I gathered the rifle in close to me and moved forward, in through a U-shaped hole between two sprawling spruces, their mottled trunks like diseased skin, and then again, weaving a trail between three others. Ahead, I saw scuffs in the ground: leaves, twigs and needles, all scattered where a boot had landed, dragged – or stopped dead.

I heard a click up ahead.

‘Don’t come any closer.’

I tried to figure out where the voice was coming from.

All I could see was trees.

‘I will shoot you,’ Mills said. ‘Drop the rifle.’

I crouched, keeping my eyes ahead of me, and placed the rifle down on the ground. I had no idea if he was bluffing: the only thing I could see was a maze of wood, an endless repetition of timber that eventually became a grey, opaque wall.

‘Isaac?’ I said. ‘I just want to talk.’

Silence.

I still had one hand on the rifle.

‘Isaac?’

‘Let go of the rifle, Raker.’

This time, the voice sounded like it was coming from slightly behind me, to the left.

I didn’t move, just glanced in that direction.

‘Let go of the rifle.’

I did as he asked, standing again, keeping my gaze fixed on the same part of the forest as before. Wherever he was, he was definitely to my left, hidden by the gloom.

‘Isaac?’

‘Shut up.’

I could see him now, shadowed.

‘Let’s talk,’ I said, trying to sound assured.

I spotted the gun in his hands, the unmistakable silhouette of it at his side. He came into view beyond a massive pine, lingering there for a moment, a spectre, and then he moved. A step to his right, another, then one forward, then another and another. He started walking faster, the gun aimed directly at me, but he was limping, and it was obvious now why he’d run out of breath so soon.

Vale had ruined one more life before his had ended.

Mills had a knife in his stomach.

64

‘Get on the ground,’ he said.

He jerked the gun towards a patch of earth about six feet from where I was standing. I looked at him as I moved, hands up, trying to tell him I wasn’t a threat: he suddenly looked older, his dark grey hair wiry and uncombed. But he held the weapon straight and true, and it was obvious that he knew exactly what he was doing with it.

He’d fired it before.

Maybe he’d killed with it.

He used his free hand to sweep his hair back from a face drained of colour, a face marked by worry, and secrets, and what seemed to be the lucid acceptance that this might be the last hour of his life playing out, here in the middle of a forest.

‘On the ground,’ he said again.