It wasn't really a factory of course, at least not in the conventional sense. Originally 'The Splatter Factory', it was a subterranean complex partly dug into the remote Welsh hillside, and partly under the new barn where much of the agricultural plant and equipment was kept.

There, secreted deep under the earth was an amusement park of diabolical contraptions having the singular function of destroying beautiful bodies in the most tortuous and messy ways possible. Apart from the factory floor, there were additional facilities; several cells for holding guests, toilets and showers, a laundry room, a well-equipped workshop, and a comfortable viewing lounge with a bed, entertainment system and a galley kitchen. Thus it was possible to spend a fair amount of time in this underworld paradise without needing to come up for air.

Beyond the machine room, was a disposal pit; a deep shaft, topped with a heavy steel cover and leading down to a holding tank. This is where remains were to be dumped, and quicklime shovelled in after to break down and neutralise any kind of organic matter. After all, having your dungeon stink of rotting flesh is *so* eleventh century.

Of course, an undertaking of this scale requires significant resources. Money was no problem. Bob had made millions in the construction industry during the boom, and latterly more still speculating on the property market.

Then it was only a matter of assembling a small construction crew, hand picked from his old contacts. The major works had been completed under the guise of building a nuclear-bunker-cum-hideaway, should anyone have asked, but no-one did anyway.

Finally the dungeon had been equipped with the machinery of doom. At first, only an industrial shredder had been lowered into that dark cavern, patiently waiting to receive Tara's flesh. But thinking up new toys was something of a obsession for Bob, and with Emma's help he had used his considerable mechanical skills to cobble together pieces of industrial plant, and to to weld and fabricate items where a more esoteric product was desired. Tinkering with machines is a fun hobby, and Bob took great pride in his work.

As he trudged up the stony track towards the barn, and pondered which ones might be used today, he watched Emma's Anneka Rice style butt race ahead of him. Ever the 'people person' Bob thought wryly, she was clearly keen to play the good host and not keep their guests waiting for the couple's hospitality.

Running along the front of the barn was a long, low, windowless breeze block annex, the tool store. When Bob arrived, Emma had already fished the keys from her pocket and was unlocking the steel side door.

As they entered, Bob flicked the switch and harsh fluorescent lights blinked into life, revealing a kind of Aladdin's man-cave. There was a generator, ploughs and other tractor accessories, and shelves of power tools and farming implements. An old engine on a pallet here, a roll of fencing wire there. The concrete floor ensured everything inside was coated with a layer of dust, and the sweet perfume of motor oil hung in the air.

Emma carefully locked the door behind them. Bob walked to the corner of the room, hefted a portable water pump out of the way and climbed onto a ride on mower. After a few tries the engine caught and he rode it away from its resting place into the centre of the shed.

Emma tossed him the bunch of keys, which contained a fob, of the sort you might use to remotely open a garage door. Bob pressed the button, and with a slight scrape, a whir and hiss of hydraulics, the floor where the mower had stood slowly gaped open like a Hungry Hungry Hippo, revealing a narrow wooden stairway leading downwards.

Emma skipped excitedly down the stairs, and Bob followed.