The Wrong Face on the Fell

I rolled out of bed before my alarm went off, already wide awake with the restless energy that comes when something good is finally happening. Today was the day. After weeks of Jamie talking about the camping trip, planning every detail, and me pestering my parents for permission, we were actually going. Two nights wild camping in the hills beyond Aviemore.

My sleeping bag stood rolled in the corner of my room where I had left it the night before. We did not own any proper camping gear, so our neighbour, Mr Shah, had lent me his faded ex-Army bag. It was probably older than I was and had a stubborn smell of damp canvas that no amount of airing seemed to shift, but I did not care. It was real camping equipment, and that made me feel halfway to becoming the sort of person who could survive in the wild.

I picked up the small rucksack Mum had helped me pack: a few changes of clothes, the snacks she had insisted on including, a water bottle and the cheap torch Dad had bought from the local ironmonger's. It was not much compared with what Jamie would bring, but it was mine.

The house was quiet. My parents were still asleep, which was probably for the best. Mum had spent most of Friday evening listing everything that might go wrong: getting lost, falling from a crag, meeting an aggressive deer or feral goat, and poisoning ourselves with badly cooked camp food. At one point she had even suggested a stray dog might find us in the night. Dad had finally persuaded her that Jamie Mercer was responsible enough to look after me, pointing out that Jamie had camped with his older brother Daniel for years without anything going wrong.

I trusted Jamie completely. He was eighteen and in S6, while I was sixteen and in S5, and those two years felt like a lifetime of experience when it came to anything outdoors. He knew the wooded lower slopes and open hills beyond Aviemore better than anyone I knew. He had been walking those paths since he was my age, first with Daniel and then, as he got older, on his own.

His stories always made me jealous. Sleeping beneath the stars. Building fires from scratch. Knocking cans from logs with a powerful sporting catapult. Proper outdoor stuff that I had only ever watched in films or online. Now it was my turn.

I checked the time. There were still hours before Jamie was due, but I could not go back to sleep. Instead, I checked my rucksack for the fifth time, making certain I had forgotten nothing important. The excitement was almost unbearable.

This was not going to be a family visit to a busy managed campsite with toilet blocks and marked pitches. Jamie had promised to teach me real campcraft: how to light a fire without matches if we had to, how to filter water from a burn and then treat it with purification tablets, and how to use his wrist-braced catapult safely and accurately.

The catapult made me nervous and excited at once. Jamie had discussed it for weeks, promising to teach me the correct stance and safety rules. His father, Peter Mercer, had agreed to let him bring it on the condition that it remained packed in its zipped equipment case unless they had a safe earth bank to shoot towards, and that I used it only under Jamie's direct supervision.

I had never handled anything like it. Mum would probably have had another fit of anxiety if she had known about that particular plan, which was why we had decided not to mention it.

I wandered downstairs and found Dad already in the kitchen, a mug of coffee in one hand and his mobile in the other.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Martin Reyes asked, looking up with a knowing smile.

"Too excited, I suppose."

He nodded and took a sip.

"I remember my first proper camping trip. Your grandfather took me and your Uncle Rob up to a loch when I was about your age. I was awake at 5.00 am, packed and ready to leave."

"Were you nervous?"

"Terrified," he admitted with a laugh. "But it became one of the best weekends of my life. Sometimes the things that frighten you a little are worth doing."

That made me feel better. Dad was not usually the outdoors type, but he understood why the trip mattered to me. Mum meant well with all her worrying, but Dad understood that this was about more than sleeping in a tent. It was about proving I could manage something real and difficult.

The morning dragged. I tried watching television but could not concentrate. I attempted to start a book, then realised I had read the same paragraph four times. Eventually I gave up and sat outside the front door, watching the short residential street and waiting for Jamie to appear.

When he finally arrived in the early afternoon, I spotted him as soon as he turned at the junction beyond the next row of houses. The zipped equipment case over his shoulder was unmistakable, as was the enormous rucksack that looked big enough for a week in the hills. Jamie walked with his usual easy confidence, as though he belonged wherever he happened to be.

Still, there was something unusually deliberate about him that day. Every strap sat perfectly flat. Every buckle was centred. Even his stride seemed measured. I put it down to him taking responsibility for me seriously.

"Ready for this?" he called as he approached.

"I've been ready since 6.00 this morning."

Jamie grinned and lowered his rucksack onto our front step. The smile arrived exactly when I expected it to, but it did not quite warm his eyes.

"Good. This is going to be brilliant. I found the ideal pitch the last time I was up there. It is secluded from the principal waymarked paths and situated beside a clear-running burn. You'll like it."

The phrasing was oddly exact, more like something from a walking guide than the way Jamie normally spoke. Before I could tease him about it, Mum came outside, probably drawn by our voices, and immediately stared at the equipment case.

"That stays packed away unless you're using it somewhere safe, doesn't it?" Helen Reyes asked him directly.

"Yes, Mrs Reyes. Dad reviewed all the safety rules with me again this morning. The catapult will remain in the case except during supervised target practice, and Callum will only use it against a safe backstop while I am beside him."

Again, the answer sounded rehearsed, but it was exactly the answer Mum needed.

"And you know precisely where you're going?"

"I've visited the pitch four times. It is roughly five miles into the hills. We follow the forestry track from the edge of the neighbourhood, then the marked route through the pinewood before taking a less formal path indicated by cairns. I have GPS mapping and a compass as backup."

My parents knew the general route, but Jamie had always guarded the exact location of the secluded pitch, saying that its privacy was what made it worthwhile.

Mum looked ready with another question, but Dad appeared behind her and rested a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"They'll be fine, Helen. Jamie knows what he's doing."

I shouldered my rucksack and said goodbye. Mum hugged me for longer than usual, reminded me to be careful and told me to ring if anything went wrong. Dad shook Jamie's hand and told him to take good care of me.

We walked to the end of the residential road, where the tarmac became a forestry track and then narrowed into a hill path. I had walked the first part dozens of times, but never intending to stay in the hills for two nights. It felt different now, more significant.

"So, what's the plan?" I asked as we began climbing.

"Reach the pitch first. It is a sustained ascent and should require between two and three hours, depending upon the number and duration of rest stops. Once there, we establish the tent, gather suitable fuel, prepare drinking water and organise the site. Then we practise with the catapult while sufficient daylight remains. After that, we build the fire."

I glanced at him. "You sound like you're reading an expedition checklist."

He gave a brief laugh, half a beat late. "Just trying to make sure we do everything properly."

The schedule sounded perfect: difficult but manageable, with Jamie there to guide me. I had waited months for the chance, ever since he first said he wanted to share his camping knowledge with somebody who would appreciate it.

We left the familiar streets behind and entered the Caledonian pinewood. Scots pines rose around us, their reddish trunks twisting above beds of heather, exposed roots and granite. The path was steeper than I had expected, and the weight of my rucksack soon made every upward step harder.

Jamie moved at a steady pace that looked effortless. His huge pack did not appear to slow him at all.

"Take your time," he said when he noticed me breathing hard after the first mile. "This is not a race. The purpose is to enjoy being outdoors."

There it was again, that precise, polished way of speaking. Yet the meaning was kind, and I was grateful for the reminder. This was supposed to be about learning and experiencing something new, not proving how tough I was. Jamie had always been patient with me, and I felt lucky to have a friend willing to share the adventure.

The trees thickened as we climbed. The farther we travelled from Aviemore, the more peaceful everything became. There was no traffic and no sound from the houses, only our trainers on the rough path and the wind moving through the pine branches. It was exactly what I had hoped for.

After the first mile, the path steepened further and wound uphill through tight bends that made my legs burn. What had begun as an easy walk through familiar ground became a test of muscles I had not known I possessed. Jamie continued ahead at the same measured pace, his rucksack rising and falling slightly with every step. He never seemed to tire or need a rest.

