The leading cow moved into a bottleneck from which there was no turning back, the head of the cow behind her nudging her tail. Onwards and with no way back, the confusion in their eyes turned to fear and panic, and the emotion in the herd was contagious, registering in their voices, the lowing translating into blind terror, the sounds of extreme anguish bottled up in the confined space in which there was only one way to go: forward.

Edgar imagined the distant sound and tilted his head to gain a better perspective of the beasts on death row as they realised what was coming next.

Her eyes were wide, nostrils flaring as the stun gun was placed against her forehead. The first one he would always remember, his first one, the beast with no name and even less hope. He gripped the stun gun and pulled the trigger, felt the kick run up his arm like mercury in his veins.

He looked out at the staff car park, picked out his white Ford Transit van positioned between a worn-out Vauxhall and a no-hope Honda, both of them dwarfed by the height and width of his vehicle.

‘Edgar?’

The sound of his name melted all other sounds, near and far, into one euphoric blur.

‘Yes, Neil?’ he replied to his supervisor, eyeing up the tall young man standing alongside him, a lock of white-blond hair poking out from the net on his head, and looking straight ahead with a Christ-like gaze, as if seeing a messianic vision that was uniquely for him and him alone.

Neil clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder, bringing him back from the place he inhabited in his head.

‘Introduce yourself to Edgar,’ said Neil.

The young man scanned around Edgar’s eyes, avoiding looking directly into them.

‘My name is Wren but I cannot fly. Robin Wren. My mother had a sense of humour and a passion for ornithology. I dislike being called Robin. Wren will do.’

Edgar felt his heart turn to lead but smiled into Wren’s eyes, wishing to impress his supervisor with a gloss of empathy.

‘My name is Edgar McKee but I cannot open the door. My mother had no sense of humour to speak of and as for her passions, I’ve no idea as I didn’t know her one little bit. You can call me Edgar.’

Wren nodded and, as if from nowhere, he smiled with his eyes but the rest of his face remained set and calm. He laughed, three steady, robotic beats of distilled amusement.

‘I get it now. You are a McKee but you cannot open the door.’

‘OK, son,’ said Neil. ‘Go and stand over there for a minute. I need to talk to Edgar.’

As Wren walked away into space, he mimed turning a key in a lock and Edgar wondered at the child-like behaviour of a late adolescent in the early stages of manhood.