He sat quietly at the edge, his feet dangling over the side, staring sightlessly as the waves of the angry sea crashed against the rocks far below. He was beyond thought. He found the noise and the energy mesmerising. The cold, bleak day mirrored his own feelings.

Just then a car approached, bumping over the rough track. The driver reached for his radio to get assurance that the target hadn't moved from his original position at the edge. It was beginning to grow dark and cold. The driver felt the terrain sloping downwards so he cut the engine and allowed the car to move under its own momentum. When he got near he gently applied the brakes until the car drew to a silent stop. He got out quietly, leaving the car door open. A man emerged from the shadows. He nodded silently to the driver to reconfirm that their target was still there. The driver said nothing but the watcher knew he'd heard.

It was a while before the sitter became aware of someone standing close to his right shoulder. He hadn't heard him approach. He eventually turned his head disinterestedly towards the trousered legs.

"Bugger off !"

The visitor said nothing and waited. The seated man turned back to the view. He wanted neither an audience nor an interruption. He felt a growing urgency just to slip off the bank and down, down into those welcoming waters. In an instant that he neither saw nor expected, a hand grasped him by the collar while an arm went around his throat and he was hauled roughly away from the bank, as if the watcher had sensed that the decision to jump had been reached. The visitor managed to quickly twist his prisoner onto his belly kneeling all his weight onto the back.

"Move and I'll break your neck, and then your spine."

The prisoner tried to relax and be compliant under those very determined and professional restraints. Feeling his captor subdued the man took himself away and stood up, allowing him to do the same. The man got up, still angry and, now, humiliated.

"You bastard –"

In the blink of an eye, and from somewhere, a gun suddenly appeared in the assailant's hand. Irrationally the prisoner no longer wished to die – not by this man's hand anyway but by himself and by his own choosing and in his own time.

"This way, laddie."

"And if I don't?"

The gun waggled in answer, pointing him in a general direction. The man complied – for now – until he had a better handle on what the hell was going on. After not too long he saw the car. He hadn't heard it approach, any more than he had heard this freak sneak up on him. His reactions were certainly shot to hell. As he reached the car, another man emerged quietly from the shadows. He too was armed. The back door was opened and he was obliged to get in. One man got in beside him as the other slipped behind the wheel. He refused to ask where he was going or what was going on. All would be revealed in due course. Or he would be murdered. He didn't really care one way or the other, though – against his judgement – his curiosity was certainly growing. The car revved up quietly, turned around, and bumped back up the rutted path and onto the country lanes. It was getting quite dark by now. Weariness overcame the prisoner and he leaned back on the seat and closed his eyes. Hunger had been gnawing at him for days and he just wanted the world to go away. He was too tired for all this – whatever it was. Everything was noted by his kidnappers, who said nothing either to him or to each other.

After some time the captive noticed that the car was slowing down. He cautiously opened one eye, but the darkness didn't tell him much. The man sitting next to him pushed his thigh roughly and said that they had arrived. The car doors were opened and he was more or less dragged out. He stood in front of a large house which seemed to float in the darkness.

The driver, a Scot, said that this was Repton House. That name did ring bells, but the prisoner was not going to admit that. Uncannily the driver seemed to read his mind.

"Aye, you do know that don't you, laddie. It's a centre to help people with post-traumatic stress – shell-shock, in my day. But whatever highfalutin' name you give it, they're here to help Bodie."

The man didn't miss the flash of shock in Bodie's eyes – so he did know him: his name, his life, his failures. He knew where to find him and why he was sat where he was. How long had this guy been following him and why? Who was he - some God-botherer? And his slim, curly-haired acolyte; where did he fit in?

"We'll speak more when you're feeling a little stronger. Better go now, Bodie." He placed a hand softly on his shoulder, gently pushing him towards the house. There seemed to be great compassion in the man's words as though he were not so much disappointed as concerned about this young man in front of him.

Bodie hadn't noticed that someone had emerged from the house and was waiting patiently in the shadows for him. There were a lot of things this tired ex-merc, ex-everything hadn't noticed as life had slowly slipped past him. He took one final look at his abductor/saviour and walked with hunched, resigned shoulders up the steps and into the house. The door closed with some finality behind him. It took a lot of restraint for Bodie not to look back. It took even longer for him to look forward.