Green Thunder was waiting for them at a different location: the central square of an army barracks, somewhere in the middle of London, Max didn’t know where. Its rotors were already turning as they exited the transit van. Although there was no longer any urgency, the recruits and their Watchers ran up the tailgate and took their usual places. They were airborne within minutes.

A vicious tiredness overcame Max. Uncomfortable though he was, strapped into the dirty, noisy aircraft, his head started to loll. He drowsed, disturbed by dreams of masked figures and screaming children. He felt like he had only been asleep for ten minutes when he was woken by the familiar jolt of the chopper’s landing gear touching the ground. His whole body ached with fatigue. It was a struggle to unclip himself, get to his feet and leave the aircraft.

It was dusk. The two sides of the valley were bathed in red light and the shadows were long. As the recruits trudged, exhausted, to their Nissen huts, Hector finally spoke. ‘There will be a badging ceremony for the successful cadets on the parade ground in ten minutes. You will each receive a Special Forces Cadets challenge coin. It’s a medallion bearing the SFC insignia. Keep it with you at all times. It can be hidden in a belt, a shoe or a watch and used to prove your identity, should that ever be necessary. Continuation training starts at 07:00 tomorrow. Get moving.’ As Lukas, Sami and Abby continued towards their huts, he said, ‘Not you, Max.’

Max watched the others go.

Hector walked up to him. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

‘If it’s all the same to you,’ Max said in a surly voice, ‘I’ve had a long day …’

‘Just do what I say, son.’

They walked in silence, side by side, to Valley House. Max had so many questions, but his fury at the unfairness of the situation had returned and he was too angry to ask anything. Hector could do the talking, if he wanted to.

Inside the house, they walked along the hallway. The photograph of the man who looked like Max appeared to watch them as they walked past him. Max felt a curious urge to stop and talk to the photograph, as though it was a real person. But he followed Hector who, to Max’s surprise, led him into the room on the left that he had scolded Max for entering a couple of days ago.

The room hadn’t changed. It was musty, the thick curtains still covered the window, and comfortable, squashy furniture was dotted all around. The painting still hung above the fireplace. They stood silently in front of it for thirty seconds, until Max couldn’t bear it any longer.

‘Is that my dad?’ he said, unable to suppress his questions. ‘R.E.J.?’

‘Reginald Alistair Johnson,’ Hector replied. ‘Reg to his mates, so Reg to me.’