Will was bewitched by her. He watched her small slight figure sway and gesture in the dark and wished that they were alone together in the woods. He wanted to touch her somehow, on the arm perhaps, but before he could gather the courage the music changed and she grabbed his hand and said, ‘Come on, let’s dance.’

The younger, looser-limbed journalists spun each other while the boulder shapes of the older stalwarts stood around the edges in groups. They gave facetious advice to those stacking up brushwood for a fire and debated whether the Editor would be investigated for triggering the hijack.

The chief bustled into the ring. He’d been to make another inspection of the damaged fence and returned ebulliently convinced that the terrorists responsible would be hunted down in the morning. Spotting Jeremy loitering next to Max on the edge of a conversation, he homed in, spreading his arms and crying, ‘Look who it is! Tonight’s champion – the man with the talent for terror, the bane of the bombers, the jinx of the jihadis, the hammer of Boko Haram, the defeater of al-Qa-eeda, Mr Jeeeeremy Underwooood!’ While the others laughed and looked over, Jeremy tried not to sag; he knew what was coming.

The chief clapped him meatily on the shoulder, announcing, ‘Seventeen dead! Beautifully done, Mr Underwood; the sweepstake is yours. Two hundred and fifteen pounds, ladies and gentlemen, so let’s have a cheer for the hack with the direct line to Jihad HQ, the man who knows where Osama Bin Laden is really buried, and what really happened on—’

‘Listen, Frank. I’m alright actually. Give it to someone else.’ Jeremy lit a cigarette.

‘What are you on about?’ The chief pulled out a thin fold of banknotes. Jeremy could barely distinguish them in the dark, but the chief began counting the notes from one hand to the other. ‘Twenty–forty–sixty–eighty–a hundred. One-twenty, one-forty, one-sixty, one-seventy, one-eighty, one-ninety, two hundred. And three fivers.’ He splayed these like playing cards, then put them back on the pile and held it out towards Jeremy. ‘That’s more than you’d get for a freelance shift, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘What do you mean, you don’t want it?’

Jeremy couldn’t help thinking it was unfair; plenty of others had placed bets as well. It was typical of his luck that he’d actually won. ‘I just don’t want it. Give it to someone else. Who came second?’

‘It’s a sweepstake, Jez, there is no second place. Winner takes all.’

‘Then whoever was closest. Or give it to charity or something.’

‘Charity? What do you think this is, the Women’s Institute?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just, I just don’t want it.’ He pulled on his cigarette, the circular smoulder at its end flaring and drawing closer.