Walking inside was like waking from a nightmare. Warm and familiar, Gran’s front room felt like the safest place on earth. A coal fire burned in the old-fashioned iron grate, and a bunch of brightly coloured rowan berries and hazel leaves had been arranged in a jar on the drop-leaf table at the bottom of the stairs. Piles of books covered every other available surface. A creaky radio-cassette player was bouncing quietly to a big-band beat, the worn tape hissing faintly in the background. Normally Callum hated Gran’s taste in music – it was at least half a century behind the times, along with pretty much everything else she liked – but tonight he was actually pleased to hear the familiar tootle of trumpets. He leaned back against the door, fighting for breath as sweat trickled down his face.

‘Callum!’ Gran gasped, looking up at him. Below her close-cropped grey hair, her clear blue eyes were tight with concern. She was curled in her favourite spot, a cracked leather armchair that fitted exactly into the space under the narrow stairs. In daylight, from the chair, you could see straight up the road into the heart of Marlock Wood. She often set up her easel there, splashing out watercolour paintings of the same scene in every possible weather and season. And keeping a sharp eye on the few people who came and went along the lonely road.

Callum fought to still his chattering teeth. ‘Hi, Gran.’

‘Callum, sit down!’ Gran uncurled herself from her chair and was at his side in a second. ‘You’re as white as a sheet! What’s wrong? Not that lad from school bothering you again?’

Callum shrugged off her concerned hands as she tried to take his jacket from him. ‘I’m not afraid of him!’ he replied quickly.

Gran steered him to the other armchair and made him sit. He hadn’t even taken off his boots.