Shredder was an elimination game involving bluff, strategy and dumb luck, at least when played by the rules. It was played around a large metal funnel feeding a motorised grinder with fast spinning blades (actually soft rubber, but they look metallic and vicious – that's partly how Maise and I survived the Daniels '87 by the way, just in case you hadn't guessed), when someone went into it blood and gore got sprayed all over the place. It looked pretty hardcore, so it was the perfect spectacle for Axiala's fledging supervillainy if she could avoid losing.

Four players each sat on hinged metal seats at the top of the funnel. Each were given a large playing card to look at and keep against their chest. Going from left to right, each player chose to either switch their card, hold it or trade it with another player. You were not allowed to repeat the same move as the previous player, so if they stuck you had to switch or trade. This would then be repeated along the line, so you would have two chances overall to trade or switch your card. Whoever was left with the lowest card by rank (aces high) had their seat drop away so they would slide down into the grinder to be gorily eliminated.

Axiala strode confidently to the far left seat, the position of control. She held her dress over her legs with her knees held tight as she gracefully crouched and sat down on the seat. She gave the other players a Mae West glance as she swung her legs out over the funnel. She looked down at the shredder at the bottom and wriggled her toes coquettishly.

Her hand-selected opponents were Dolph the soldier boy, Magistralle the luchadora and George the Mister Normal.

Chris had the job of dealing the cards and did so like a glamourous game show hostess, swishing his skirt and striking exaggerated poses while offering the cards. He nearly caused Maise to break character, but she held in the laugh and maintained Axiala's smokey demeanour.

The four players looked at their cards. Axiala chose to stick, Dolph switched and Magistralle stuck, forcing George to either trade or switch. He looked at the other players, trying to gauge their faces. Then he chose to trade with Magistralle.

Play went around again. Axiala stuck once more, Dolph traded with George and Magistralle switched. George look up again, this time at Axiala. She gave him a nod and he dutifully traded. When the cards were turned, it turned out she had given him the two of clubs, the low card. He smiled at her and waited to be dropped. His seat gave way, sending him sliding down into the shredder, blood and viscera shooting up like a fountain as he went through the spinning blades.

Axiala watched impassively, then took a silk handkerchief from the bosom of her dress and used it to wipe away a stray speck of blood.

Magistralle was the next victim, again choosing to trade with Axiala for what turned out to be the fatal low card. She calmly accepted her fate, folding her arms over her chest as if on a waterslide as she waited for her seat to drop her into the shredder. When her shower of blood had subsided, it was down to the final two.

Axiala stuck, Dolph switched. Axiala turned her card around, showing it to Dolph. It was the ace of spades.

"Stick," she said.

All Dolph had to do was trade cards to win. He looked up at Axiala, who mouthed something to him. He nodded and asked Chris to switch cards. Without even looking at the new card, he tossed it aside and prepared for the drop.

Once the third and final gore shower had subsided, Axiala swung her legs up to safety, stood up and made her way into the audience. She found Betsy in the crowd and stood before her impassively. Then she slowly pointed to her own chest, viciously pointed to Betsy and ended her little pantomime by pulling her thumb slowly across her throat. This done, she turned with swish of fabric and strode from the room.

"Well, there's the challenge for the final showdown," said Chris, who'd come back to join me. "Now Betsy will be looking to make an example of her next opponent."

"Aren't I her next opponent?" I asked.

"Yes you are, new blonde angel," said Betsy, appearing suddenly beside me. "This is useless advice since as an angel you're obliged to play whatever games you are asked to, but I have a line prepared and I just have to get it off my chest. You know how much we love these little moments of drama."

She looked me square in the eye.

"If you don't want to play, stay out of the sandbox."

—

To my complete absence of surprise, the game she had chosen was an actual sandbox. Betsy and I were sat facing each other in a large wooden crate, separated in the middle by a perspex wall. The front of the crate was also perspex, so the audience could follow the progress.

