When Pete juddered back into consciousness, he couldn’t at first work out where he was or what was going on. It felt like he was in a spindryer in the dark, until he realised that was just because his head was swimming so badly. Then he had a weird flying, falling sensation, as if he was plummeting off a dream cliff – no hands, no idea how far below him the water was or how hard he’d hit it, just a freakish sensation of free-falling through his own pain.

And he was in pain. Bad pain. His whole skull throbbed, his eyeballs pressing painfully against their sockets, huge and swollen, like his teeth, ears, nose. Everything ached, worse than the most severe hangover he’d ever had. He tried to lift his hands to stop himself belly flopping into the water; but there was no water. And he could not move his arms from where they were lifted behind him. He tugged, feeling the pull in the sockets of his shoulders. Nothing.

Gradually, he became aware that he was in a dark place, moving, but in a strange, immobile position. Kneeling, arms pinned by his sides, forehead resting on a thin metal edge as if he was about to be executed.

Was he about to be executed?

He tried to call out but he couldn’t open his mouth – couldn’t part his lips at all. Tape across his face. He lifted his head with difficulty, but the pain was too great and bile rose in his throat.

No, man. Fuck no. You can’t be sick, he thought in panic. If he was sick he could choke and die.

He brought his head gently back down to feel the metal edge again, but at that moment the moving floor beneath him jumped, hard, and the metal edge smacked against his brow, making his head hurt even more.

A bump, he thought. That was like a bump, in a road. I’m in a van, being taken somewhere.

Meredith had been taken somewhere in a van, all those years ago.

He tried to push away the thought of her poor ruined hand, the constant reminder of the torture she’d endured that night, forcing himself instead to stay calm, work out what was happening.

He wasn’t on the van floor. He realised he was in some kind of open container, which in turn was in the van. The container was small, just large enough to accommodate his kneeling form, and cold against his bare knees and shins. Metal, he thought, puzzled. It feels like metal. He slumped over to his left and then, with difficulty, to his right, to see where the sides were. It seemed wider at the front than the back. Could he be in a wheelbarrow? The sides were about that height. He tried to unfold his legs and climb out, but then became aware that his hands and ankles were bound together too.