The van screams into fourth gear, as she jumps through a red light, one eye on the road, the other on the blue dot. They’re on the bridge now. She hears herself cry out as the blue dot slows to a halt. They’d have to climb the suicide barrier… too hard to finish that thought. There is time. The road ahead is clear. She checks in her rear-view mirror for blue lights, floors the accelerator through another set of lights. Eyes blade to her phone. Feels her breath explode from her chest. The blue dot has begun to move steadily over the span and out onto the other side. Now it is anyone’s guess. She is closing the gap is all she knows. She swerves onto the approach road to the bridge, willing the driver’s side window to lower more quickly, one hand on the steering wheel, the other fumbling in her pockets for the bridge toll. Please let there be change! Remembers Nevis teasing her, saying that no one uses cash these days. And there they are, tangled in the seams of her trousers, two £1 coins. She slams on the brakes at the barrier, throws the coins in the hopper, notices the 40-mph speed limit sign but does not wait to see if the booth is manned. The cameras will catch her. Accelerating onto the bridge she finds herself suspended above the gorge and heading for the lights around Leigh Woods. Checks the speedometer, lifts her right foot and jams the accelerator. An APNR camera flashes twice as the van speeds by, hits sixty-five, seventy, rapidly catching up with the car ahead, she swerving at the last minute to avoid it, the blaring horn of the driver behind her already fading. Driving crazy enough to alert the cops.

On the other side of the bridge she slows and checks her phone. The blue dot is moving more slowly now too. They are no longer in a vehicle, she thinks, but on foot. They have entered the woods on the cliffs overlooking the gorge. One eye on the road, the other on Google Maps. There is an entrance to the woods just up ahead and beside it a car park. She turns off the road towards the woods, switches off the car lights, navigating from Google Maps and the reflection of the bridge lights on the water. Just before the entrance to the car park, she pulls onto the verge and cuts the engine. Takes a moment to compose herself. No longer panicky or flustered now, the blood burning hot in her veins, powered by a terrible, immutable rage. Thinks, you got Zoe, Mulholland, but you will not get her daughter and you won’t get me. I have thought about this moment, fantasised about it even, for years. You have no idea how hot and for how long the desire for revenge has burned in me.