‘Handbrake’s off. You must have rocked it around a bit and it just started moving. Crawford’s trying to break into the driver’s side to put the real brakes on. There’s some brown shit on the ground, maybe brake fluid, though – so save us all time and just get out in case we can’t stop it.’ She made to grip the underside of the shutter door, but couldn’t hold it and jog at the same time. Even in a few seconds she’d gone from a quick step to a jerky wide-legged jog in the shin-deep snow. The truck wasn’t going all that fast, but it was difficult to keep up in the slush. I knew it was about a hundred metres or so to the road, and then once we crossed that another couple of hundred to the lake. The slope only really kicked in after crossing the road, but the truck was so heavy, if it got enough speed up, it would be impossible to stop. I knew I had to get out before it started really moving.

‘You’ll have to go low,’ she said, reaching out a hand. ‘The snow’s soft enough to fall on so just roll out.’

I crouched, one knee down, just as the truck lurched again, harder than the first time. I fell, sliding out of Erin’s grasp, reached for a strap, missed it, and landed hard on my arse, sliding backwards until I stopped with a breath-expelling thump, my back against the driver’s cab. The truck must have hit a bit of a slope now, because everything was moving: the hanging straps whipped against the walls and my face, a toolbox had fallen somewhere and bolts and spanners ricocheted off the floor and peppered the back wall. I tilted my head just in time for a screwdriver, hurtling tip-first at my eyeline, to clatter off the metal next to my ear.

Then I heard a long, slow screech. A scraping against the floor. The coffin was sliding towards me. Several hundred kilograms of lead, wood, and two skeletons. I tried to move, but gravity and confusion are deadly friends. I’ve told you already I’ve been typing this whole thing one-handed: this is why.