Lucy ran again, awkwardly, with weary, clumping footsteps, in no real direction. The structure of the steeple lay dead ahead, but before she could even reach it, she spied another level of roof, made from sloping slate-work atop a brick wall at least twelve feet high, which completely barred her path. Again, she changed direction, hobbling alongside the wall, slapping her hand on the bricks to steady herself. Glancing right, she saw Alyssa moving parallel to her some twenty yards away.

‘Alyssa,’ Lucy stammered. ‘You have to be mad to keep doing this. What do you think you’ve got to gain?’

‘It’s simple,’ the girl replied. ‘We carry on where the old man left off.’

‘There is no we any more. Can’t you see?’

‘You’ll pay for that too, you prize bitch!’

‘For God’s sake,’ Lucy said. ‘You’re still young enough to wriggle out of this. You’re only … what, nineteen? It’ll be easy to sell the story that you were led, that you were influenced by an evil man.’

‘You dare talk about him like that!’

Lucy stopped trying. She needed to save her breath anyway. Plus, it was all lies. Alyssa was so deeply embedded in this horror, and so far into the age of adult responsibility, that it was difficult to envisage her drawing anything other than a full-life sentence – and at nineteen that was a long time. So, the options were still fight or flight. Since she was unarmed, the first was out of the question, so she ran again. But this time forward instead of away, heading straight for her tormentor – who halted, confused, swapping the blade around to wield it dagger-like – but then swerving left, putting all her strength into one final dash, hoping to arc around the girl and make it to the steps leading back down to that hellish vault.

Alyssa needed only to run sideways to intercept, but with a crunching crack, the girl’s right foot broke through the tarred planking, dropping her down past her ankle.

Unable to believe her fortune, Lucy ran on, straightening up for the open doorway, which beckoned only fifty yards away. And then, incredibly, she too lost her footing, tripping over a flap of dried tar. She went sprawling, landing on her hands, face and chest, the blow so brutal that it knocked the wind out of her.

Fateful seconds passed before she could lever herself up and look around. Alyssa had already hacked herself free with the blade and was only a few yards away, coming more slowly, more prudently, but still smiling, still hefting the knife.

‘Sweet Jesus …’ Lucy breathed.

‘Don’t blaspheme,’ Alyssa cackled. ‘You’ll be meeting him in a minute.’ She held the blade higher, the moon catching it, flashing silver. ‘Well … maybe a bit longer than that.’

And then a police siren sounded.

Not in the distance, but very close by.