Small mercies: these voices do sound, at least, a little more together than that of his ear-stealing friend of before. Well, one or two of them do. Or... well, maybe they're attempting to.

Anyway.

"Don't let go of 'er, whatcha doin'?" says a woman's voice, loud and absolutely in charge.

"Don't wanna touch the spiders, I don't wanna!"

"There aren't no spiders, y'great piss stain -- shut the fuck up about ya fuckin' spiders!"

(Okay, 'more together' might have been an over-generous appraisal.)

Another voice speaks up, a deep man's voice that sounds like it can never quite catch its breath. "Gotta -- get her, gut her, she's got it, she's gotta... no more sitting on my thumb, I'm gonna..."

But apparently he's not gonna, because there's a rush of flame and a fearful cry from the breathless man.

"Thumb back in yer arse, little man," shrieks the woman from before. "And yeh! Bitch! Don't you move no further, or I'll light ye pretty face aflame!"

Then, a fourth voice. A woman's. Sinclair might recognise the tone of utter cold disgust.

"Put your fire away, brute. I am still."