Liam strides over and snatches it up. ‘Grab those shells,’ he says to me as he checks if the gun is loaded.

I look at the box he’s pointing to and stoop down to pick it up. It’s lying among a pile of empty shotgun shells beside the bed. I hesitate for a moment; I still don’t think it’s a good idea. We should leave the gun, but I don’t argue – it’s too late for that. I pocket a handful of the red cartridges and stand up.

‘OK,’ says Liam. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

I don’t need any urging. We’ve already been here far too long; he could be back any moment. Gripping the gun in one hand and leaning on me, Liam leads us back out of the castle. The whole way back down the stairs my heart races, pounding in my ears, and I’m terrified we’ll run into him. Every corner we turn I expect him to be there, but we’re lucky. We manage to make it all the way to the cellar and then we’re outside and making for the treeline.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Once in the woods we stop for breath. Liam is pale and sweating profusely: it’s pouring down his face, and his T-shirt is sticking to him at the collar. He leans against a tree, breathing shallowly, resting his weight on his good foot.

‘Does it hurt a lot?’ I ask.

He grimaces in answer and waves me off, then takes a deep breath and we head off again. I let him lean on me for some of the way, which slows our pace.

Back at the chapel Liam collapses down on one of the pews, exhausted and panting rapidly, then I move the other pew into place on my own, barricading the door. When I’m done, I sit down and tear into one of the granola bars that I stole from the stash at the castle, handing another to Liam. My stomach growls and I recognize the stirrings of a long-lost appetite, like a beast coming out of hibernation after winter and needing to replenish everything it’s lost. Liam however sets the granola bar aside without so much as a bite. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ I ask him.

He shakes his head. He looks like death warmed up, as my mum would say. I place a hand to his forehead. He’s hot. ‘You’ve got a fever,’ I tell him.

‘Where are those shotgun shells?’ he asks, ignoring me and pulling the gun into his lap.

I dig the cartridges out of my jacket pocket and watch him load the shotgun with two of them.

He turns to face the door to the chapel, his face a mask of stone, aiming the gun as though ready to pull the trigger on anyone who steps foot inside.

‘Promise you won’t kill him?’ I plead.