He wakes with a shout and is out of his bed before he is fully conscious. He stands in the pitch-black, his chest heaving, his heart beating so violently it pains him. He gropes his way to the makeshift washstand he has fashioned out of an old tea chest and splashes his face with water from the ewer. His rapid breaths cut the still air. The image of Jenny, blood-soaked and lifeless, burns in his brain. He slams his palm against his forehead to dislodge it, but his efforts are in vain. Another bloody image slips into his mind with the sharp sting of a thorn and though he tries to claw it out it works its way in to fester. He will not think on it. He cannot. His anger frightens him.

As his heart steadies, he sits on the edge of the bed, the wooden frame cutting into the back of his thighs. He feels for his wristwatch and sees it is gone half two. He sinks his head into his hands and tries to purge his thoughts, wondering whether he will ever be free of the images that terrorise his sleep and shadow his waking moments – though it crosses his mind he does not deserve such release.

From outside he hears a muted clatter, loud enough to cause the horses to shift in their stalls. He hears it again and it brings him to his feet. He edges aside the velvet curtain but can see nothing but night through the grimy panes. He suspects a fox might be prowling around the poultry again. One had dug its way under the chicken wire the night before and killed three hens. Jack had found two headless corpses in the paddock and a pile of bloodied feathers near the edge of the copse. Fearing it has returned, he quickly pulls on his trousers and jams his bare feet into his boots.

The evening’s rainstorm has left the yard peppered with dark puddles. The night sky is smothered in a layer of smoky cloud and Jack struggles to decipher the darkness. He starts down the side of the stables, heading for the chicken coop, but as the noise comes again he realises it does not originate from the paddock but from the implement shed. His steps quicken as he strides diagonally across the yard, puzzled by Kip’s failure to raise the alarm. As he approaches he catches the flash of the dog’s white ruff, luminescent against the night. He can just make out a figure struggling behind the plough.

‘Gwen?’

She gasps and almost drops the ladder she is attempting to retrieve from the back of the shed.

‘My God, Jack! You scared me half to death.’

‘What on earth are you doing?’

She sighs and lowers the ladder to rest on its side. ‘I’m locked out.’