I tried to copy his rhythm, but within minutes I was breathing heavily and dropping behind. The straps dug into my shoulders, and sweat gathered beneath my waistband despite the cool air. Jamie had warned me that carrying a full pack uphill would be hard, but I had assumed my regular cycle rides around Aviemore had prepared me. I was wrong.

"Doing all right back there?" Jamie called over his shoulder when the gap between us grew.

"Yeah, just..."

I stopped to catch my breath and pretended to admire the scenery. He smiled and waited for me.

"It becomes easier once the body adjusts to the exertion. The ascent is steep and our loads are substantial."

The pines formed a canopy over us, blocking much of the afternoon sun and making the air cooler and damper. Everything smelled of sap and fallen needles, a sharp, clean scent I knew from family drives through the Highlands. Being inside it, walking through it rather than watching from a car, felt entirely different.

Jamie pointed towards a broad granite outcrop overlooking the pinewood.

"Good place for water. We are approximately halfway."

I followed him gratefully, dropped my rucksack and collapsed onto the flattest section of stone. My legs felt like jelly. Jamie sat beside me, took out his bottle and drank one measured mouthful.

He was not even out of breath.

"First time walking any distance with a full pack?" he asked.

"First proper hill walk, unless you count going round the loch."

"That does not count," he said, with the shape of a laugh but very little sound. "You are progressing adequately. Most inexperienced walkers consider turning back within the first hour."

I drank deeply from my bottle. Turning back had certainly crossed my mind, but I was not going to admit it. The trip meant too much to abandon because of aching legs and a heavy rucksack.

After ten minutes, Jamie rose and put his pack on.

"Ready to continue? The best part remains ahead."

The next section was worse. Loose stones shifted under my feet, and exposed roots seemed placed specifically to trip me. I fell behind again, stopping every few hundred yards to breathe and rest my burning muscles. Jamie kept encouraging me without ever sounding annoyed that I was slowing him down.

"Watch for the small coloured Forestry and Land Scotland waymarkers," he called during one of my pauses. "Farther on, after we leave the formal route, the cairns indicate the path. Remember their positions if you ever walk here without me."

I had noticed the markers but had never thought about what they meant. Jamie appeared to know everything: how to read the route, where to place his feet and which plants to avoid touching. Yet the knowledge came out in neat blocks, complete and oddly bloodless, as if repeated from somewhere else. I told myself he was simply concentrating on teaching me properly.

The pinewood changed as we climbed. The trees became taller and more widely spaced, allowing bars of late-afternoon sunlight to reach the path. Somewhere ahead, I heard running water. Jamie confirmed that it was the burn beside our pitch.

"Nearly there," he said at our final stop. "Perhaps another twenty minutes."

Those twenty minutes felt like an hour. At last, the narrow path opened into a secluded patch of level ground that took my breath away for reasons that had nothing to do with the climb.

The wild-camping pitch lay beside a cold burn running clear but peat-tinged over granite stones. Tall Scots pines surrounded the open ground, forming a natural screen. Water murmured past, and tiny fish darted through the shallows.

"This is perfect," I said, lowering my pack and walking to the bank.

Jamie was already unpacking, laying out the tent and other supplies with practised efficiency.

"I found the place about six months ago. Nobody else appears to use it, probably because it is not shown as a camping area on the maps."

I crouched beside the burn and dipped my hands into the water. It was shockingly cold. Although it looked clean enough to drink, I remembered Jamie warning me that clear water could still carry things that would make us ill.

"First, we need the tent established before dark," Jamie said, unrolling a complicated mass of fabric, poles and lines. "Would you like to learn the procedure?"

"You mean how to put it up?"

He paused. "Yes."

I went over to him. The tent looked far more complicated than the simple ones I had seen in shops, with several poles and guylines that seemed to connect in no obvious order.

"Begin with the footprint," Jamie said, handing me a sheet of waterproof fabric. "It sits beneath the tent and protects the groundsheet from moisture and sharp objects."

I spread it over a level patch, away from the worst of the granite and exposed roots. Jamie helped me adjust it until he was satisfied, then we unfolded the tent on top.

"These are the primary support poles," he explained, showing me how the shock-corded sections fitted together. "They pass through these sleeves. Take your time. Do not force them."

Working together, we assembled the frame and raised the tent. Jamie showed me how to peg the corners and tension the guylines so that the structure stayed firm. When he handed me the mallet, I expected to make a mess of it, but every peg went cleanly into the damp ground.

"Good work," Jamie said after inspecting them. "You are acquiring the technique quickly."

It was not quite how he normally praised me, but the sense of achievement was stronger than I had expected. It was a simple job, yet doing it properly felt like proof that I belonged there, that I could learn the skills and become comfortable in the wild.

Once the tent was secure, Jamie taught me how to identify suitable firewood. We walked around the pitch and he explained the difference between wood that would burn well and branches that were green, wet or rotten.

"Choose material that has been dead long enough to dry but has not begun to decay," he said, breaking a branch to expose its pale interior. "It should snap cleanly, rather than bend or feel soft."

We spent the next hour collecting fallen wood and sorting it by thickness. Jamie explained how each size served a different purpose: dry bark and the finest twigs for tinder, pencil-thick pieces for kindling, and larger branches for fuel once the fire was established. We took only loose dead wood and kept the amount modest, in keeping with low-impact wild camping.

The work felt good after the climb. My legs still ached, but moving around loosened some of the stiffness. Late sunlight slanted between the pines while the burn supplied a constant, peaceful background murmur.

"Do you think that's enough for tonight?" I asked, looking at our piles.

Jamie nodded and wiped his forehead, though I had not seen him sweat.

"Probably sufficient for tomorrow morning as well. Now we should address the water."

He led me to the burn and removed a compact filter and a bottle of purification tablets from his pack.

"Appearance is not evidence of safety. We cannot know what lies upstream. Filter first, then use a tablet. Two barriers are preferable to one."

He showed me how to fill the filter bag where the current ran swiftly over granite, keeping our boots out of the water and avoiding disturbed sediment. I watched the peat-tinted water emerge clear through the filter. Then we filled our bottles and added a tablet to each. A faint chemical smell rose from mine, but Jamie assured me it would fade before we needed to drink.

The sun was dropping. Everything we had achieved - the climb, the tent, the wood and the treated water - felt real. We were not playing at camping. We had created a working camp in the hills using skills Jamie was patiently passing to me.

I sat on a fallen log beside an old fire site while he arranged his gear for the evening. We would use the existing patch of bare earth rather than scorch fresh ground. The surrounding soil was damp, the burn was only a few yards away, and Jamie made me promise that we would drown and stir every ember before sleeping or leaving.

The pitch was quiet except for water and occasional bird calls. No traffic. No neighbours talking. Nothing familiar from town. Just the two of us, the pinewood and the approaching night.

The shadows lengthened while we organised everything, and the temperature fell quickly once the sun slipped behind the trees. Wind moved across the exposed ground above us and found its way through the clearing.

Jamie retrieved the zipped case from where he had placed it against a pine. He opened it to reveal the wrist-braced sporting catapult, protective glasses and packets of biodegradable clay shot.

"The remaining daylight is suitable for target practice," he said. "We have perhaps an hour."

My stomach fluttered. The catapult looked more powerful and serious than the cheap toys I had seen as a child. It had a rigid metal frame, thick bands and a brace that fitted over the forearm. Jamie handled it carefully and kept it unloaded as he inspected the bands and pouch.

He led me to the far edge of the pitch, where a steep earth bank offered a safe backstop with no path or open ground behind it. He checked the area thoroughly, then set empty cans along a fallen log about thirty yards away. Their metallic clatter echoed through the trees.

When he returned, his face had become serious and focused.

