They gave Matthew Turner’s right leg, from the knee joint down. Mark severed the flesh with his knife, and together with Jimmy and the other boy, whose name was Aaron, they prised the knee joint apart. Matthew carried the leg against his will, holding it by the foot, and trotting, heading west. He aimed for the bonfire that Turner had told him about, and those in charge of him didn’t change his direction. By nightfall he came to the plateau.

There was a sheer escarpment of rock, hundreds of feet high, a wall in the forest, and Matthew stopped to look up at it. He didn’t see how he could scale it, but then, moving against his will, his body turned south, moving confidently, and those inside him began to speak, arguing about the best strategy to evade capture, death.

There was a cave, a mile or two to the south, and when Matthew came to it, he turned into it as though he had been in it a million times. It was a rift in the rock, and he made his way up it, in darkness.

At the top, on the broad plateau where the ground was rocky and the tree cover sparse, he found Turner’s bonfire. It was enormous.

But how to light it?

‘You’re not going to light it, you stupid fuck,’ a voice said.

And then,

‘Matthew. Is that you?’

His father. Definitely. His father’s voice.

A shiver thrilled through Matthew.

‘Dad?’

‘Matthew,’ his father said, exhaling with relief.

‘What the fuck,’ someone muttered, and then there was silence.

Matthew stopped, still in the darkness.

‘We’ve got a fix on yours.’ Another voice. Mr Sorensen’s. Inside him. ‘But we have to trace all of them.’

‘Where are you?’ Matthew said, turning in the darkness and suddenly afraid. He was in the jungle. He didn’t know how to do this.

‘Stay where you are,’ his father said. ‘Find the others, and stay in one place. We can trace the glasses, but they’re finding it difficult to get a fix on the receivers.’

Matthew dropped the leg. He was suddenly alone. Cautiously, he tried to find his way back to the cave, but in the dark it was impossible. He was exhausted, hungry and tired, and as the stars spun above him, he lay down on the rock and slept.

In the morning, Matthew found his way back to the cave and down, through it, back to the forest floor. He worked his way back to the stream, in what he thought was the right direction, but it was so much harder now. Yesterday, he had been moving as though in a dream. Now he was alone.

He called, calling out the voices he knew, Lukas, Jacob, Mark, Aaron, Yvonne, though he knew there were others. Sometime before noon he stumbled into the clearing where he had first found himself yesterday.

He walked into the centre of it and cupped his hands around his mouth. There was movement, suddenly, from within the jungle. Matthew peered. A stick cracked. He saw a flash of skin. A flash of something streaking toward him. And then suddenly, blinding pain. There was an arrow in his thigh.

He fell to his knees, unable to stand, and watched, uncomprehending, as Lukas walked into the clearing.

‘My kill,’ he called in a loud voice, and then started wailing, like a savage. A loud ululation, savage and insane.

‘Lukas,’ Matthew said. ‘Your dad. My dad. They spoke to me.’

‘Fuck up,’ Lukas said. He stepped forward and kicked Matthew between the legs, sending him sprawling onto his arse. ‘Why don’t you ever shut the fuck up?’

Matthew frowned.

Slowly, Lukas reached over his shoulder and pulled an arrow out of his quiver. He fixed it in the bow and drew backwards, staring steadily at Matthew.

‘How about one in the face, dude,’ Lukas said. And Matthew understood. Rodney.

He watched closely, ready to dodge the arrow when it came, but slowly, Lukas lowered the arrow and shook his head as though he had water in his ears.

It was over.