I legged it back to the boy. He hadn’t moved a millimetre. He wasn’t even blinking. Just staring up into space. The lights were on, but nobody was home.

I was tempted to fuck off out of there and leave him where he was. But I knew that wasn’t an option. I had to find out why I was in this shit, and right now he was the only one who could help. For starters, he’d know who’d killed his dad.

He could also ID me. And being IDed was the last thing I needed. I had to stay dead for as long as possible.

I raised him to a sitting position against the brew hut, slung my day sack and his rucksack over my right shoulder and lifted the boy on to my back. I didn’t need to tell him to hang on. He’d locked his arms around me, his blood-wet arms soaking my hair, before I threaded my wrists under his knees.

I stayed in the shadow of the hut as a tour bus thundered past, left to right. Thank fuck none of the passengers was in the mood for a piss or a picnic. I gave it a count of five, then stumbled across the road and into the trees.

Small, bony arms slid up and tightened around my throat as the hill steepened and I hit a patch of scree. I grabbed the nearest trunk to steady myself and wrenched them down on to my chest again. I got some air back into my lungs. ‘Stefan, you’re going to fucking throttle me if you keep doing that …’

I carried on down, paralleling the stream. I had no idea whether I was heading for some Sound of Music mountain pasture or another fucking great precipice, but even with temporary oxygen starvation, I seemed to be capable of a bit of joined-up thinking.

After about thirty slips and slides and one tumble, the ground levelled out. I glanced back. I could no longer see the road. I couldn’t even see the stripy rods that told me where it was. The stream was flowing quite gently there. I moved to my half-right and crouched beside it. The boy’s arms unlocked and I helped him find his feet.

I plunged my hands into the cold, clear spring water and gave them a good rub, then rinsed Frank’s blood off my head. I dried them on the front of my jeans, opened Stefan’s rucksack and told him to get his kit off.

He gave me a look that was still part zombie, but I got the impression he wasn’t completely out of it.

I pulled off my jacket and grabbed a handful of his football shirt and mimed what I wanted him to do. ‘Off! The blood …’

All I got back was a blank stare. Maybe he didn’t speak much English.

No. He definitely spoke English.

And I’d seen that stare before.

It was the stare of a kid who’s no stranger to pain. Top-of-the-range wagons and designer luggage and the shiny watch I could now see on his wrist hadn’t sheltered him from some severe dramas in his young life.

And not just today.

Another image took shape inside my head.

A bearded mullah. Flashing eyes. Knife raised. His other arm around the boy’s throat.

We’re in a madrasa.

Afghan? No, Somali.

I feel my right index finger curl and take first pressure on the trigger of my Makarov. My target grabs a fistful of his captive’s hair and prepares to plunge the blade into his chest.

My foresight, ramrod straight, locks on to a bead of sweat a centimetre above the mullah’s left eye.

Second pressure.

Then everything above the beard turns to mist, and I’m back beside an Alpine stream with a lad whose life I’ve saved before.

I took my bomber out of my day sack. Did my best to rinse the blood and vomit off the front and sleeves. Swapped my T-shirt for the clean one.

He finally got the message: pulled off his outer gear and his trainers. He had some kind of medallion on a chain around his neck. A St Christopher. It bounced around in the sunlight as he washed himself. Pretty soon the stream turned red.

I handed him the towel from his rucksack, then the spare shirt, a maroon polo with a crocodile logo, and khaki shorts. I filled the water bottle while he dressed himself and fastened the Velcro strips on his trainers. They each had a crocodile too. So did his socks.

I shrugged on my bomber. No crocodiles anywhere near it. It still had a pink patch about halfway down, beside the zip, but I reckoned it wouldn’t stand out once it was dry. It started to steam. I hoped the warmth of the day would sort it out before too long.

I picked up his football kit. The shirt was still covered with blood but I could now see a white badge on the front of it – a set of antlers, two pillars and a crown, and the words ‘Città di Brindisi’.

‘Don’t leave a thing that betrays your presence …’ The Jock voice again. I wrapped it in my T-shirt and shoved it in the side compartment of my day sack. Then I put a hand on each of his shoulders and looked into his troubled eyes.

‘Stefan?’ I gestured back towards the road. ‘The car … Your dad, right?’

His face crumpled.

I gripped him more firmly. ‘What about me? You know my name. Why am I here?’

I wasn’t getting anything back.

I showed him the Hotel Le Strato matchbox. ‘Have we been to this place? Did we stay at this hotel?’

I finally got something. A shake of the head.

I felt my teeth chew at my bottom lip.

In the movies, this is where the hero slaps the kid to bring him to his senses. It doesn’t work. Why did I know that? I knew that because when I was his age my stepdad did the slapping. It either triggered a major meltdown or just prolonged the silence.

I realized I’d asked the wrong question. The Le Strato had rung another bell because I’d driven past it. Not last night, maybe, but some time, on his dad’s business. I needed to broaden my target area.

‘So, not the hotel. But Courchevel, yeah? You’ve got a place in Courchevel? A chalet with a green room? A green room with no windows?’

A green room with a desk. And monitors. And photographs.

A green room where Frank had told me what was on his mind.

Stefan’s mouth stayed shut but I saw his jaw start to work like he was chewing something he didn’t fancy before swallowing it.

I was beginning to think I should go the slapping route after all when it opened.

‘Cour-che-vel …’

For a moment, I thought he might be correcting my pronunciation. Then a strobe sparked up in my head. I pictured, in rapid succession, the sign for ‘Centre Village’, the Verdons ski lift, the entrance to Frank’s chalet.

We were in France.

Something else sprang at me, fuck knew where from. ‘And a pool, yeah? An indoor swimming-pool?’

For a moment, the tension seemed to leave his body.

‘I love … to swim …’

I sat him down and took out the French map and the Silva compass. After a few false starts and a bit of head scratching, I zeroed in on the Haute Savoie, then the stretch of road that seemed to match the reference points – tunnels, curve, waterfall, layby – of the killing zone. It would have taken us to Turin.

I reckoned Courchevel was fifteen Ks or so as the crow flew. But I wasn’t about to bring out the crampons and karabiners, even if I’d had some with me. So maybe three times that, if we went round the peaks instead of over them.

I was about to fold the corner of the page when the Jock voice came back into my head. ‘Never mark a map. Why tell the enemy where you’re going and what you’re doing?’ I buried the matchbook and put the map and compass back into my day sack. The passports went in there too. I looped the binoculars strap around my neck.

‘Right. We’re sorted.’ I kept it simple. ‘I’m going to get you home.’

6

I planned to tab as far as we could down the valley, then we’d make our way to Courchevel. After what had happened to his dad, I wasn’t expecting it to be a place of safety, but I needed answers to the questions that were buzzing around in my head, and I had nowhere else to start.