"First rule," Jamie said, holding the unloaded catapult where I could see it. "Never draw unless the target, backstop and space around them are safe. Second, never aim at a person, animal or anything you are not prepared to damage. Third, inspect the bands before every session and wear eye protection. Fourth, do not load until you are facing safely down range."

I nodded, trying to absorb it all. The responsibility felt heavier than I had expected. One careless movement could blind somebody or injure an animal. This was not a game.

Jamie handed me a pair of protective glasses, put on his own and demonstrated the stance. He placed his feet apart, held the frame steadily and showed me how the wrist brace took some of the strain. His movements were smooth and exact, the product of years of practice with Daniel.

He explained how to grip the frame without twisting it, how to place a clay ball centrally in the pouch and how to draw to the same anchor point beside the face each time.

"Most beginners hurry the release," he said, raising the catapult without loading it. "Breathe naturally. Settle your aim. Release smoothly on the exhale."

For his demonstration, he loaded one piece of clay and faced the earth bank. The bands stretched with a faint creak. When he released, the shot snapped through the air and knocked a can cleanly from the log.

"Your turn," Jamie said, lowering the catapult and removing his fingers from the pouch before handing it to me.

It felt stiff and unfamiliar. Drawing the bands required more strength than I had expected, and the brace pressed hard against my forearm. Jamie stood beside me and adjusted my grip and stance with careful, economical movements. His hand covered mine briefly to show me how to keep the frame upright, but there was something clinical about the touch, no joking shove or easy encouragement like I expected from him.

"Remember the breathing," he said as I faced the targets. "Do not hold your breath. That increases movement. Release when the position feels stable."

My first clay shot went wide and struck the earth bank well beyond the cans. The bands snapped against the frame and startled me even though I had expected it.

Jamie shifted my stance and reminded me to return the pouch to the same point beside my cheek. My second attempt was closer but still missed. The third clipped the log and burst into dust, leaving every can standing.

Embarrassment and frustration began to build. Jamie made it look effortless, and I could not hit a motionless tin from thirty yards.

"Do not be discouraged," he said as I selected another clay ball. "Daniel missed his first twenty attempts when Dad began teaching him. Competence requires repetition."

It was a memory I recognised. Jamie had told me the story before, but usually he laughed while describing how Daniel blamed the wind on a completely still day. This time he repeated only the facts, stripped of all the warmth that had made the story funny.

His encouragement still helped. He corrected my grip, showed me how to use the wrist brace for stability and reminded me not to twist the frame. His patience never wavered, even while I missed shot after shot.

On my seventh attempt, something clicked. The catapult sat more naturally in my hand, my breathing steadied, and when I released the pouch, one of the centre cans flew backwards with a satisfying metallic clatter.

"There you are," Jamie called. His grin looked genuine for an instant. "An accurate shot."

The rush of success was stronger than anything I had felt during the climb or while pitching the tent. I had learnt something requiring actual control and concentration.

My next shot missed, but the one after sent another can spinning from the log. Jamie clapped me on the shoulder. The gesture was a little too firm and landed in precisely the same spot as the first adjustment he had made to my stance, but I was too pleased to care.

"Two hits from ten attempts is a respectable result for a first session," he said as we went to collect the cans. "Many people require weeks to achieve consistency."

We cleared every fragment of clay and carried the cans back, making sure we left no rubbish. Jamie spoke about leaving no trace and keeping wild places unspoilt for whoever came after us.

Back at camp, he inspected the catapult bands, wiped moisture and grit from the frame, and returned it to the zipped case with the glasses and remaining clay shot. He stored the case inside the tent. Watching his care reinforced how seriously he treated safety, even if the entire routine seemed almost too perfect, as though he had memorised every action in advance.

With target practice finished, we turned to the fire. The Highland air was cooling rapidly, and the prospect of warmth was increasingly welcome. Jamie showed me how to arrange a modest nest of dry bark and fine twigs at the centre of the existing fire site. Around it, he built a loose structure of kindling, leaving space for air.

"Fire requires fuel, oxygen and heat," he explained. "Remove any one and combustion stops. A common error is packing the material too tightly and starving the flame of oxygen."

I copied him, arranging pencil-thick twigs around the tinder. The little structure looked too fragile to last, but Jamie said it only needed to hold until the kindling caught.

"Once it burns steadily, add larger pieces individually," he said, striking a match. "Patience is essential."

The tinder caught at once. Small flames moved through the dry material, then reached the kindling. I watched anxiously, certain it would go out, but several twigs began burning steadily and produced enough heat to ignite the next layer.

"Correct," Jamie said, adding a slightly thicker branch. "Would you like to build the next layer?"

He gave me pieces no thicker than my thumb and showed me where to place them. The fire strengthened with each addition. When I laid on a branch as thick as my wrist without disturbing the flames, I felt another surge of achievement.

Then Jamie scattered the structure and made me try lighting a second small fire from scratch before allowing the first to grow. My second attempt went even better. He let me do most of it, stepping in only when I hesitated. When the flames spread through the tinder and caught the kindling I had arranged, the satisfaction was enormous.

"You are becoming proficient," Jamie said, settling on one of the logs beside the fire site. "Most people need weeks of practice to produce a fire that reliable."

The flames threw restless light across the pitch, transforming the place into something primitive and strange. Shadows shifted among the trees. Crackling wood mixed with the steady murmur of the burn, and the air smelled of pine smoke.

Jamie took out a packet of chocolate digestives and a bag of marshmallows. We toasted the marshmallows on sticks, then pressed them between the biscuits to make sticky campfire sandwiches. It was exactly the right activity after the climb, target practice and fire-building: simple enough to relax over, but still part of the experience.

"Daniel and I have camped across Scotland," Jamie said, holding a marshmallow at a precise distance from the flames. "There is a place near Glencoe from which several separate ridgelines are visible in clear conditions. Another site in Torridon has a burn passing between rock formations resembling cathedral arches."

I listened while turning my marshmallow until it browned. The stories painted pictures of adventures that felt almost mythical: week-long trips through remote country, encounters with wildlife and nights beneath stars bright enough to navigate by.

"Have you ever met anything dangerous?" I asked.

"We have encountered red deer at close range twice. Both withdrew when they became aware of us. We also observed a wild boar at considerable distance while camping elsewhere in Scotland. It showed no interest in approaching. Local animals generally avoid people, smoke and fire."

"So Mum didn't need to worry about feral goats invading the tent?"

Jamie smiled because I had made a joke, but he did not laugh. "That outcome is unlikely."

I told myself he was tired.

We ate several improvised sandwiches and talked about school, family and the things we wanted to do in the future. Or at least I talked. Jamie listened and gave sensible answers, but his easy manner was not quite as easy as usual. He remembered everything - names, arguments, jokes from years ago - yet sometimes it felt as though he was selecting the correct memory rather than remembering it.

"I've always felt as if I was missing something," I told him, watching the flames. "Like everyone else knew how to do all this, and I was stuck indoors playing games and reading about adventures instead of having them."

"That is how I felt before Daniel began taking me with him," Jamie said. "He did not initially want his younger brother present, but Dad required him to include me. It was the best thing that ever happened to me."

I knew the story. Jamie normally did a ridiculous imitation of Daniel complaining to Peter Mercer about being made to bring along "the infant". This time he recited it without the imitation or even mentioning the nickname.

Stars appeared through the spaces between the pines. Away from Aviemore's lights, they looked brighter and more numerous than I had ever seen. The fire, the sky and the presence of my best friend made me feel deeply content despite the little oddities I could not quite name.

Jamie pointed out several constellations and repeated the navigation lessons Daniel had taught him. The knowledge felt practical and romantic at once, connecting our small trip with centuries of journeys across unknown country.

"This is exactly what I hoped it would be like," I said, leaning back against the log and gazing upwards.

"What do you mean?"

"Everything. The walk, learning the catapult, building the fire, sitting here talking. I've imagined it for months, but doing it is better than I expected."

