When he came out on the other side of the trees, the landscape opened up to reveal a farmstead halfway up the hill, where goats munched silage under a gloomy sky. Two children, bundled in bright parkas, sped past him on mountain bikes. No school today? Though it could be Saturday or a holiday. Stupid not to have noticed the date on the newspapers. At least he’d spotted the time on the station clock. Just the sight of those numbers had provided a calming effect. As if newly born, his arms and legs tingled, thin-skinned and raw. Thrust into a world he’d nearly forgotten. The freedom to do as he pleased, to go where he wanted, without being observed and monitored. How could he get back there? That seemingly mythical place he’d once inhabited, fast receding in the mists. Lost in the woods, indeed.

He crouched on the path and pretended to study a clump of mushrooms growing from a rotten stump. His mind urged him onward. Run, run. But where would he go? He glared at the attendant, who stuck to him like a burr. ‘I’m still here. You can relax now.’ The sharp wind froze the skin on his face and neck. He zipped his parka and spun on his heel, keeping his head down as he plodded back to the village. A long slog to civilisation, such as it was. For a brief moment he longed for the warmth of his room.

So much for his big adventure. That was likely Gessen’s plan all along. Give him a day out beyond the gates to discover the truth: there was no ‘out there’ as opposed to ‘in here’. Wherever you go, there you are. But Gessen was wrong, and his little plan had failed.

As he passed the news kiosk, a man emerged from the shop. Solid as an oak, his weather-worn brow creased in a frown as he stared at something in his hand. Dark green parka. Hobnailed boots. Vidor stopped in his tracks. That face… so oddly familiar, he’d seen it before. But where? His heart juddered as it came to him. His life-long nemesis, in the guise of the man from the prize ceremony. What was he doing here? How had he known where to find him? His wily, relentless foe, returning to haunt Vidor from his purported grave. He glared at the man’s bent head and crossed to the other side of the street. When the man followed, Vidor quickened his step. Behind him, the hobnailed boots struck the pavement. Clack, clack, clack.

Panic gripped his throat. He darted across the street and quickened his pace. The train station. He’d be safe there. Vidor pivoted on his heel, but still the man followed. Clack, clack, clack. His muscles tensed as he awaited the murderous blow to his neck.