"They never write, they never call," Mitchell chimes. He's also looking more than a little gore drenched, although his eyes remain alien black. His fangs, however, are present but not on show --he's content to suck on the tip of one forefinger as he takes careful steps around the room in the opposite direction from Deacon.

The predator slink may be gone, but the instinct to circle the kill hasn't.

He's also hoping his movements will throw a small spanner in any plans for target practice and that it will create the impression that he's not paying attention. There's nothing he'd like better than for Roland to make a break for the door; getting behind him means being able to disarm him more easily and there's all the fun of dragging him back.