Jamie nodded and stirred the fire with a long stick, sending sparks twisting into the dark.

"Being here reduces the apparent importance of ordinary concerns. School disputes, family pressures and plans for the future become irrelevant when attention is restricted to maintaining shelter, warmth and immediate safety."

It was an odd answer, but I understood what he meant. The peaceful feeling grew as we sat in silence. The fire kept us warm against the cooling air. The burn murmured beside us, and the pinewood felt safe rather than threatening.

For the first time, I felt certain I belonged in places like this. I could not remember being happier than I was beside that small fire, full of chocolate digestives and toasted marshmallows, surrounded by country I was beginning to understand. The day had given me everything I wanted. The weeks of waiting had been worthwhile.

This was exactly what camping was supposed to be.

I was halfway through asking Jamie which campsite was his favourite when he stopped responding.

He did not merely stop talking. He stopped everything. The stick carrying his toasted marshmallow froze halfway to his mouth, and his whole body stiffened as though he had heard something that demanded every part of his attention.

"What is it?" I asked, searching the pitch for whatever had caught his notice.

Jamie's head turned slowly towards the dark tree line beyond the reach of the fire. The flames gave us perhaps five metres of clear visibility. Beyond that, the pines merged into solid blackness.

I followed his stare. There was nothing there, only trunks, dense shadow and the occasional movement of branches in the wind.

"Jamie?"

I kept my voice low in case he was listening for something. Without looking at me, he lifted one hand and spread his fingers in a clear demand for silence.

His posture had changed completely. The patient friend who had taught me all day was gone. Now he sat leaning forwards, shoulders rigid and head tilted at an angle that reminded me of an animal testing the air.

The fire crackled between us, releasing sparks towards the stars. Our wood lay in neat piles. The burn continued murmuring a few yards away. Everything looked as it had moments before, yet the warm bubble of safety around the pitch suddenly felt thin enough to tear.

Jamie remained motionless for what seemed like several minutes but was probably no more than thirty seconds. His eyes never left the trees. I stared in the same direction, searching for movement, and the longer I looked, the more the shadows seemed to form shapes that might or might not exist.

"I need to inspect something," Jamie said quietly, without turning towards me.

"Inspect what?"

"Something is out there."

He stood with slow, controlled movements.

"I'll return shortly."

"Wait."

I scrambled upright. I did not like where this was going.

"We agreed to stay together, remember? You said that was one of the most important safety rules."

Jamie turned at last. For a second, his expression looked wrong in the firelight. Not frightened or alert. Empty. It changed so quickly that I could not be certain I had seen it.

"It will require only a few minutes," he said. "I must confirm that the area is secure."

"Then I'm coming with you."

"No."

The authority in his voice was unlike anything I had heard from him before.

"One person must remain and maintain the fire. If it goes out, we lose heat and illumination."

It made sense, I supposed. Yet every instinct I possessed screamed at me not to let him enter the trees alone. All day, he had spoken about planning, supervision and never separating. Now he wanted to abandon those rules because of a noise I had not even heard.

"Jamie, this is mad. What if something happens to you?"

"Nothing will happen."

He was already approaching the edge of the pitch, heading for the point where the trees swallowed our firelight.

"Continue adding fuel at regular intervals. I will return before long."

"At least take a torch."

But he had already gone. He slipped between the pine trunks as if the darkness had taken him. I did not even hear his footsteps among the roots and fallen needles.

I stood beside the fire holding a stick with half a marshmallow still attached, suddenly and completely abandoned. All the confidence I had built through the day vanished. Without Jamie's steady presence, the hills changed from an exciting challenge into something threatening and unpredictable.

The fire popped and threw up a burst of orange sparks. I added another branch, following Jamie's instructions about maintaining a steady heat. The flames climbed and pushed the darkness back by perhaps half a metre, but that only made the pinewood beyond seem worse.

The minutes passed slowly, with no sign of Jamie. I tried to stay calm by concentrating on practical jobs. I straightened the remaining wood, checked the bottles, and tested the tent pegs and guylines. Every few seconds, however, I looked towards the place where he had disappeared, expecting his shape to emerge.

"Jamie!" I called, loud enough for my voice to carry but not so loud that it seemed to fill the entire forest.

There was no answer. I heard no movement in the heather or through the pine litter.

A few minutes later I tried again, louder.

"Jamie, how much longer?"

Still nothing.

The silence in the trees felt unnatural. The ordinary sounds of night seemed to have stopped. There were no bird calls, no small animals rustling through the undergrowth and no distant crack of a settling branch. Only the burn beside the pitch and the wind whispering through needles high overhead.

Twenty minutes passed. Then twenty-five.

My earlier good mood had been completely replaced by a growing sense of dread. This was not like Jamie at all. Even when he was focused on teaching me a new skill, he kept talking, checking that I understood and offering encouragement. He would not simply disappear into the pinewood and leave me sitting there wondering what was happening.

I thought about going after him, but his instructions about tending the fire kept running through my head. He had stressed the importance of keeping our source of heat going as the exposed wind strengthened and the Highland night rapidly cooled. If I left to search for him and something happened to the fire, we could both end up in serious trouble.

Strange noises began coming from the trees after about half an hour.

Branches snapped with sounds too loud and deliberate to have been caused by small animals. Rustling seemed to circle the pitch instead of travelling steadily in one direction as a deer might. At one point I heard what might have been a low thudding, rhythmic and heavy, but it stopped before I could work out what was causing it.

"Jamie!" I shouted, abandoning any pretence of keeping quiet. "Where are you?"

The noises stopped at once, as though whatever had been making them had heard my voice and decided to pause. The sudden silence was somehow worse than the unexplained sounds.

I added more wood to the fire, building it higher than necessary. The increased light offered some comfort, even though I knew it would not help me see far into the Caledonian pinewood. The flames threw dancing shadows across the Scots pines, heather and granite, making everything beyond our secluded pitch appear to move and change position.

I was trembling slightly as I arranged the wood, though I could not tell whether it was from cold or nerves. The temperature had fallen sharply since Jamie left. Without his presence to steady my confidence, every shadow looked like a possible threat.

Forty minutes passed, then forty-five. I was seriously considering ignoring his instructions and going to find him when I heard footsteps approaching through the trees. They were heavy, deliberate steps, crashing through the undergrowth without any attempt at stealth.

"Jamie?" I called towards the sound.

The footsteps paused, then resumed, drawing closer to the pitch. A familiar figure emerged from the darkness beyond the firelight, and relief struck me so hard that my knees weakened.

Jamie walked back into the circle of light and I began talking at once.

"Thank God you're all right. I was getting really worried. What were you doing out there? Did you find whatever you were looking for?"

As he moved closer to the fire, something made me stop. I could not identify whether it was the way he walked or the way he held himself, but something was definitely wrong.

Jamie looked at me and smiled. The expression did not sit properly on his face. The relief I had felt at seeing him emerge from the darkness vanished the moment he stepped fully into the firelight.

Black peat streaked his face in thick, dark smears, as though he had been lying face-down in a bog. His jacket and trousers were caked in it, and pine needles, leaves and other forest litter clung to his hair as though he had crawled through the undergrowth. Yet there was no peat bog anywhere near our pitch. The burn had clean granite banks and clear-running water.

It was not the dirt that made my stomach tighten, though. It was his face.

All Jamie's familiar features were there: the same brown eyes, the same slightly crooked nose he had broken falling from a BMX bike in primary school, the same untidy dark hair that never stayed combed. But something fundamental was wrong with the way those features fitted together.

His mouth curved upwards in what should have been a reassuring smile, yet it looked as if someone had arranged his facial muscles without understanding what a real smile was meant to convey.

"Jamie?" I said, my voice smaller than I intended. "What happened to you out there?"

