthroats are not the meek, peripheral creatures they are on the surface. They leave the running of the place to the denizens. They keep an eye on things. Nobody knows what the eye is for. Nobody who has asked has returned to report.

Pip Rippon was absent for three weeks following the exacid removal — taken, returned, no memory of the interval whatsoever. Van described this as expected and produced rockcrust. What Pip had missed, Van noted, included the Days wi'out names, which Van described as "all the fun" and did not immediately elaborate on.