Mallory and I had left the Head Master’s office and were standing on the touchline of the main rugby pitch, watching the state school boys getting thrashed by their hosts, not really noticing the boys as they poured out of the tree line, covered in mud, their thin limbs flying.

But the soldiers had stopped their gentle exercise regime and were staring. And then we saw it too.

The boys were crying.

They ran past us, some of them locked in silence as tears streamed down their faces, some of them making the animal noises of shocked grief.

I grabbed one of them by the arm.

‘What’s happened?’ I said.

‘Please, sir,’ he sobbed. ‘It’s Mr Philips, sir. Please, sir, someone’s killing him.’

Then Guy Philips came out of the tree line with his hands around his neck and his white tracksuit livid with fresh blood. He stumbled across the playing fields, his legs on the edge of going, his eyes telling us that he was drowning.

We ran to meet him, and as he collapsed in Mallory’s arms, the blood began pumping out of his wound.

Mallory tore off his tie, already covered in blood, and I saw the wound, a far deeper red than the blood that was flowing. Then Mallory was winding the tie around the sports master’s ravaged throat, pressing it against the wound, trying to staunch the terrible flood, crouching beside him in the mud. Mallory had his phone in one hand but it slithered away from him, slick with blood.

And I heard him call my name as I began running towards the woods.

I was alone in the woods. I kept running until I came to an open field, as barren as the surface of the moon. There I stopped, finding my breath, uncertain if I should turn back to the woods or cross the ploughed field. There was a farm on the far side.

I saw the tree I was standing next to had a perfect bloody handprint on its trunk.

I looked across at the farm. There was nothing moving. And then something seemed to stir inside. There was a glimpse of a shadow. I didn’t know if it was my imagination or a man or a trick of the dying light. But I began jogging towards it.

There was some kind of square brick pen, crumbling with age, and as I paused by it I saw that the windows of the farmhouse had all been joyfully smashed. Nobody had lived here for years.