The creature was nothing if not eager. He soaked up information like a moth-eared sponge. He devoured whole centuries of history, gorging his brain on far flung countries and capitals, drinking in French, German, Spanish, Italian, Norwegian, Japanese and Russian from the language tapes Block ran on a loop beside the tank. He mastered mathematics in a matter of days, chemistry and physics in a week.

“More,” came the cry, time and time again. “Tell me more, oh great one,” he begged. “Nicodemus wishes to learn more.”

With Block out of the house for so many hours each day this rapacious learning soon became a substitute for company, for companionship. He watched dull documentaries through the thick tank glass, absorbing, splicing and mixing the information he gleaned from them into ever more dazzling theories, muttering his new-found knowledge back to the bearded boffins in their own flat-screened tank and to the great emptiness of the room beyond. There was no one else to whom the creature could turn. The spiders had long since given up and died and if the remaining woodlice and ants were still in existence they chose to keep their whereabouts a closely guarded secret. Sitting alone in his tank, Nicodemus conquered worlds; he traversed great continents; he calculated his way to the moon and back; he cured cancers, colds and cravings; he rewrote history over and over, a different language for every day of the week. But there were times, when the lamp clicked off at night and the creature’s brain still buzzed and fizzed with unanswered questions, when knowledge alone was not enough. There was something missing - Nicodemus felt it, a prickling beneath his patch-worked skin, an ill-formed longing pumping from his tiny heart - a something, or a someone, without which his dismal little life could never be complete.

“Oh Block,” came the cry one night as the king, tiring of his learned companion, sat watching television in the dim half-light of the angle-poise lamp.

“Oh great one. Nicodemus is lonely. So very lonely.”

“Hmm?” Block turned his head a few degrees.

“Oh my king, my master. Make me a mate, another in my image.”

“What? No. Not now.”

“Oh no, not now, oh great one, not now. You shall make me another tomorrow.”

“Shh, Nico, be quiet. I’m trying to watch.”

“Tomorrow? Oh, purleeeaaase.”

Block, who was more concerned about the safety of the naked young woman in the bath, what with those dark shadows creeping across the screen to the sound of tremulous piano flutters and a crawling violin, was barely listening.

“Yeah, OK,” he grunted. “Whatever.”

“Tomorrow,” crooned the creature, rocking backwards and forwards, hugging his many knees to his fur-less chest. “Oh yes. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.”

.