He sat on the log opposite me with movements that were too precise and too carefully planned. Every gesture seemed rehearsed rather than natural, as though he were concentrating on the correct way to sit. The Jamie I knew moved with easy confidence, dropping himself wherever was convenient and shifting position without thought.

"Just checking the perimeter," he said, the strange smile never wavering. "Making sure we don't have any animal problems."

The explanation felt wrong immediately. In all our conversations about camping safety, Jamie had never suggested that wildlife near the pitch required a perimeter patrol. He had spoken about storing food properly and leaving no scraps, but earlier that day he had assured me that red deer and feral goats avoided people and fire. He had said even a stray dog was unlikely this far into the hills.

"Animal problems?" I asked. "You never said anything about that before."

"Better safe than sorry."

The reply came too quickly, as if prepared in advance.

I studied his face in the flickering light, trying to understand what was making my skin crawl. His eyes looked right but felt wrong, fixed upon me with an intensity that did not belong in an ordinary conversation. Jamie's usual manner was relaxed and friendly, full of easy grins and casual remarks. This version of him sat perfectly still and watched me with an attention that felt more like examination than friendship.

"Where exactly did you go?" I pressed. "You were gone for nearly an hour."

"Around the area. Checking for tracks and signs of animal activity."

Each word emerged measured and deliberate, like a line read from a script.

"Found some interesting things in the peat near the burn."

That might have explained the state of his clothes if there had been any peat there, but it only made his appearance more disturbing. The cold burn ran clear, though tinged brown by peat farther upstream, over granite stones and clean banks. I had seen no mire when we collected water, certainly nothing that could have left Jamie looking as though he had wrestled in a bog.

He leaned forwards slightly, and the firelight caught his expression in a way that made me shift uneasily on my log.

"Tell me about your parents," he said.

The question came from nowhere and had nothing to do with his mysterious expedition into the trees. I blinked at him, confused by the change of subject.

"What do you mean?"

"Their work schedules. When do they usually get home?"

His head tilted slightly, as though he were genuinely curious about information he had never heard before. A cold sensation began to spread through my chest.

Jamie knew my parents' schedules almost as well as I did. He had eaten at our house for years, arranging his visits around Helen Reyes's late meetings and Martin Reyes's weekend projects. He knew when Mum and Dad travelled, when they worked late and when they would be available to drive us somewhere or help with schoolwork.

"Jamie, you already know all that," I said slowly. "You've been coming round since we were children."

"Humour me."

The smile stretched a little wider, exposing perfectly normal teeth that somehow looked threatening.

"I want to make sure I have the details right."

The way he said "details" made my scalp prickle. This was not friendly conversation or casual interest. It felt like an interrogation, as though he were collecting information for some purpose I could not begin to guess.

"Why do you need to know?" I asked instead of answering.

"Just curious about your family situation."

His voice remained perfectly pleasant, but the words carried an undertone that made me want to back away from the fire.

"Do they know exactly where we're camping? Did you tell them about this specific location?"

My hands began to shake, and I pressed them together to conceal it.

These were not questions Jamie would ask. He had been present for most of my conversations with Mum and Dad about the trip. He had personally described our general route and safety plans to Mum. He had shaken Dad's hand and promised to look after me. My parents knew which part of the hills we intended to enter, but not the location of this secluded, unmarked pitch away from the principal waymarked paths.

"Of course they know where we are," I said, though it was not entirely true.

"Good."

He nodded approvingly, as if my answer had satisfied an item on an internal checklist.

"And they're expecting you back tomorrow afternoon?"

Our original plan was to stay for two nights and return on Monday, but I did not correct him. Something in me recoiled from giving him the truth.

"Yes."

The word was barely more than a whisper.

Jamie, or whatever was wearing Jamie's face, continued to stare at me with that unsettling intensity. The comfortable companionship of the day had disappeared, replaced by an atmosphere that felt dangerous in a way I could not put into words.

"We should stay an extra night," he announced suddenly. "Really make the most of this trip."

The suggestion struck me like a physical blow. Every instinct I possessed screamed that I needed to get away from this person, this pitch and whatever wrongness had infected our outdoor adventure.

"I can't," I said quickly, grasping for an excuse. "I promised Mum I'd be home early tomorrow. She's planned a family dinner."

There was no family dinner. Mum expected me on Monday and would have been surprised to see me before then, probably with a dozen questions about the trip. But panic made the lie come easily.

"Your mother will understand if you call and explain," he said, still wearing that awful smile. "We're having such a good time learning outdoor skills. Don't you want to practise more shooting with the catapult tomorrow?"

The way he said "good time" made it sound like a threat.

I stood abruptly. My legs were unsteady, but I was determined to put some distance between us.

"No. I really need to get back."

I moved towards the tent, trying to keep my voice casual while my heart hammered against my ribs.

"Thanks for everything today, but I should pack now."

"It's completely dark out there," he said as I unzipped the tent fly. "Walking the hill path at night is dangerous. You could get lost or hurt yourself."

But these were not normal circumstances. The person sitting beside our campfire might look like Jamie Mercer and sound like him. He might even possess details of our friendship, the route and everything Jamie had taught me that day. Yet every part of me was convinced my friend was no longer behind those eyes.

I pulled my faded ex-Army sleeping bag from the tent, the stubborn smell of damp canvas rising from it, and began forcing it into my rucksack. The camping equipment that had seemed so exciting that morning now felt like part of a prison I had to escape.

"Callum."

The voice was patient, almost gentle, but it made my skin crawl.

"You're being irrational. Sit down and let's talk about this."

I ignored him and concentrated on cramming my clothes, food and other supplies into the rucksack as quickly as I could. My movements were clumsy and rushed, and I no longer cared about organisation or proper packing technique. I took my own sleeping bag, clothes, food, water and torch. The tent, fire equipment, cooking kit and Jamie's zipped catapult case remained at the pitch.

I needed to leave immediately, but I could not abandon the fire. Despite my panic, I poured water over it, stirred the embers into the damp earth of the existing fire site and poured again until the hissing stopped. I checked for heat with the back of my hand, just as Jamie had taught me, then scattered the cold ash. Water from the burn was close by and the ground was damp, but I made certain nothing remained that could spread through the pinewood.

"Where are you going to go?" he asked in the same reasonable tone, which now felt like mockery. "You don't know these paths well enough to navigate in the dark."

That was true. I had followed Jamie's lead for the entire walk into the hills, paying more attention to the scenery than to landmarks, cairns and waymarkers. Without his guidance I could easily lose the path within the first mile.

I would still rather spend the night wandering through dark pinewood than remain another minute with whatever was pretending to be my friend.

"I'll work it out," I said, shouldering my rucksack and switching on my cheap torch from the local ironmonger's.

Jamie made no attempt to pack his own gear or prepare to leave. He sat watching me with that unsettling smile, as if my panic and frantic preparations amused him rather than concerned him.

"This is a mistake," he said as I tightened the straps and tested the beam. "You're going to get yourself hurt out there."

Maybe I was. Staying felt far more dangerous than anything the dark Highland path could offer.

I turned towards the route back down through the wooded lower slopes and towards the residential outskirts of Aviemore. The torch cut a narrow beam into the darkness beyond the remains of our fire.

"I'm walking back now," I announced without looking at the thing wearing Jamie's face. "Tonight."

I stepped onto the path. What had seemed manageable during the afternoon ascent now looked dangerous and uncertain, with shadows shifting around every granite stone and exposed root that might trip me.

Behind me came the soft crunch of footsteps over the forest floor.

Jamie was following.

That should have reassured me. An experienced walker accompanying me down from the hills was obviously safer than making the descent alone. Instead, his presence sent cold dread crawling up my spine.

The footsteps maintained a steady rhythm about three metres behind me, never drawing closer and never falling back.

