He felt as if his jaw and lips were frozen, but he knew he would have to make them work. He shuffled his feet precariously, turned, and bent to the open window. His voice came, cracking horribly. He yelled. Although the helicopter was further off, its noise still raged. He spat out a mouthful of blood and turned back to the cabin.

“Majendie!” he shouted.

“What is it?” Majendie, evidently too shaken to shout, was only just audible. “I can’t get up.”

“You must,” bawled Brett. “The car’s on fire, the engine—”

A wail from Stephanie interrupted him.

“Get your free fingers to the door catch on your side,” he went on, shouting. “Fall out and roll away. Steffy, listen—listen! When he’s gone wriggle and bump until you fall through the door. Keep your head up as you fall. Then you roll too. And shout all the time.”

There was no need to tell them, he realised, himself beginning to howl like a demoniac. He dropped to the back seat and tried to swing his feet against the door. They couldn’t kick with any force from such a position. He stood up again, aware of Majendie’s furious heaves and struggles to get his back to the opposite door. The flames were shooting up quite fiercely. Of course the police assumed that an unmoving car was abandoned, and now that it was burning they would even more think so. Brett tried to strike his helpless hands against the door catch. The old hearse—if they didn’t get out quickly it would be a hearse, all right, he thought. Old. A frightful possibility struck him.

“Where’s your tank?” he shouted to Majendie. “Back or front?”

“Front!”

Brett flung himself against the door. The tank couldn’t be broken, or it would have gone up by now. It must be just the carburettor. But very soon—a gravity tank—petrol would be pouring out, pools of it, and a continuous jet of flame from the broken pipe—

“There’s a tap,” he heard Majendie yell, “driver’s seat—otherwise the tank may blow—full at Folkestone.”

Brett gave a desperate shove, and the door flew open. He fell out of the car. “This way!” he croaked to the others.

Someone touched him. The door had been opened, not broken by him. Someone clumsily, and with labouring breath, dragged him clear. Twisting his head, he looked up.

He opened his mouth, and a whisper came out.

“Ivan!”

His astonishment melted. “The tank,” he said urgently. “Switch the tap off, Ivan, down by the steering column.”

Ivan hesitated.

“The driver’s wheel,” cried Brett. “Or take the knife from my left trouser pocket and cut me free. Quick.”

Ivan fumbled.

“Left!” shouted Brett in despair.

Ivan had the knife. With movements painfully slow he cut Brett’s arms free. They were stiff and numb. Brett worked and shook them as Ivan sawed through the rope round his ankles. Feeling it give, he pulled his feet apart, snapping the last few strands, scrambled up and ran weakly round the boot.