There’s blood on my windscreen.

It’s in the corner, a few speckled spots and then a thicker pool towards the bottom.

This is definitely a dream. There can’t be any question about that. There’s a hazy grey around the edges of my vision; that blinking, fuzzy sense that everything in front of me is a bewildering construct of my imagination.

Only this time, it is a dream.

My mouth is parched and I cluck my tongue trying to catch my breath. When I open my eyes, there is blood but it’s not on a windscreen; it’s on my arm. The scratch from the fence has started to dry, leaving a gloopy mound that is neither solid nor liquid. Like paint drying on the can’s lid.

It takes me a few seconds to realise I’m still in the mill. I’m leaning against a wall with the dampness of the flaking plaster soaking through my top. There’s a thin shaft beaming down from above, giving me barely enough light to see the slice along my arm. The back of my head hurts close to my ear and, when I touch it, there’s more sticky blood there.

I pull myself to my feet, calling Olivia’s name. There’s no reply and I reach for my phone – except it’s no longer in my pocket.

Aside from the bump on my head and slight dizziness, I don’t feel too bad. It’s then that I notice the gentle undercurrent of moaning and realise it isn’t coming from me; there’s someone else here.

Another limp shaft of light is illuminating the corner of the mill and there’s a lump there, which, from a distance, looks like a discarded bin bag. It’s only as I take a few steps closer that I see the shape bobbing up and down with each intake of breath. Every exhalation brings a husky groan.

I take a few steps towards the shape, wary that someone has very recently bashed me in the back of the head.

‘Liv?’

I hiss the name, hoping she’ll roll over – but it’s not her. The shape does twist, blinking into the light. His face is so much narrower than the last time I saw it, hair straggly and unkempt. One of his eyes has swollen and closed, like a boxer who’s been on the end of a hiding.

‘Tyler…?’

He moans an acknowledgement, rolling around until I can see that his hands are bound in front of him. I hurry towards him and kneel. He reels his head back, like a puppy frightened of being kicked. It surprises even me but there’s definitely relief at seeing him alive.

‘It’s Rose,’ I say. ‘Liv’s mum. It’s me.’

I can barely see him but his one good eye squints through the shadow with an ominous gleam. His hands are bound with some sort of plastic cord; perhaps a washing line. The knots are tight and small and I have no chance of getting a fingernail inside.

His voice is husky and dry: ‘Water.’

‘I don’t have any on me,’ I reply. ‘We’ll get you outside to my car.’

He starts to croak something but is interrupted by a third voice from behind me, ‘You won’t.’

It’s a woman’s voice but hard to place. Vaguely familiar but like she’s trying an accent. I spin but there’s nobody there, only the shadows.

‘Who’s that?’

There’s the creak of a floorboard but the echo is so loud that I can’t figure out from which direction it comes. I’m literally backed into a corner. Tyler is at my side, still trying to croak something.

The voice echoes around the empty mill: ‘You did it, didn’t you?’

‘Did what?’

‘The car.’

Whoever it is knows about me waking up in the field… although I’m not sure what that means. There’s another footstep and another rasp of ancient wood.

‘What about the car?’ I reply.

Two more footsteps and Tyler ekes out the word, ‘Don’t’.

‘Don’t what?’ I ask.

It’s the woman’s voice who answers: ‘He means, “don’t come any closer”. I think he’s missing a “please” from the beginning. He’s been saying that word a lot this week.’

‘Liv?’ My voice echoes once more.

There’s silence… and then: ‘Oh, she’s here. She’s not feeling well.’

Another squeak of rotting wood booms around the mill.

‘What have you done to her?’

A silhouette fills the spotlight in the middle of the floor. It’s only the legs at first, then the lower torso, then arms. I think it’s a trick of the light at first but it isn’t. One of the shadowed hands is clutching a knife. The razor point is clear, even through the gloom.

‘Not much,’ the voice says, though the accent has gone. There’s no disguise any longer. No point. ‘Not yet,’ it adds.

Another step and then the figure is fully in the light.