It was a variation of the game I'd seen Maise play when she was buried in cement, the main differences being that the chute dispensed fine sand instead of cement and did so constantly rather than just burying the loser at the end. If the chute was on your side of the box, it would continue filling up the space around you until you managed to get it back to your opponent's side. As the game began, the chute was in a neutral position over the central wall, so the sand fell on both sides.

Sat across from Betsy, in her conservative frock, white and gold mask and malevolent expression, I felt like a mouse in front of a cat.

"To be clear, I want you to play your best. I will not allow you to just let me win," she told me matter of factly. "There will be no need anyway, because we both know I'm going to bury you alive. All I ask is that you make it interesting."

Betsy the Competitive Terror was a world away from the kindly Debs who'd supplied our dresses. And now Maise was trying to outdo her with a diabolical avatar of her own. It was super intense, I actually didn't mind being a pawn in all this because it was so fascinating to watch.

The game began with Betsy being given the word "horse".

"Saddle," she answered.

"Sit."

"Seated."

"Armchair."

"...."

The chute swung over to Betsy's side, depositing sand around her feet.

"Good girl," said Betsy. "That's the spirit."

She took the next round, sending the chute over to me. As the sand began gathering around my ankles, I looked at her and smiled. If she wanted someone who would put up a fight, I was happy to oblige.

"Newspaper."

"Tabloid."

"Headline."

"Byline."

"Fake news."

"Photoshop."

We shared victories fairly evenly as the game continued, so were neck and neck as the sand came up over our knees. Betsy scored a few consecutive victories after that, leaving me the first to be buried up to the waist, but I rallied by winning a string of rounds myself and even managed to overtake her. The last couple of rounds she lost with simple errors, leaving her buried up to the chest. But there was a gleam in her eye suggesting shenanigans – when the sand covered her chest and began mounting up around her shoulders, she stepped up a gear.

Suddenly I couldn't outsmart her for love nor money. She had an answer for every word I played and was dropping in clever moves at will to throw me off. All the while the sand was coming up over my arms, my chest, my shoulders and my neck. I eyed the breathing tube hung next to my mouth. I had a feeling I'd be needing it sooner rather than later.

The next word came through, "Spider". It was Betsy's turn to play, but she remained wilfully silent with a smile until the chute came over to her.

"I'm not finished with you quite yet," she said. "We're taking this to the line."

The sand came up over her neck as she awaited the word for what had to be the final round. I had the advantage, as the sand was flowing on her side. If I could hold her to a long rally it might even be enough to bury her.

"Animal," said the host.

"Insectivorous," said Betsy.

Insectiwhatnow... oh, shit.

Betsy chuckled as the chute came over to me and watched the sand bury me up to the chin.

"Quick!" she told the host. "One more round!"

I had bitten the airpipe into my mouth so had to speak through clenched teeth as the sand consumed me.

"Sport."

"Game."

"Dice."

Betsy fixed me with a stare, knowing victory was hers.

"Die," she said, savouring the one syllable word like a fine chocolate.

The sand covered my mouth preventing any possibility of a response, then built up over my nose. The last thing I saw was Betsy's smiling, mocking expression staring deep into my eyes.

"Tell your Mistress I'm coming for her," she added, just before the sand covered me completely.

I'm not sure how long I sat encased in the sandpit. Angels don't play by the same rules as spirits because we're meant to be impersonal neutral characters. When you die you get taken off backstage, are released from whatever situation you ended up in, shower off, change into a fresh uniform and head back out to work. But it felt like I was waiting for ever, getting air from my little breathing tube. Maybe it was because they had to dig Betsy out first.

Eventually I got a sense of being moved somewhere, there was a disturbance and the sand above my head was swept away to reveal Chris digging me out.

"Betsy asked me to tell you you were a good mouse," he said, once he had uncovered my ears.

Bloody cheek. She was showing me her catty side, that's for sure.