In the glade, Lee slumps against the tree, feeling woozy and light-headed but also triumphant. When he hears a crashing sound some way off, he thinks, Fuck. He’s back.

Lee pulls at the tape on his wrists. No luck. He is still bound to the tree, so to get to his feet he has to shimmy his back up the trunk. As he does, he hears two men shouting. Neither sounds like Kemp.

‘What’s that?’ one of them calls out. ‘What’s that you’re after?’

‘Get on with you. You’re alright. It’s better than Clapham Common.’ Then, ‘See? He’s mended nicely. Gait’s looking much better.’

The rustling draws closer and Lee sees a fox. A long-bodied creature with an unembarrassed stare, it considers him with interest from the edge of the clearing. Behind the fox, the first man shouts again, ‘What’s he after? Look, there’s someone there. Hey! Hello?’

Torch beams bouncing, the men blunder towards Lee. Lee makes them out in the almost-dark. One is unplaceably old and wears a battered leather jacket, while the other one, in a flannel shirt, is closer to middle age.

What on earth are they doing, chasing after a fox? He is exorbitantly happy to see their kind, genial faces, which are rosacea-red and weathered in the light thrown by the torches.

Having found Lee, the fox grows bold, darting close to get a sniff. Lee locks eyes with the animal. It knows he is maimed; this is why it’s here.

‘Scoot! Get out of it,’ the man in the flannel scolds. Lunging, he shoos it with his hands, his boot. ‘You’re free, don’t you understand?’

The fox hesitates, looking off into the middle distance. A knowledge arrives from somewhere and glimmers in its eyes. Yes, it understands. That old, old knowledge: it is free. And it darts away, disappearing into the forest.

‘Goodness. Are you alright?’

‘Call an ambulance. He’s bleeding.’

Wanting to reassure them, Lee tries to form the words. The old man fumbles with his torch as he hastens to dial 999.

This is when a third voice says, ‘I didn’t want to do this.’ The two older men spin around, and Lee peers in the direction of the voice. Darren Kemp is back, phone in hand. A chemical smell wafts off him – acetone, paint stripper – meaning he’s had a hit. Oblivious to the two other men, he stares intently at Lee.

I should hate him, Lee decides. And he honestly wants to hate him. He knows why Kemp is back: to finish the job he started.