Mags stared for a second, then grabbed the piece of paper and started running back towards me at full pelt. But she didn’t reach the gorse bush. At the last moment, she swerved and made for the cliff path instead. Perhaps she thought it would be quicker to sprint down to the village that way. But Spooky Joe wasn’t chasing her – he came through the door of the cottage, and then he stopped. There was a skidding sound just a few yards away from me – shoes on loose stone – and a scream. Mags!

My limbs had gone all weak and watery and I was panting for breath – I couldn’t stand up properly. I managed to crawl a little to the other side of the gorse bush. Mags had run straight into a coil of barbed wire and was trying to disentangle herself, looking around desperately and pulling at the barbs with bleeding fingers.

Then there was a voice: ‘Well, fancy seeing you up here, Miss Smith. Bright and early, as usual.’ It wasn’t an old man’s voice, it was boyish and cheerful – a voice full of ease and charm. Michael Baron.

‘Looks like you could do with a bit of help,’ he said. He knelt down beside her and examined the tangle of wire and fabric. ‘Don’t,’ he said, stopping her from grabbing at the wire. ‘Don’t, Magda – you’ll hurt yourself.’ My sister twisted around again, still frightened of being pursued by Spooky Joe, but he had gone. The door of the cottage was shut.

‘It’s all right,’ Michael said soothingly, ‘I’ve got just the thing.’ He reached into a pocket and pulled out some sort of tool or penknife. He clipped at the wires one by one, carefully disentangling them from Mags’s clothes.

‘Thank you, Michael,’ she said, a little calmer now. I noticed that the piece of paper had gone from her hand – she must have put it in her pocket. She looked down at him.

Michael grinned up at her. ‘A Boy Scout is always prepared, Miss Smith,’ he said with a wink. ‘Not that I’m a Boy Scout any more . . .’

Mags laughed. I had never heard her laugh like that.

He stood up then. ‘Hang on,’ he said, his voice a bit softer. ‘What’s this?’ He reached towards her face and gently untangled a bit of dead gorse from a strand of hair that had escaped from beneath her hat.

Mags’s eyes were locked on his and her face flushed pink. ‘Thank you, Michael.’

‘My pleasure, Miss Smith. Anything to help a damson in distress.’

‘A damsel,’ she corrected.

‘No. More like a damson,’ he said, and touched her blushing cheek. I watched my sister’s face turn an even darker shade of pink.

‘I’m just up here for a walk with my sister . . .’