A howling gale whips round the tent. Branches beat a tattoo against the canvas. Vince shrinks down into his sleeping bag, shivering - wondering what could have possessed him to be out camping in the dark wood, on such a night as this. He hears his companion turn over, feels the ground-sheet tugging under him.

That can't be right. Who...?

Someone's pulling the ground-sheet, steadily dragging him towards the other occupant of the tent. He has to wake up properly, remember where he is, why he's here, who he's with. There's a horrible sense of deja vu seeping into his mind as he struggles to understand what's happening.

A loud bang startles a memory out of him.

Enemy guns? A night raid? France! He's in France.

He fights against the bonds of sleep but his limbs are paralysed. The ground-sheet continues to carry him, inexorably, centimetre by centimetre, towards his companion. Is the man trying to wake him? No. It doesn't feel urgent enough for that. It feels stealthy - as though the man is trying not to wake him. A fear grows in Vince, together with that feeling of deja vu.

Oh god! It's Max. Again.

He manages to open his eyes at last, but hardly dares to look.

Max is here, lying beside him, gazing at him through the shattered, bloody mask that had once been a handsome face. His twisted, broken limbs are tangled in the ground-sheet, pulling on it - drawing his old friend towards him. Vince shudders. He wants to scream, wants to shout for help, wants to reason with Max.

He wants to say sorry: explain why he left Max there to die. He'd tried to pull him to safety after the first gut-shot, but it was suicidal. Suicidal or not, he would have done anything to save Max, his oldest and dearest friend. Others had stopped him throwing his life away on saving a man already as good as dead. They forced him to the ground - held him there as the deafening rattle of automatic guns and grenades blasted men and trees around them.

Max was only yards away. They held each other with their eyes, Max pleading for help, Vince promising to come back for him - promising to save him. He would have kept that promise too. Meant to keep it, but the firing never let up and the platoon edged back through the trees, dragging Vince with them. It was night. It was mid-winter. They were exhausted. No-one went back for Max. He was dead. Must be! No doubt about it.

Vince doubted it though. Vince never stopped doubting it.

This isn't really happening. It's pitch dark.

He sees Max's face clearly, torn lips drawn back over broken, bloody teeth, hatred burning in unblinking, blue eyes. He seems to be emitting his own sickly light.

"Hello Vince. Have you missed me? I've missed you. That's why I've come back for you."

Vince can't speak. Can't move. It's the deja vu element of the thing that insists on grabbing some of his attention.

It's the nightmare. The recurrent nightmare. He can't hurt me. I've just got to wake up.

He closes his eyes and counts to 20. When he opens them again, Max is still there, head thrown back - revealing a jagged slash across his throat - laughing. That wet, bubbling hiss is his laugh.

Vince closes his eyes again. Screws them tight. Shrinks into himself.

The ground-sheet jerks from under him and he rolls off. He feels himself falling, feels Max's arm wrapped around him, the fetid breath of the grave, cold in his face. A whimper escapes him as he hits solid ground.

He's awake. The paralysis has released him. In the grey pre-dawn light he sees his bedroom. No sign of Max. But he's still in the grip of terror. It's hot now. Too hot. And he feels his bladder is going to burst if he doesn't get up and empty it soon.

It was just a nightmare. Same one. It can't hurt me. Got to get up.

There's a noise from beneath the bed. Furtive. Sly. And that slippery, dull light.

Oh, no. I'm awake. I am awake!

From beneath the bed. A bubbling sound - that strange gargle of a laugh.

The evil apparition owns Vince.

All memory of the real Max is tainted, distorted, ruined.

At least, until Vince can forgive himself.