The BMW was in front of her, the back of it, wedged into the narrow path. He dragged her through grass and bushes, along the side of it. She heard a car horn behind them, beeping twice. But no more voices. She was too far to hear their voices. He had to drop the snake trap to get the key from his pocket. He only had one hand on her. He pulled the door open, squashing branches. Still holding her, he put the trap and the tyre iron into the back, and toppling, they fell into the driver’s seat together. Getting up on his knees, he threw her across the front of the car, not onto the passenger seat, just mindlessly, on her back, her head hitting the dashboard, limbs chaotic, not fitting. He was in the driver’s seat. He slammed the door and he started the car.

They bumped from the lay-by to the tarmac. They were on the road. They were pulling away. She couldn’t right herself. She couldn’t move, lying half on the seat and half in the footwell. Like troops falling-back, the no man’s land of her body was abandoned, and she withdrew from it. From far inside the flesh cage of herself, she looked out, a small, live thing, peering through bars. He drove. And even when she was able to move, she didn’t. She waited for her spark to grow brighter. The only way into truth is through one’s own annihilation. She did not want to die, she would not be annihilated.

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