But he wasn’t listening, his attention fixed on the chisel in my hand. He tried to grab my wrist, but I dodged away, backing round in a circle, desperate to reach the door. He lunged again and I jumped back, crashing into a stack of furniture piled up behind me. It rocked and tottered and a stool came clattering down, hitting me on the wrist. I dropped the chisel with a yelp of pain and it went skittering across the floor, stopping by Paul’s feet. As he stooped to pick it up, I grabbed the stool by one of its legs and hurled it at him. He sidestepped just in time, and began to advance on me, the chisel gripped in one fist. His dark eyes seemed almost unfocussed, as if he was sleepwalking. I backed away, and trod on something small and hard: the netsuke.

Keeping my eyes on Paul’s, I bent to scoop it up. I held it out to him, my hand shaking. ‘You want this?’ I demanded roughly.

He faltered, as if he’d woken from his dream.

I closed my fist over it. ‘No wonder you were so keen to help me clear out Nick’s clothes,’ I accused him bitterly, ‘it gave you a chance to search his pockets.’

I flung the netsuke from me, hard. It bounced into a corner, and as he spun around to see where it had landed, I gave the stack of furniture behind me an almighty shove, ramming it hard with my shoulder. A heavy wooden chair tumbled from the top. It fell across Paul’s shoulders, breaking across his back, and knocked him to the floor.

I didn’t look behind me to see if he was getting up. I fled, through the open door, heading for the field: quickest way home. I raced across the grass, over the uneven ground, tripping on sudden small bumps and clumps of weeds and thistles. I skidded on mud, fell heavily, landing on all fours. As I hauled myself up, my heart hammering, I dared a glance behind me. I could see Paul, on his feet, framed in the doorway of the workshop, watching me. I ran on, the air scorching my lungs as I laboured for breath.

A thick hedge formed a solid barrier before me. I waded through a mass of stinging nettles that grew waist-high, and scrambled through the bushes of the ancient hedgerow, squeezing between branches, breaking off twigs that caught at my hair and tearing my hands on brambles.