Rickard surged forward once more, a wave pushing ahead of him, his attention alternating between Imogen and the suddenly dipping roof. Leaning over, he reached to grab at Imogen’s ankles, but she swung sideways, avoiding his grip, and again threw her entire body weight into her escape. This time she didn’t work against the post but away from it. The effort almost dislocated her shoulders but the top of the post pulled away from the roof and fell, showering her with shards of broken planks. The roof sagged, but, held firmly by the remaining posts, it didn’t collapse on them. Immediately she got her feet under her and yanked free from the broken post. Then she scrambled away from Rickard, who changed direction and waded quickly toward the earth ramp.

Imogen slipped onto one knee. But in the next instant she was up again, barely avoiding the swipe of Rickard’s knife as he slashed at her. Rickard came on wordlessly, Imogen trying her hardest to avoid his gaze as if doing so would insure her escape: as pointless as an ostrich burying its head in sand.

Running was difficult with her arms cuffed behind her, but adrenalin gave an extra lift to her heels and she raced along the walkway toward the double doors. When Rickard had brought her inside, he hadn’t locked them—a padlock was useless when the wood supporting it was so rotten. She skidded up to the doors, banged against them with her shoulder and they burst open. Imogen charged outside into the cold and softly falling rain. She felt neither of them on her hot skin.

“What in God’s name is going on?”

Imogen barely made sense of the words, but the figures looming up in front of her made her collapse to her backside and she rolled on the ground at the feet of the two men standing over her. From her ignominious position in the dirt she stared up at a burly old man and a slighter-built teenage boy. Both were shocked to find a semi-naked, handcuffed woman lying at their feet, and the rifles in their hands drooped ineffectually.

“Help me,” she screamed. “He’s trying to kill me!”

Rickard appeared in the open doorway, dripping wet and vibrating with anger.

The younger man saw him, made sense of the knife clutched in Rickard’s hand and let out a croak as he slapped at his father’s arm. The older man, made of sterner stuff, brought up his rifle.

“Hold it right there, mister,” he barked.

“Shoot him,” Imogen yelled. “He’s a murderer. Shoot him, for Christ’s sake!”

The older man tensed his finger on the trigger, but he wasn’t ready to fire yet. His mind was in too much turmoil to shoot a man without all the facts at hand. To the teenager, he said, “Best you ring nine-one-one, boy.”