Perversely, the encounter had made him all the keener to go to his uncle’s farm, and so, after the strange figure had gone, he had left his bag in the hedge anyway, and the next morning, without telling Fletch, had picked it up and made it to the station by 9.03, just as the train pulled in to the platform, half-empty apart from a few people on their way to go shopping or see the sights in London. It was a Saturday.

He’d found a quiet place in a corner and settled in with his music. The air was clear, and the sun shone through the glass onto his face. A family of four played cards at the table seats near him, laughing and joking. He watched Downshire, still visible on its hill, until it dwindled away.

The weather had got progressively worse as the train neared London, grey clouds gathering.

Tom was not used to the Underground and went in the wrong direction on the Central Line for two stops; but he eventually arrived at Liverpool Street Station, where he bought a bacon sandwich and a too hot coffee. The clamour of people hurrying by made him feel insignificant. Men and women in suits stomped past, phones clamped to their ears or peering into tiny screens.

He’d caught the train heading east with two minutes to spare, and the sky was bruising yellow.

Holt Station was small; nobody else alighted from the tiny branch-line train he’d taken from Colchester, and as it rattled away, he realised he did not know who was going to pick him up, only that he would be met at the post. Would it be James himself, he wondered, and pictured some kindly old buffer in fraying tweeds and wellies, a fat black labrador at his feet.

There was a guard in the station office, behind a plastic grille, counting off something on a clipboard. Tom asked him if he knew Mundham Farm, but the guard only shrugged and looked at him suspiciously.

Even now his phone was vibrating with messages. Fletch had clocked he’d gone at signing-in time.

Tom had put off listening to them till now. He paused outside the empty waiting room, then braced himself and accessed the voicemails.

Fletcher, of course, calling him every name under the sun, begging him to call as soon as possible. Three messages. He deleted them all.

And a surprise. His guardian, Hector Tsang, calling from across the world.

Tom bit his lip.

He could hardly make out what Hector was saying for a moment, the line was so crackly. Disappointment that Tom had left without asking him for permission. Annoyance at the trouble he was causing.