The Crow gave what appeared to be a related shrug of his shoulders. What the farmer couldn’t see – invisible to mortals who’d not become anything greater than their human selves – were the huge wings The Crow felt on his back. He gave them a flutter and in his mind they filled the back wall of the poky lounge. He felt the breeze they created ruffle his hair.

‘Sure,’ he said.

The farmer dug deep into his pocket and pulled out a rusty keyring holding just four or five keys. The smallest he took between his thumb and forefinger as he walked slowly to the gun cabinet.

‘I’ll do that,’ The Crow instructed, holding his hand out, keeping the gun aimed at the farmer’s chest.

Keys in hand, he walked to the cabinet, motioning for his hostage to stand in the far corner. He wasn’t worried about the man making a run for it. The farmhouse was a good mile from any other buildings and if he had to fire a shot to persuade him to stop running, it wouldn’t be such a surprising sound in a farming community well used to controlling fox and badger populations when the need arose. The Crow pulled the gun from the cabinet, checked it was loaded. It was, which was sloppy gun care, but useful for him.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Before I go, do you have a downstairs toilet?’

‘You’re no using ma fuckin’ cludgie as well as taking my gun. Get screwed,’ the farmer said, braver now that his intruder had what he’d come for.

The Crow ignored the insults. He was above that. He opened two doors before the third produced what he wanted.

‘Come and stand here,’ he told the farmer, whose face was a deep burgundy in the half-lit hall, the reflections of firelight on his face a cruel parody of the injury he’d already suffered. He wouldn’t need to worry about that much longer. The Crow helped to persuade his hostage to move by pointing both guns at him at once. It worked.

‘You’re locking me in so I cannae call the filth while you go, is that it? I can save you the trouble. I don’t want the polis here any more than you, so you just be on your way,’ the farmer tried.

The Crow ignored him and gave a one-way nod with his head. The farmer walked into the tiny privy that hadn’t been decorated for an age but that was as clean as a whistle, give the man his dues.

‘I just want you to stand there and look into the mirror,’ The Crow said. ‘You can lean on the basin if it helps.’

‘What are you playing at? Don’t you get any twisted ideas about touching me, you sick wanker.’