I placed each foot carefully, testing loose stones before committing my weight and using my free hand against tree trunks when the path grew steep. The torch illuminated perhaps two metres ahead, leaving everything beyond it swallowed by dense blackness. Scots pine branches reached across the path at head height, forcing me to duck and weave around obstacles I could barely see in time.

"Watch that root," I called back, pointing the beam at a thick pine root stretched across the path like a tripwire.

There was no reply, only the continued sound of steady footsteps passing over the obstacle.

The silence felt heavy, pressing down upon the pinewood around us. During our journey into the hills, Jamie had maintained a constant commentary on the path, local wildlife, walking technique and previous camping trips with his brother, Daniel. He had pointed out unusual granite formations, identified bird calls and delivered detailed explanations of nearly everything we encountered. Sometimes those explanations had sounded oddly exact, more like remembered passages than natural conversation, but there had always been words.

Now he moved through the darkness in complete silence.

"This section's quite steep," I said after perhaps twenty minutes. "Remember you said the bends would be difficult in the dark?"

Silence. Only those measured footsteps keeping pace behind me.

I tried again a few minutes later when my torch revealed a point where the path divided around a massive boulder.

"Which way here? Left or right?"

"Right."

The single-word reply was flat and emotionless. There was no explanation, no hint of the detailed answers Jamie usually gave, only a basic direction that sounded as though it had been read from a card.

My hands trembled around the torch, though I could not tell whether cold or fear was responsible. The exposed wind and rapidly cooling Highland night had cut through my clothes since we left the warmth of the fire, and my breath formed pale clouds in the beam. Yet the physical cold seemed trivial beside the dread created by Jamie's behaviour.

Every few minutes I turned and swept the torch behind me. Each time it revealed the same sight: Jamie walking steadily along the path, maintaining precisely the same distance and wearing the same wrong smile.

He never stumbled, never paused to check his footing and never showed the slightest difficulty crossing the rocky ground in near-total darkness. That disturbed me more than I could explain. I struggled with every step, testing footholds and seizing branches for support whenever the descent steepened. My legs were unsteady after the day's walk, and the weight of the rucksack disrupted my balance on the difficult stretches.

Jamie moved with flawless confidence, as though he could see the whole route laid out before him.

"How are you not having trouble with this?" I asked as loose stones made a particularly difficult section treacherous.

"Fine."

The response was immediate. Not "I'm fine", or "This bit isn't too bad", or any reassuring explanation the real Jamie might have offered. Just that one flat word, telling me nothing and making everything worse.

The descent seemed endless. After the first hour, my cheap torch began to dim. Its beam weakened and turned yellow as the batteries drained.

I should have brought spares, but that morning I had packed with excitement rather than practical care. Now I was paying for the mistake as my only source of light slowly failed.

"My torch is dying," I announced, hoping for advice about saving the batteries or finding another source of light.

There was no response. The footsteps continued behind me without pause.

I began conserving power, switching the torch off when the path appeared straight and clear, then turning it on again when I needed to negotiate an obstacle or inspect my footing. The darkness between those brief pools of yellow light made the walk even more frightening. I had to trust that the path continued beneath my feet.

During one unlit stretch, I nearly walked straight into a low branch that would have struck me across the face. Some last-second instinct made me duck, and pine needles brushed my hair as I passed beneath it.

"Low branch here," I called, switching on the torch to illuminate the hazard.

Again there was no reply. No thanks for the warning, no comment about maintaining paths or seasonal growth. Nothing.

The wrongness of it was becoming unbearable. This was not how Jamie behaved under any circumstances. Even when concentrating on something difficult, he filled the silence with observations and conversation. Quiet simply was not part of his personality.

The thing following me down the hill had no interest in talking.

We reached the broad granite outcrop where we had rested during our afternoon climb. It overlooked the dark pinewood and had offered a clear halfway point in daylight. Jamie had suggested stopping there for water.

Now I desperately needed to rest my aching legs and check what remained in my rucksack. I sat on the nearest flat slab, took out my water bottle and drank in careful sips while listening for any sound from my companion.

The footsteps had stopped when I stopped. I heard no shifting equipment, no sound of somebody sitting down and no quiet breathing to suggest another person nearby.

"You all right back there?" I asked the darkness.

"Yes."

The reply came from precisely the place where the footsteps had stopped, but when I aimed my failing torch towards it, I saw nothing. There was only empty path vanishing between black pines.

I remained seated for about five minutes, hoping the rest would steady my legs and give me time to understand what was happening. The oppressive silence made relaxation impossible. Every few seconds I swept the beam across the path behind me, and each time the weak yellow glow found nothing but trunks, heather and rocky ground.

"Ready to keep going?" I asked, standing and shouldering my rucksack.

"Yes."

The same flat reply came from the darkness.

As soon as I moved, the footsteps resumed their measured pattern three metres behind me. Never nearer, never farther away, maintaining the exact distance as though something were measuring the space between us.

The final hour was the hardest. My torch had become so faint that I had to move slowly, feeling for secure footing. The path steepened as we approached the edge of Aviemore, and loose gravel shifted beneath my trainers, sending small stones rattling down the slope.

I fell twice, catching myself on my hands and knees when my feet slipped. Both times I called back a warning. Both times I received no answer.

The footsteps never faltered and gave no indication that the same obstacles caused my companion any difficulty.

By the time I saw the first streetlight shining through the trees, my nerves were in ruins. The amber glow at the edge of the residential streets had never seemed so welcoming. It meant safety and ordinary life after hours of darkness with something that wore my best friend's face.

The path emerged onto a residential road a few short streets from my house.

I stepped on to the tarmac and turned, finally able to see beyond the narrow reach of my torch. Jamie stood exactly where the path met the road, motionless beneath the streetlight.

The black peat, pine needles and forest debris that had covered him at the pitch were gone. His jacket and trousers were inexplicably clean, as though he had never crawled through wet ground and undergrowth. Even the long descent through the rough pinewood seemed to have left no mark on him.

The wrong smile remained. His eyes reflected the streetlight in a way that sent fresh nausea through me.

"Well," I said, my voice artificially cheerful in the stillness of sleeping Aviemore. "Thanks for coming down with me. I suppose I'll see you later."

He did not answer or move. He only watched me with eyes that looked like Jamie's and felt entirely different.

I waited for him to mention retrieving the gear from our pitch, or plans for collecting the tent and equipment, or at least something about the day we had spent together.

He remained perfectly still, like a statue placed at the entrance to the dark hill path.

"Are you going back for your things?" I tried.

Nothing. The smile did not fade, and those wrong eyes never left me.

A chill unrelated to the night air passed through my body. I backed away slowly, my footsteps echoing between the quiet rows of houses.

"All right, then. I'll speak to you soon."

Still there was no reply, no goodbye, no acknowledgement, no sign that the thing at the path had ever been my friend or cared about our years together.

I turned and walked quickly towards home, my rucksack bouncing with every hurried step. At the first junction, I looked back. The figure remained in exactly the same position, outlined beneath the streetlight like a motionless guard at the entrance to the hills.

After another row of houses, I looked again. It had not moved.

Even when I reached my front step and fumbled for my keys, I could still see the distant shape beneath the streetlight, waiting and watching, wearing Jamie Mercer's face while being something else entirely.

I unlocked the front door and slipped inside, immediately securing the mortice lock and fastening the security chain. Through the sitting-room window I could just make out the streetlight where I had left the thing, but at that distance I could no longer tell whether it was still there.

The warmth and safety of my own house felt like a blessing after hours of dread in the Highland darkness. Yet even among familiar furniture and family photographs, I could not shake the memory of those wrong eyes studying me with patient, inhuman interest.

Whatever had followed me down that path was not my best friend, Jamie Mercer. The realisation that something else had been wearing his face, learning about my family and asking about my parents' routines filled me with a terror unlike anything I had known.

