It is the early 1970s and I must be twelve or thereabouts. It’s Easter and I am in the Scottish borders with my mother and father. My older brothers and sister have all left home now and I have effectively become an only child. We are staying in a caravan on a farm just outside of Jedburgh.

I am walking a sun-dappled path alongside a wood. In my hand is a .22 air rifle with a telescopic sight. I’ve a box of pellets in my pocket, a sheath knife on my hip.

Walking along the path I am Hawkeye...