The sight of the warehouse turns my stomach and elicits a phantom pain in my torso as I imagine the steel blade slipping into it. It takes all my willpower not to turn the car around.

Instead, my grip tightens on the steering wheel and I drive through the gates of the abandoned warehouse, bringing the car to a stop.

Even though I have taken care not to draw attention to my arrival, I’m sure I am being watched. Of course I am. I scan the row of broken windows near the top of the building, though I can’t make out any shapes there.

I pull my gun from its holster, lower it to my side and open the car door, taking care to close it quietly. I edge along the wall of the building towards the space where a door should be.

Memories from last year flood my mind; the darkness that enveloped me as I entered the silent space, the cold concrete below my feet. The machine gun rhythm of my heart.

Already, I know that tonight is going to be different. I’m in a small entranceway, a sort of antechamber that serves the main room. It smells of damp and is littered with broken glass which crunches beneath my feet. Unruly weeds have begun to populate the area.

I walk through them and push my back against the archway which links this room with the open space beyond. A low humming sound interrupts the landscape of silence, though the source is unknown. I crane my neck around the doorway and sneak a peek into the mill.

It is split into two levels; the ground floor is bare, showing no evidence of the hard graft that would’ve been characteristic of the room in years gone by. The concrete floor seems to emanate coldness and lumps of the hard material have been knocked out leaving small potholes, a side effect of the removal of the machinery that once dominated the place.

The first floor is reached by a spiral staircase, the walkways above are rusted and look like they could give way at any moment. A set of spotlights bathe the room in a warm glow and are powered by a small generator. I realise now that that is where the humming noise is coming from. It lends the warehouse a film-set quality.

I’m not even sure Ed is here. There was no sign of another vehicle out front. This could all be an elaborate ruse, getting me here so that he can commit another atrocity somewhere else.

In the middle of the vast expanse of space is Tom.

He sits on a wooden chair, his arms bound behind him with thick, blue rope. He head has lolled forward, his chin resting on his chest. I pull my head back round the corner and try to formulate a plan.

The room has no places to hide; if I try and get directly to Tom, I’ll be a moving target. If I stay here and wait for Ed to make the first move, I could be here all night.