Liam yanks me sideways into one of the rooms: an old bathroom; and we hide behind the door, pressed up against each other, holding our breath. Liam digs into his pocket and pulls out his switchblade, but I grip his wrist. A knife is no match for a gun.

We hear the squeak of hinges and then the creaking of floorboards as the footsteps head our way. I feel the hard and frantic scrabble of the panic in my belly clawing up my throat and forcing its way into my mouth. Liam must sense it too, as he clamps his hand over my mouth to stop a scream escaping. The footsteps keep coming closer, a banging noise accompanying them, as though he’s knocking his knuckles against the wall as he walks.

The sound of the soft tread stops suddenly, and my scream gathers behind Liam’s hand, trying to squeeze past his fingers. My heart feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest. It’s a miracle the man can’t hear it. It’s as loud as a jackhammer drilling into concrete, at least to my ears.

I stare up at Liam, whose attention is fixed on the door. He looks like a cornered animal, coiled and ready to spring, his free hand white-knuckled on the knife. We hear another footstep, this one closer. Liam’s iron grip on me tightens. I worry he might throw caution to the wind and leap out to confront the man, but then, just as the tension feels like it might snap, the footsteps continue on.

Liam drops his hand from my mouth, and I gasp in oxygen. After a moment he eases the door open a crack and we peek out, just in time to catch a glimpse of the man as he walks down the hall. Is it Andrew McKay? It’s hard to tell as we can’t see his face. He’s dressed all in black, with a long waterproof jacket and a hood pulled up, but my gaze is caught by something else. He’s carrying a shotgun in his right hand and dangling a dead rabbit by its ears in his left, rhythmically knocking it against the wall as he walks. He turns and vanishes inside the room where his campsite is set up and it’s only then that I remember we left all the man’s things scattered and upended on his bed in our haste to get out of there. He’ll know we’ve been here. He may even guess we’re still in the castle.

‘Move!’ Liam says, obviously having the exact same thought. ‘Come on!’ he shouts at the precise moment we hear an angry yell – a man’s voice – swearing blue murder. He must have discovered the mess we made of his things.