I shrieked again as Tommy wrestled with the car door, then I ran back for the smaller axe. I thrust it at him and he ran round to the other side of the car, to the passenger seat, where there was no risk of hitting Hugo. With a horrible smashing of glass and metal which spattered everywhere, he reached in, but still he couldn't open the door. In desperation he smashed the front windscreen, blow after blow, glass going everywhere, over Hugo too, but it couldn't be helped. Tommy climbed up on the bonnet, and reached in. It took two of us, though, to dig him out from that angle, and I was up on the bonnet, right beside him. It took all our collective strength to haul him clear as somehow, limp, lifeless and heavy, like an enormous rag doll and with shards of glass sticking to him, we dragged him head first down the pristine, shiny red bonnet, and then half carried, half dragged him outside.

"Is he dead? Is he dead?" I shrieked hysterically when we finally dropped him.

Tommy didn't answer. He flipped Hugo over so he lay face down, sprawled on the gravel. He held his shoulders, put his knee into the small of his back and pressed hard. Nothing happened. Neither of us spoke. I made myself not scream. He put his knee in again and pressed with more force so Hugo's shoulders came right back. Suddenly, a thin stream of vomit flew out of his mouth. Tommy was pumping Hugo's arms backwards and forwards now.

"He's not dead," he panted. His voice came in bursts. “The pipe wasn't fully attached to the car. It had slipped. Half went in the garage. Call for an ambulance."

My hands were trembling so violently I could barely press the numbers. I managed it, though, relief flooding my heart. Not dead. Not dead. Message conveyed to the ambulance services, I pocketed my phone and raced to help Tommy, who was moving Hugo off the gravel, and further from the vomit and fumes, on to the grass. The smell of gas and sick was revolting. More shattering, though, was Hugo's face, as Tommy turned him over. Blood was trickling from dozens of cuts on his head where we hadn't been able to shield him from the glass, and he was deathly white. Was he breathing?

“See if you can stop the car," Tommy told me.