I placed a hand on the door and pushed at it very gently, trying to give myself a wider view of what awaited. It was either dawn or dusk. The light was weak, the sky like ash, and although I could hear birds far off, the forest was absolutely black beyond the initial treeline. It was cold too. There was no wind yet, but I knew that when it came, it would cut through me like a knife – and as I thought about that, I looked down at myself: I was in a T-shirt and a pair of ill-fitting trousers that weren’t mine. I didn’t have anything on my feet. Not even socks.

I turned, thought about going back for my shoes, but didn’t want to waste time, so pushed at the door instead, inching it open.

Heart beating faster, I moved even further out on to the veranda, the slats creaking under my weight, and glanced both ways: the room with the hatches was part of a bigger structure – some sort of windowless house – but, compared to the immensity of the forest surrounding me, it was just a mote of dust. Everywhere I looked, there were trees, millions of them: immense soldiers in an infinite line.

A thump from somewhere else in the house.

Movement – or maybe a door closing.

I looked behind me for something to use as a weapon, couldn’t see anything, and then switched focus. On the opposite wall to the hatch I’d climbed out of, there was a panel, high up. It was some kind of heating vent. I hurried across to it, reached up and quietly levered the plate off. As I did, I paused; there was no sound from the other side. All I could hear was birdsong, deep into the trees, and then a stark silence.

Wherever I was, it was miles from anywhere.

Placing the panel on the floor, I grabbed the edge of the vent and pulled myself up high enough to see into it. At the other end, vague, gloomy, was another room.

Some kind of lounge.

It was dark but I could make out a stone fireplace, the mouth of the chimney licked black with soot. There was an armchair next to it – pale, threadbare – and a low coffee table stacked with books. A bottle of whisky and a glass were on it.

Movement.

My eyes were drawn to the opposite side, as far to the right as I could see from where I was, and in the murk beyond the fireplace, I realized there was a shape in the shadows, hunched over, leaning on what looked like a walking stick.

Vale.

He was a half-turn away from me, perched on the edge of a dark sofa, a thick winter coat on, a beanie, snow boots.

At his hip was a knife.