So George slithered down the bank after Sylvia. She was crouched by the water, holding the torch with both hands, concentrated and intense. He did not know what had happened to Sarah. They waited to give Jonathan and Will a chance to get into position, then George touched her arm and she switched on the torch. It had a new battery and the light was fierce. The swans were much closer than he had expected. Because he and Sylvia were crouched so low to the water, the birds seemed enormous. They were huge white monsters. There were only three of them and they seemed transfixed, held by the charm of the powerful light. Beyond the birds George could see Jonathan and Will approaching, arms outstretched, ready to jump. They’ll only get one each, George thought. They’ll have to let the other one go. He could hear the water slapping against their waders.

Then there was a gunshot. It seemed to come from behind him and it seemed very close. Somebody screamed and Sylvia must have dropped the torch because suddenly there was no light but the arc of the lighthouse beam swinging relentlessly far above them. The swans honked and the noise seemed louder than the gunshot. He could feel the air from their wing beats as they prepared to fly. There was another gunshot and a thud and a splash. They’ve killed one of the swans, George thought with a rising anger. He stood and turned to face the murderer. The circling spotlight clipped the top of the rocky hillock above him and he thought he saw a silhouette, but it moved on before he could be sure. George began to climb the bank, furious because the swan was dead, and he heard the two remaining whoopers fly above him. At the top of the bank George stopped. He could see and hear nothing. Sylvia must have dropped the torch into the water because it had not been switched on again. The beam from the lighthouse approached, then blinded him. He heard the sound of footsteps on the concrete path which led from the empty cottages to the lighthouse, then a door banged. Whoever had fired the shots was taking refuge in the lighthouse. He ran on. The cold water of the bog trickled inside his Wellingtons and splashed his trousers. He swore because he was so old and moved so slowly. His breath came in gulping gasps.