The echo of another form of violence, of dread, is heard in a pile of knife-throwing tables (Dr Rossiter). We imagine bodies, constrained, bound, with eyes weeping in horror, holding their breaths and praying that the blades do not reach their hearts. Yet these tables are stored, leaning against the wall, unused, and therefore harmless. Inspite of everything, if death should follow, steles are there to honour these souls (R.I.P.), in the decorative sobriety of their construction material, breezeblocks.