Ivan ran with him.

“No,” cried Brett, “the others. Pull them out, well away, both of them, then free them. Hurry. I’ll help you when I’ve done.”

Ivan pulled open Majendie’s door, Brett the driver’s. The bonnet was blazing in patches, where puddles of petrol had formed. Even inside, Brett could feel the heat of the flame. He bent down and groped for the tap, low, to the right of where the driver’s knees would come, where he had himself seen a tap on a very old car. The searchlights didn’t reach so low. But he found it, and turned. If it worked, if the whole thing wasn’t stove in, it would cut off the flow of fuel, and the fire would be confined to the puddles. He straightened his back, and saw that the key was still in place. He switched off, although he didn’t know that it would now make any difference.

He jumped out of the driver’s compartment, and staggered. His knees were shaking; his shins ached as if he had just got past a bout of influenza. A trickle of blood still oozed from his nose. Wiping the back of his hand across it he went through Majendie’s door. Stephanie was gone, and Ivan, terribly short of breath, was heaving Majendie by the shoulders along the floor.

“All right,” said Brett, “I’ll do it.”

He stepped crosswise over Majendie to replace Ivan at his shoulders; lifted them, and dragged Majendie backwards out of the car.

“My dear boy!” Majendie kept repeating, in a badly shaken voice. “My dear boy, if that tank had cracked while you were down there—it’s an old car, and the metal is most likely not quite—I don’t like to think—”

Brett held him up while Ivan cut him free. “All right?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, yes. Quite sound in limb, if not in wind. No, I can stand, I won’t be downed. Went through worse than this in ’15, dear boy. See to Miss Cole.”

But Ivan had already released her. She jumped up as if she’d been bound with nothing more painful than cobwebs; but she was crying.

“Oh, Mr. Majendie,” she sobbed, flinging herself at him and seizing his hand. “Your poor dear old car!”

“There, my dear, don’t cry.” Majendie made a supreme effort, in spite of his trembling voice, to be quite himself. “I’m not a pauper, you know. Poor old lady, she’s keeping us warm—although, I believe, the fire’s contained now. Mr. Nightingale’s work, that. It’s all right, my dear, all over now.”

Brett looked round for Ivan. He was walking rapidly away, almost running.

“Ivan!” cried Brett. “Ivan, wait. Please.”

Ivan turned, and stopped. Brett ran towards him, slipping in the snow, saving himself in a final lurch only by catching hold of Ivan’s arm.

“My knife, please,” he said, holding out his hand.

Ivan stared at him. Reluctantly, with a nod which seemed to show that he very well knew why he was asked for it, he put the knife into Brett’s hand. The blade was still open.