The rain was sheeting down harder, water seeping through Ryan’s thin jacket. He increased his pace, feet splashing through puddles, the bottom of his jeans sodden. It was early but such a miserable evening that everywhere was deserted. Still, he didn’t mind getting wet, it would be worth it to see Kieron back at home, happy. He’d been almost as worried as Connor while Kieron had been in the hospital.

The houses stood stiffly at the side of the pavement. Streaks of light shining through the gaps in the curtains. Rooms awash with the blue glow of TVs. It was like the depth of winter, not September. Yesterday had been glorious, T-shirt and shorts weather, now he wished he had his thicker coat, gloves. Ryan hated autumn. It felt like the end of something. He liked the sunshine. Long summer evenings hanging out with Tyler and Connor. Sitting in the beer garden of the Dog and Duck, whose staff had stopped asking for ID once Tyler hit six foot last year, sipping too sweet cider, the fizz of bubbles in his nose, the stickiness coating the inside of his mouth. Hands dipping into bags of Scampi Fries, fingertips tinged orange.

At the thought of Tyler, a shiver snaked down his spine. Not only from the cold, but the thought that his friend had been walking these same streets days ago, but he had never made it home. Where was he? It was difficult to believe he’d been snatched, Tyler was the biggest of their friendship group. Tall. Solid. Ryan recalls movies he has seen, children bundled into the back of vans kicking and screaming. Nobody would mistake Tyler for a child.

What had happened to him?

Suddenly the rain turned to hail. Dozens of tiny balls of ice striking Ryan’s neck – miniature hammers – with force.

Ryan sheltered in the doorway of Waterstones. The window displayed the latest best-selling serial killer novel. Why would anyone want to read anything so dark? Ryan looked at the cover while he waited for the hail to slow, the glint of the serrated knife dripping blood. He turned away but his head was already full of thoughts of knives and vans and blood.

What had happened to Tyler?

He shoved his hand inside his pocket for his phone. He’d call his mum to pick him up.

Before he could dial, there was the shine of headlights coming round the corner, the splash of tyres on tarmac, the dark shape of a car, which passed him, slowed.

Stopped.

Its reverse lights glowed as it backed up. Ryan pressed his spine against the doorway. Looked away, determined not to make eye contact.

The buzz of the window lowering.

‘Ryan?’

He looked up.

‘Thought it was you. You okay?’ she asked. ‘Want a lift?’

He wiped the rain from his eyes. ‘Umm. Yeah.’ He dashed to the car and clicked open the door. ‘Thanks.’