I was surprised how little he weighed. Even so, it was a struggle, but finally I managed to get him into the footwell on the passenger side, bottom first, so he was sort of sitting on the floor, doubled up. His arms and head were slumped on the seat, his legs somewhere underneath. A phone fell out of his pocket. I picked it up, pulled the back off and took the battery out, tossing it all onto the floor next to him. It was as if I already knew what to do. You don’t have time to think. Not in the normal way. It doesn’t feel like thought at all. It’s automatic, hyper-fast, primal.

I took my jacket off, laid it over him as best I could. Then I got settled in the driver’s seat. I grabbed his baseball cap and put it on, pulled it down as far as I could, until the rim was just above my eyes. For an instant I wondered where his stash was, whatever it was he’d been selling. Did it matter? No, it didn’t. It didn’t matter at all.

I drove away from town. Up past Prospect Mills, then a left onto Whitcliffe Road, avoiding the traffic cameras in town. I had my head down, forcing myself not to look sideways. I took a right, weaving through rows of terraced houses, hoping that no one would recognize the car.

Keeping to the back roads, I crossed the A58 and drove up through East Bierley (small village, probably no cameras). I went on like that until I reached a stretch of dual carriageway that took me to the M62 junction. I was now travelling in completely the wrong direction, and there’d be cameras there for sure. But I had the cap on.

Then more country lanes, winding back the way I’d just come. Tiny old roads that I knew well, every last bend. Most of them didn’t even have lights, never mind cameras. It took a while. But finally I was home.

The car’s been in the garage since then, its passenger cold and silent. For the last two days I’ve been on automatic pilot at work. And the nights are long and black. But there’s something else. A strange sense of rightness has been bearing down on me, growing stronger, thumping inside my head, smothering my thoughts. What is it? I’m a tight-rope walker, and there’s no safety net beneath me. There’s a staggering majesty to it. The fear is so intense it’s sublime. Someone’s put me up here, on my own, and everyone’s willing me to succeed, holding their breath, knowing that they can’t help me, that there’s no net. No one can help me now.