I woke late on Sunday morning with sunlight coming through my bedroom curtains and the uneasy feeling that something enormous had shifted in my world.

The digital clock beside my bed read 11.47 am. I had slept for nearly twelve hours after the nightmare journey home. I rolled over, took my mobile from the bedside table and found Jamie's number.

My thumb hovered over the call button before I pressed it. I listened to the familiar ringing while staring at the ceiling.

It went straight to voicemail.

Jamie's cheerful recorded voice asked me to leave a message and said he would get back to me soon.

"Hi, it's me," I said after the tone. "Just wanted to make sure you got back to the pitch all right and collected all the gear. Ring me when you get this."

I ended the call and put the mobile aside, but the knot in my stomach remained.

Jamie always carried his mobile. Always. He answered calls during family meals, replied to messages within minutes and became genuinely annoyed when his battery died and left him cut off.

A shower removed the dirt and sweat from the walk, but it could not wash away the memory of that wrong smile or his questions about my parents' schedules. Under the hot water, I replayed our final conversation at the pitch and tried to persuade myself that exhaustion and darkness had made his behaviour seem stranger than it really was.

Perhaps he had been more tired than he admitted. Perhaps the responsibility of leading an inexperienced walker through difficult ground had worn down his usual cheerfulness. Perhaps the interrogation about my family had been an awkward attempt at conversation while he was exhausted.

Even as I invented explanations, I could not escape the certainty that something had been seriously wrong with my friend.

Downstairs, I found my parents drinking coffee over leftover pancakes, with the Sunday newspapers spread across the kitchen table. Mum looked up when I entered, her face brightening with the sort of parental interest that meant detailed questioning was about to begin.

"There's our wilderness explorer," Helen Reyes said, setting aside one section of the paper. "How was the grand camping adventure? Did you two enjoy yourselves?"

"Yes, it was good," I said, pouring orange juice and sitting in my usual chair. "Jamie taught me quite a lot about outdoor stuff."

"Did you build fires and do all that campcraft Jamie was talking about?" Martin Reyes asked, glancing up from another newspaper.

"Some of it."

I drank some juice to give myself time to decide how much to reveal.

"We used his catapult against cans on an earth bank, and I learnt how to pitch camp properly."

"And you felt safe the whole time?" Mum asked. Her voice carried the concern that had coloured most of our conversations before the trip. "No problems with wildlife or losing the path?"

"Everything was fine. Jamie really knows what he's doing out there."

That was not entirely a lie. Whoever had accompanied me possessed Jamie's outdoor knowledge, and we had not encountered any actual problems with animals. I was merely leaving out the part where my experienced guide had begun to move and speak like something that made my skin crawl.

"Well, I'm glad you're home safely," Mum said, reaching over to squeeze my shoulder. "Though I have to admit I'm surprised you're back after one night. I thought you were staying for two."

Heat crept up my neck as I searched for an explanation that would not invite further questions.

"We got through everything Jamie wanted to teach me faster than we expected. It seemed like a good time to come back."

Dad nodded approvingly.

"Sensible. Better to come home with a good experience than push too far and make yourself miserable."

The conversation moved to other subjects, but I caught Mum glancing at me now and then, as though she sensed there was more I was not telling her. I finished breakfast quickly and returned to my room, claiming I needed to unpack and sort out my washing.

At about 2.00 pm, I tried Jamie again. The call went straight to voicemail.

The rest of Sunday dragged. I tried watching television, playing games and even beginning Monday's homework, but nothing held my attention for more than a few minutes.

Whenever my mobile buzzed, I grabbed it in the hope of seeing Jamie's name, only to find messages from other friends or promotional rubbish from apps. By evening, I had called him six more times. Every attempt went directly to voicemail without ringing, which suggested his mobile was switched off or completely flat.

Neither possibility made sense for somebody who treated it like a vital organ.

Monday brought the beginning of another school week and my first real opportunity to discover what was happening. I arrived early and waited near Jamie's locker so that I could catch him before the first lesson. Pupils filled the corridors in the usual pre-class confusion, but his familiar figure never appeared.

The first lesson began without him, and then the second.

By lunchtime, I was searching every face in the canteen, hoping to spot him at our usual table or in the queue for chips. There was no sign of him.

I spent the afternoon distracted, absorbing almost nothing my teachers said and continually looking towards the doors for a late arrival. When the final bell rang and pupils flooded towards the school car park and the queues for buses, I passed Jamie's locker again. It looked exactly as it had that morning.

At home, I called him before starting my homework.

Voicemail.

I left another message, trying to sound casual.

"Hi, Jamie. Just wondering where you were today. Give me a ring when you get this, all right?"

Tuesday followed the same pattern: an untouched locker, absence from the senior-phase lessons we shared and no answer to my increasingly frequent calls. I began listening closely to conversations around me for any mention of Jamie or speculation about his absence.

Wednesday brought the first sign that other people had noticed. During our mixed S5 and S6 chemistry lesson, Bethany Clarke, who was in our practical group, asked whether I knew where Jamie was. Our group project was due on Friday, and she had been unable to contact him.

"He's probably ill," I said, although the explanation sounded hollow as soon as I spoke. "I'm sure he'll be back soon."

"He's been off for three days," Bethany said. "He must be properly ill."

Yes, I thought. Properly ill.

Or gone. Or never Jamie at all.

On Wednesday evening I sat on my bed, staring at my mobile and considering choices I did not want to make. I could telephone the Mercer house and ask for Jamie. I could cycle over and knock on their door, pretending I needed to borrow something. I could tell my parents about Jamie's behaviour during the trip and let them decide whether adults needed to become involved.

Each possibility seemed full of complications I was not ready to face.

What if Jamie answered the house phone and behaved entirely normally? What if Peter or Alison Mercer said he was fine and I looked like a paranoid idiot? What if I told Mum and Dad about the questions at the pitch and they decided I was having some kind of psychological episode?

I called his mobile once more before bed.

Voicemail.

What I did not know was that Police Scotland had been contacted that Wednesday after Jamie failed to return and no one could reach him. A missing-person inquiry was opened, and the local mountain-rescue team began coordinating searches with volunteers. My parents had known only our general route, and the Mercers had no precise location for the secluded pitch.

On Thursday morning I arrived at school with a knot of worry that had been tightening all week. Jamie's locker remained untouched. His lessons continued without him, and teachers who knew we were close began asking me questions.

"Have you heard from Jamie Mercer?" Mrs Whitaker asked after English. "He's missed several pieces of work this week."

"No, I haven't spoken to him recently," I said.

That was technically true if one-sided voicemail messages did not count.

"If you do speak to him, please remind him that he or a parent needs to contact the school office about his continued absence. We have to follow up when a pupil misses more than three consecutive days."

The official concern made everything seem more real and more frightening. This was no longer only my imagination or paranoia. Other people had noticed that Jamie Mercer had vanished from his life.

At lunch, I overheard a group of S5 pupils discussing their weekend plans. One mentioned that Jamie had promised to help at a car boot sale but had never appeared. Another pupil in my afternoon history lesson asked whether Jamie intended to leave the school athletics club, since he had missed three training sessions without explanation.

By Thursday evening I was seriously considering telling my parents everything: the questions about their routines, the wrong smile, the impossible confidence with which Jamie had crossed the dark pinewood, and the way he had stood motionless beneath the streetlight whenever I looked back.

But every time I tried to arrange those thoughts into a coherent account, they sounded absurd even to me. How could I explain that my best friend had suddenly begun acting like a different person? What evidence did I have apart from unease, memory and instinct?

I spent Thursday night staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of something that resisted every logical explanation.

Friday morning was grey and overcast. It matched my mood as I trudged through another day without any sign of Jamie. Teachers asked increasingly direct questions about his whereabouts, and I was running out of vague excuses and noncommittal replies.

