I wish I understood why he’s chosen me. Did I do something to attract it? I think about what Liam told me earlier, about Mia and Will and how he murdered them, but not before torturing Will. That he’s capable of something so horrific and evil fills me with paralysing dread. I stare up at the stained-glass window and think of the monks who probably hid in a chapel built on this very site, terrified for their lives as Vikings rampaged and pillaged. Did they pray as they were preyed upon? Tears slide down my cheeks and I quickly wipe them away.

I picture the man returning to his hideout in the castle and discovering his gun missing. What will he do? Will he immediately come looking for it? Or will he be cautious? I would, knowing we were armed now. But who knows? It might just infuriate him further. He might bide his time and wait until dark. Or he might be outside right now, stalking us.

Perhaps he knows we’re in here and he’s watching from a perch somewhere, waiting until we leave before he attacks? I stare at the door, expecting it to fly open and trying to imagine what I’ll do. My fingers grip the axe handle and I swallow, trying to ignore the way my gut is twisting with anxiety.

I curse at not knowing the time. I don’t know if minutes are passing or whole hours. Perhaps it’s just seconds.

I get up, leaving the axe on the pew, and tend to the bird, wanting to distract myself from the dread of waiting for what’s coming next. Her broken wing seems to be setting well now. She’s trying to flap it. It seems I was right in my suspicion that it was just a simple fracture, and all it needed was a few days of splinting to put it right. ‘Not yet, Hathor,’ I tell her. I’ll give it another day just in case.

Hathor is content to sit on my lap and for me to stroke her feathers. I feed her some granola bar and she bumps her head into my palm as though thanking me. I keep stroking her, finding it soothing.

After twenty minutes I check on Liam, tiptoeing closer, and discover he’s passed out. His skin looks flushed and his breathing is heavy and laboured. I hover over him wondering what to do, glancing warily at the gun lying on the ground. I wish we hadn’t taken it but it’s too late now.

In the end I let him sleep for several hours, finally waking him up when dusk is falling. He opens his eyes, groggy and disorientated, and then slowly sits up. He blinks at the purplish light and then looks at me quizzically. ‘What time is it?’ he asks.

I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’