Her feet were on grass and stones, tangling in weeds. Her arm, flailing, grasped live twigs, tore a leaf. Very clearly, in a second that was a normal second, she realised they were just a few feet from the drive. She saw the nettles and brambles. She saw the white police car, the clean sight of it through the gaps, like zebra stripes.

Unbalanced, Russ tripped, and his hand slipped from her mouth. She screamed on the in-breath, and sank her teeth into his wrist. He threw her down, backwards, and himself on top, tyre iron and snake trap falling with them, and as her head hit the ground, clamped his hand across her mouth and nose. His chest pressed stickily to her cheek. His breastbone and ribs were hard. It felt like an axe cutting into her shoulder. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to move her head. She couldn’t move. No air. And then she heard men’s voices. Russ’s body grew very soft, heavier, burying her. She writhed beneath the weight. She fought. Barely shifting, still blocking her mouth and nose, he hit her. No smacking sound to draw attention, just the heel of his hand on her soft temple, heavy as a punch, dazzling. Darkness, like an inky wave, swelled, fell back, then swelled again. She was underwater, deep, deep, in a soundless night-time sea. No air. No air at all. The sea fell back. His chest was a deadweight. Reliably, her ribs heaved, but there was nothing to draw in. Her lungs burned. She heard footsteps – boots on gravel. Her eyes opened. She hadn’t known they were closed. All she could see was Russ. An inch away, blue tooth marks filled with dark red blood. She saw each bristle in each pore; the flakes on his lips, the tiny lines. A drop of sweat fell from his face into the corner of her eye. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision fluttered and feathered and blurred. Then footsteps, and the slam of a car door.

‘Monsieur? Madame?’

She recognised Dufour. They weren’t coming nearer, they were walking away. Still, no air. No air. The sound of walking, unhurried conversation.

‘Monsieur Durrant? Madame?’ Not Dufour. Another man, distant.

His hand moved from her face. Pure air. Just air. Breathing. Breathing. Light. Alive. She was lying on the steady ground. She was breathing. She rolled, but felt his hands on her again. He pulled her up. He dragged her along the path. She tried to use her feet against the pulling, but had no strength. She heard a shout, but she couldn’t hear the words. It sounded small. Too far away. His hand pulled back her head.

‘See?’ he whispered. ‘Cool car.’