Kemp gets out of the car and comes round to the driver’s side, opens the door. ‘Get out,’ he orders and then points with his head. ‘That way. I’m right behind you.’

His cockiness is back in force; it must have been taping Lee’s wrists that did it. It has given him a sense of satisfaction at having managed something. Lee knows the feeling: the weird, unexpected thrill of competence when it arrives.

‘Keep going.’

‘Mm-hmm.’

The cut on his neck is hurting now. It must be worse than he realised. He can feel a throbbing, lateral pain, and his shirt collar is wet. They walk into the forest. Pigeons make unhelpful noises, a low, fruity gargling that Lee figures signals love. The ground is crunchy underfoot with a carpet of dry seed pods, which make it feel like he is walking on outsized Coco Pops.

Then he hears movement ahead and thinks, Oh please, god. His spirits sink when he sees a squirrel. It is a grey squirrel to boot, the less desirable kind of squirrel. It scampers along a log, a tiny acrobat in flight. It’s hard to hate a squirrel, but he really wishes it were a dog, being trailed by an owner who would see him and intervene.

There are wheel ruts on the ground, signs that mountain bikes have been here; perhaps a rider will bounce into view. He dislikes mountain bike riders, trail-runners, and extreme sportspeople in general, but he longs to see one now. There are now so many people doing adventure sports, it is practically an epidemic. Apparently Everest is crowded and covered with litter. People are dying in the queues. He thinks of them saying to each other, after you; no, after you.

Kemp prods him from behind, insisting they keep going, keep wading through the bracken. He’s audibly short of breath, the user’s affliction, but has the energy of someone who feels himself to be on the up. He’s been speaking as he walks, more to himself than to his captive. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Prescott. This is just a game between friends. A mystery tour of the forest. Maybe we’ll play some Marco Polo.’

Lee feels a buzzing in his pocket and imagines the messages from his friends at the reunion. Come on, come for a drink, you miserable prick. Then, with a few more drinks under their belts, Think you’re too good for us, do you, Prescott?

Oddly, Kemp comes out with a similar sentiment. ‘Not much to say for yourself. Think you’re better than me, do you? I bet you like a little glitter at your lawyer dinner parties. Just nip into the bathroom for a line in private.’