On Wednesday, June 25, my uncle and I conveyed to Taylor Wimpey's shunned The Denizen development on Golden Lane two camp chairs and a folding camp cot, together with some scientific mechanisms of greater weight and intricacy. These we placed in the cellar cinema during the day, and planned to return in the evening for our first vigil. We had acquired keys and were able to lock up the cinema, so were prepared to leave our expensive and delicate apparatus - which we had obtained secretly and at great cost - as many days as our vigils might be protracted. It was our design to sit up together till very late, and then watch singly till dawn in two-hour stretches, myself first and then my companion; the inactive member resting on the cot.
I still remember stark-naked men and women, who, from time to time, with excruciating yells, leapt to their feet, shaking their heads backwards and forwards, the women with loosened locks falling in black disorder about their heaving, shaking breasts. A voice would then cry out in deepest scorn the sonorous Brythonic verse; “Let their desires be satisfied.” And there would be a perfect orgy of bestiality. The outer circle absorbed the essence of murdered animals: the inner absorbed them: from the highest to the lowest in the universe one lived by sacrificing something. It was fair according to this cult that Godhead should demand a sacrifice. In the sacrifice of others alone lay his godhead. What is to be the end?