He’s wondering, she realises, as the car passes but doesn’t pick up speed, if he should stop. But, no. He shifts gear. That girl looks a mess, he’s likely thinking. What if she claims he did that to her? He’s hardly here a wet week, but perhaps he already knows all about Fiona Holland. What type of girl she is.

What she doesn’t know is that later, he won’t come forward and say he saw her on that road. He will be afraid that as a single, childless, older man and the last witness to her whereabouts, they’ll try to pin something on him. He’ll keep quiet all the while they’re searching.

She drops her head in shame as the car moves past, belching exhaust fumes into the shimmering hot air in its wake. Then, defiantly, knowing he won’t be able to resist peeking in his rear-view mirror, she raises her middle finger.

‘Fuck you very much,’ she mouths at the departing vehicle. Her ribs hurt from where they were punched, her heels are blistered from shoes designed for aesthetic, not practical purposes. She would have gratefully accepted the offer of a ride.

A single tear meanders a lonely path down her cheek and she continues on her way.

She’s at the river when she hears the next car. This time, she’s aware of it. Alarmed because she’d started to relax, she’s on full alert now, her pulse that bit quicker, her senses heightened. Silly, really. Her boyfriend is far too wasted to drive. And yet she’s on edge, fearing danger in every unexpected sound, each sudden movement. He’s done that to her; he’s made her this nervous, jittery person.

The vehicle crawls to a halt and despite herself, she feels relief. She’s weary. She needs a cool shower and her soft, downy bed – her mother bringing her strong tea and bread toasted the right shade of golden-brown, smothered in real butter to the edges. No judgement, always loving her little girl no matter what. This car could belong to Jack the Ripper and she’d still take a lift. She thinks that, but Fiona knows there’s no risk. She left the real danger back in the village, downing whiskey shots from a mug, admiring his grazed knuckles and feeling like a big man.

The driver waves, but the sun’s glare on the windscreen means she can’t see his face, only the friendly movement of his hand.

Does she want to get in?

Bloody right she does. She opens the car door and slides into the passenger seat, pulling the seatbelt across and turning to smile at her knight in shining armour.