The Kitten smiled, a hideous rictus of gums, rusk and malice. "The old ones just haven't got the stamina, have they? Need their nap after exertion..."

Behind her, Una heard the distinctive sound of sawn-off fire above the roar of the crowd. The Archbishop had obviously got his little massacre under way.

'A ragged cheering surged through the mob and from the digital voice-boxes of the handful of old-timers who still remembered came the monotone gurgles of God Save The Queen'... read part five of our baton story.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Hello Una," the soft voice of the Archbishop caressed her ear like a cyanide-coated feather. Alright, she supposed, if that was how you got your kicks but, right now, the obnoxious old deviant was getting in her way and the fact that his cohort of slack-jawed East-End vicars had a number of unamusing sawn-offs pointed in her direction didn't help matters.

Pull this off, she thought, and it'll be Pina Coladas all the way. She'd never have to tram it from Wandsworth again. But at what price?