The town is a ruin, the buildings hollowed-out hulks.  Roofs lie open to the relentless downpour, their timbers exposed like ribcages.  The only sounds are the rap of hail upon my canvas shelter and the buzz of electric cables.

Yes, this place is as miserable as I feel.

Martin returns, his spectacles smeared, his hair plastered to his forehead.  He has with him two locals, a man and a woman, cloacked in filthy sacks.

'Our transport!' Martin announces, wide-eyed like a terrier that's been at the coffee, indicating a wooden cart dragged behind a creature about the size of a cow.  Its snout probes at the muck as it lolls forward upon six stumps.  'You're not impressed?'

I'm too cold and tired and pissed-off to complain.  'It'll do.'  I squelch my way over to the cart and climb in.  The locals join me and gather up the reins.  'Couldn't you have tele-doored us a bit nearer wherever it is?'

'Better to arrive incognito, less disruption,' says Martin as he swings himself on to the back of the tumbril.  The woman tugs the reins and the cart jolts forward.

A few seconds later, for no apparent reason, the local man claps his hands on his cheeks.  Slap, slap.  He grimaces in pain as each strike reawakens old bruises.  His companion then passes him the reins and repeats the ritual.

I stare at them, wondering why they're doing it.

'Self-pummelling,' says Martin, as if in response to my unspoken question.  'The people of this world believe they are guilty of the sin of being born.'

'That's... original.  And they hurt themselves as a penance?'

'No.  Just to make themselves feel even more bad about it,' grins Martin.  'They'll then proceed with mutual pummelling.'

'Why?'

'As a penance for the indulgence of self-pummelling.'

The two villagers begin to slap each other on the cheeks.  Like some sort of mad, sado-masochistic Benny Hill routine.  I'd laugh if it wasn't so pathetic.  Once finished, the man offers me an upturned palm.  I notice that he's missing his little finger.

'No, I'm all right,' I say.  'Feel bad enough already.'  Though a few slaps here and there might help to warm me up a bit.

Martin laughs.

'What is it?'

'Nothing, sorry, nothing.'  Martin covers his giggling mouth.  'Private joke.'

The cart steers through a twisted iron gate and the mud beneath our wheels gives way to cobbles.  Looking into the sky, I see dirigibles trapped in searchlights and tethered to pylons.  Like something from the Blitz.

The town is a clutter of terraced buildings, their plaster cracked, their windows shuttered.  We pass more villagers, huddling into their robes, splashing through the downpour and slapping their cheeks.  Oddly, they are all missing their little fingers too.  Several are moving in the same direction as us, holding spark-dripping flambeaux.

'Where are we heading for, again?' I ask.

Martin points, and as he does, lightning illuminates the cloud-laden sky.  Rising over the rooftops is the silhouette of an immense, daunting edifice.

My first impression is that it's a monument, because it portrays a figure seated upon a high-backed throne.  Although its features have eroded, I can make out a beard and two blank eyes.  One arm rests in its lap, the other points into the distance.

As we draw closer, however, I realise that it's not merely a statue.  There are steep, arched doorways set into its base and slit windows flickering with flame.  Gargoyles perch upon its parapets and rainwater cascades down its walls.