Fleet Street had embraced the killings with the unbridled enthusiasm of the British press, pouring rivers of ink into outraged editorials denouncing the demise of traditional values and calling for the heads of practically the entire city council. The authorities responded with the imposition of a strict curfew, yet seemed powerless to arrest London's downward spiral. Practically every dawn brought new rumors of death and dismemberment, and breathless reporting on the discovery of yet another dessicated victim.

In the midst of this surreal spectacle, Michael found his life acquiring a strangely dreamlike irreality, so much so that even the forced cheer of his two flatmates could hardly shake his suspicions that something was terribly amiss. And if his days were as a dream, his nights were worse, as he lay in a sleep haunted by visages of horrible and unspeakable violence.