There was no sign of Emma anywhere and I realized with creeping dread that anything could have happened to her. She could have tumbled into a ditch and been knocked unconscious or fallen and broken her ankle. She might have been shot by a farmer, angry that someone was on his private land. Anything could have happened to her. Anything. And it was my fault. I never should have pushed her out of that window.

I slowed down and put my hands on my knees, sucking in huge, warm, pollen-scented lungfuls of air. Tiny flies buzzed around my head and I waved them away and took another moment, one hand shielding my eyes, the other shooing off the pesky little beasts. I scanned the horizon. Saw nothing but fields – and then, far away, five fields away in a north-east direction, a patch of red caught my eye. Was it another farm? A house? It was definitely a building of some kind.

I should have started running towards it, but I didn’t. I froze. Spun around, suddenly certain I could hear a car coming. I listened and listened, but all I heard was the whiny cry of the flies pestering me. There was no one chasing me. Not any more. The strange man was probably still lying on the ground writhing around in agony. A naughty sensation of satisfaction rippled through me as I remembered the shock and pain in his eyes. I didn’t feel guilty. He’d deserved it, and if he came for me I would do it again.

My breath was back. Wincing, I ran on, climbing over a wooden gate into the yellow field, which smelled so strong it made my head fuzzy and my nose run. The yellow plants were as tall as my waist but not so tough that I couldn’t run through them. They were so bright and beautiful. I wanted to stop and admire them, touch them and look closely at their different parts, but I didn’t want to stop.