I stood for a moment while my eyes adjusted. As soon as they did, the screaming stopped. It was replaced by a thumping noise, interspersed by cries of pain.

I didn’t have any trouble finding the fuel tank, which was made of orange plastic and seemed to glow in the dimness. The beacon sat beside it in a little cardboard box. I grabbed them both and rushed back to Warren, who still lay on his stomach, eyes closed, head turned to one side.

‘Just a second.’ I scrambled into the boat. Up at the house, Scott gave a great shriek and fell silent. There was no more thumping. Had he fainted? I shoved the beacon in the locker. Pulled out the fuel line. Attached one end to the tank. It was a fiddly job, and once it was done I still had to pump the priming bulb.

‘Okay,’ I said at last. ‘Good to go.’ Climbing back out of the boat, I wondered if I should bandage Warren’s head before bundling him on board.

Then a shot rang out.

I almost pissed myself. How the fuck had that bastard got the gun working? ‘Come on,’ I said, sliding my hands under Warren’s armpits. I tried to lift him, but he was too heavy—all waterlogged muscle and bone. I staggered. ‘Warren? Please. I need some help here.’ As he moved, I lost my grip and dropped him.

I heard another shot, closer this time. No. It couldn’t be. I looked up: Scott was heading down the jetty road. He’d freed himself somehow; one hand hung limp and dripping, still attached to a small shard of wood. Had he knocked a chunk off the windowsill with his rifle butt?

‘Oh, shit.’ It was like a horror movie. But his cheek was scorched and his hand was pierced and he was stumbling along, the rifle tucked into his armpit…He had to be at the end of his tether.

‘You’re going to die!’ I shouted. ‘Let me get help!’

His head turned. The gun moved. Its barrel rose, wavering, balanced on Scott’s right arm. Surely he couldn’t fire it one-handed?

There was a bang as it discharged.

I didn’t hear the round hit the jetty. But I saw chips fly. Three shots down, I thought. Two to go. He paused to prop the muzzle on the ground, then worked the bolt with one hand. A cartridge popped out, clinking.

I seized a handful of Warren’s uniform, but all he could do was make feeble swimming motions.

Scott pushed another shell into the chamber.

‘Play dead,’ I told Warren, my voice breaking. Then I dived into the nearest patch of scrub.