At lunchtime I sat alone at our usual table, picking at a sandwich and searching the canteen once more for Jamie's face. The empty chair opposite felt accusatory, a reminder that I had somehow failed to help my friend when he needed me.

"Hi, Callum."

A voice spoke behind me. I turned to find Elliot Price from our physics class standing with his lunch tray.

"Mind if I sit here? My usual table's full."

"Of course," I said, grateful for anything that might interrupt my spiralling thoughts.

Elliot sat opposite and unwrapped a sandwich that looked considerably better than mine.

"So where's Jamie been all week? Have you two fallen out or something?"

The question struck harder than I expected. A falling-out would have made sense. It would have explained everything in simple, familiar terms, without forcing me to question my sanity.

"We haven't fallen out," I said. "I think he's just ill."

"It must be serious if he's been away since Monday."

Elliot took a bite and studied my face with casual curiosity.

"You look a bit stressed about it. Is everything all right?"

"Yes, everything's fine."

The lie came automatically, but I heard the strain in my voice.

"I'm just worried about him, you know."

Elliot nodded sympathetically, and we spent the rest of lunch talking about other subjects. His observation remained with me for the rest of the day, though. I did look stressed. I felt stressed.

The constant, low anxiety surrounding Jamie's disappearance affected the way I moved through the world, spoke to people and concentrated on basic tasks.

Friday afternoon dragged endlessly. In every lesson I watched the clock, counting the minutes until I could go home and decide what to do next.

By the time the final bell rang, I had resolved to take some kind of action, even if I did not yet know what that action would be.

At home, I dropped my rucksack by the front door and headed straight to my room, intending at last to ring the Mercer house directly. If Jamie answered, I would work out what to say. If his parents answered, I would ask to speak to him and see what explanation they gave for his absence. I was pulling my mobile from my pocket when it started ringing in my hand.

The sudden noise made me jump. I looked at the caller ID.

Daniel Mercer.

I stared at the display for three rings, my finger hovering over the answer button while my mind raced through the possibilities.

Daniel was Jamie's older brother. He was home from university for reading week, and he knew me well enough to ring me directly, but a call on a Friday evening was unlikely to be casual. On the fourth ring, I answered.

"Hello?"

I heard the tremor in Daniel's voice before he had finished his first breath. Something was very wrong.

"Callum, I need to ask you something important," he said, the words rushed and unsteady. "When was the last time you saw my brother?"

The question caught me off guard. Daniel sounded as though he had been crying, or was about to start, and the formal way he had asked about Jamie made my stomach drop.

"We went camping last weekend," I said slowly. "Why? What's going on?"

"Callum..." Daniel's voice cracked, and I heard him take a shaking breath. "Jamie's been reported missing. Mum and Dad contacted Police Scotland on Wednesday when he didn't come home and wouldn't answer his mobile. They opened a missing-person inquiry. Mountain rescue and volunteers have spent the last two days searching the hills for him."

My mouth went dry. I tried to make sense of what Daniel was telling me.

Missing?

But Jamie had come down from the hills with me. He had followed me all the way back to the outskirts of Aviemore and stood beneath that streetlight, watching me with those wrong eyes.

"But, Daniel, that doesn't make sense," I began, my voice sounding strange and distant. "Jamie came camping with me on Saturday. We walked back down together that night. He followed me home. I saw him just-"

"Callum, stop."

Daniel's voice broke completely.

"We found him."

The words struck me like a physical blow. I sat down hard on my bed, my legs suddenly unable to hold me.

"What do you mean, you found him?"

Daniel was crying now. I could hear it clearly through the phone.

When he spoke again, his voice was barely more than a whisper. "They found his body this afternoon. It was in a peat hollow beyond the area shown on the search maps, roughly three miles from where you two were supposed to camp. Callum, the forensic pathologist who carried out the post-mortem says Jamie had been dead for at least eight days."

The room began to spin around me.

My vision blurred at the edges as Daniel's words repeated in my head.

At least eight days.

That meant Jamie had already been dead before we set off on Saturday. But that was impossible. I had spent the day with him only six days ago. I had spoken to him, walked five miles into the hills with him and learnt to use his catapult under his supervision.

"That can't be right," I said.

My voice sounded hollow and unconvincing even to me.

"There has to be some mistake. I was with him on Saturday night. We came down the path together."

Daniel's breathing was ragged at the other end of the line.

"Callum, listen to me. They said Jamie's skull was crushed. His body was..."

He choked on the words.

"It was decomposed, lying in the peat. The pathologist can't tell yet whether the injury came from a fall or whether somebody attacked him, but the estimate is clear. He died at least eight days ago. Before you left."

My hand began shaking so violently that I nearly dropped the mobile. The room seemed to tilt sideways, and I had to grip the edge of my bed to keep myself upright.

"But I talked to him," I whispered. "He taught me how to build a fire. He showed me how to filter the burn water and use the purification tablets. He taught me how to shoot the catapult. We walked down from the hills together in the dark."

"Callum," Daniel said, his voice gentle but firm despite his grief, "whatever you think happened, it wasn't my brother. Jamie had already been dead for days."

The mobile slipped from my numb fingers and clattered to the floor.

Daniel's voice continued from below, but his words sounded as though they were coming through deep water, distant and impossible to understand.

At least eight days.

The realisation came in waves, each one more terrifying than the last. The person who had sat opposite me beside that small campfire, coated in black peat and pine litter and asking strange questions about my parents, had not been Jamie Mercer.

The thing that had followed me down the hill path in perfect silence, moving through the darkness with impossible confidence, had worn that wrong smile like an ill-fitting mask.

Something else had been using Jamie's face.

I picked up the mobile with shaking hands.

Daniel was still talking, his voice thick with grief. I caught fragments about funeral arrangements, about telling our friends at school and how sorry he was to break the news this way.

"Daniel," I interrupted, my voice cracking. "I have to go."

I ended the call before he could answer and let the mobile fall on to my bed.

The safety of my bedroom felt like a lie now, ruined by the knowledge that something had studied me through Jamie's eyes, learnt my family's routines and followed me home through the darkness. That thing had stood beneath the streetlight near the end of my row of houses, motionless and patient, watching me walk away. By then, the black peat and pine debris had somehow vanished from its clothes. It had worn my best friend's face while asking when Mum and Dad came home from work, what time they usually went to bed and whether they knew precisely where we had been camping.

My skin crawled as I remembered the way it had moved Jamie's head while asking those questions, as though it were filing away useful information for later. The mechanical precision of its movements. The complete absence of warmth behind those brown eyes.

I buried my face in my hands and tried to breathe normally, but my chest felt tight and every breath came too quickly. Every detail of the camping trip took on a new and horrible meaning.

It had known Jamie's skills and memories. It had repeated his knowledge with that oddly exact, rehearsed phrasing, but without the warmth that should have gone with it. The black peat covering its clothes had not come from anywhere near our pitch. It must have been in the pinewood for some other reason, somewhere closer to the hollow where Jamie's body had lain concealed.

I remembered the unnatural way it had moved along the dark path without stumbling over exposed roots or loose granite. The flat, emotionless replies to my questions and warnings. The fixed distance it had kept behind me, never losing the route even when I struggled to follow it myself.

Whatever had happened to my best friend, something had taken his appearance and his voice, and perhaps even the memories he had carried. It had spent an entire day beside me, teaching me, observing me and learning about my life. Then it had followed me home.

I looked towards my bedroom window, half expecting to see that shape standing in the street below, still wearing Jamie's face and watching with patient, inhuman interest.

The glass showed only my own pale, terrified reflection.

But the memory of those false eyes and that terrible smile would remain burnt into my mind. As I sat alone in my room, surrounded by the ordinary objects of my ordinary life, one thought kept circling through my head with growing dread.

Whatever had pretended to be Jamie Mercer for that entire day might not be finished with me yet.