Satisfied that the noise from the upper floor was nothing more than a door slamming in the breeze, he began, drawing the gun from his pocket and disengaging the safety catch. It wasn’t that he needed the weapon – he had no doubts whatsoever about his physical prowess – but it was going to make controlling the farmer substantially easier. The point was that the evening had to go exactly as he’d played it in his head. That was the surest way that the farmer’s life force would transfer to him. There had to be circularity and meaning to the death, otherwise he was simply committing murder and that would be a trivialisation of his work.

Walking into the lounge, it took a few moments before the farmer even noticed him. The old man huffed loudly, then picked up his remote control and flicked off the television.

‘I paid my frigging taxes. I don’t care if you’ve got a bloody court order, I called the sheriff’s office myself and made sure my file was closed. So go on then.’ He gave a wave of his hand. ‘Bugger right off and close the door behind yerself.’

‘I’m not here about your taxes,’ The Crow said. ‘And I’m not a sheriff.’

‘Well, you’re not polis. Polis have to announce themselves before they come in. Are you one of those new immigration bastards? I told you, I’ve got nothing to hide.’

He stood up now, in full finger-pointing flow, anger compensating for a blossoming confusion. No fear yet, but that would come.

‘Are you carrying a gun?’ he asked, peering at the small black object, largely concealed in The Crow’s hand and currently pointed at the threadbare carpet.

‘I am,’ he replied, levelling it at the farmer’s gut. ‘I know you have one, too; although at present it’s in its case, like the law-abiding citizen I’m sure you are.’

The farmer glanced through the doorway and into the hall where his gun cabinet stood beside the staircase.

‘That’s the one, just out there. All I need you to do is give me the keys.’

‘Like hell I will, you daft wee prick. What’re you gonna do, shoot me over a knackered auld shotgun?’

‘That’s exactly what I’ll do if you don’t hand it over. Just that, then I’ll be on my way,’ The Crow said calmly.

The farmer glanced into the hallway again. He was about to give in. The Crow felt it as certainly as he could smell that the pie had begun to burn, the former sweetness rolling into charcoaled bitter.

‘Then you’ll go? That’s all you came for?’ the farmer double-checked.