I am not a one-shot pony

So. I have finished of Black Bulls and White Horses. It’s proper novel length (81k, which is industry standard. Apart from Unsuspecting Hero the Sam Green books are all ‘epics’ at over 120k words) and it has a beginning, a middle and an end. I think I like it. A lot. And now the editing process begins. Yesterday I couldn’t stop myself from having a first go at the cover. It comes from an original photo of mine I took when we were down on the Camargue a couple of years ago. I hope you like it.

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And Blood Red Earth will be out on Friday in both paperback and ebook form. I’ll drop a link next time I write. That means I have written seven books. Seven. Two this ‘year’ (September to August – I can’t stop myself, I am an ex-teacher). I still struggle with: what do you for a living? Oh, I’m a writer. But, and I know I’ve rehearsed this argument a couple of times before, that’s what I am. I earn almost no money from it – although the potential is there. But it’s what I do (mostly).

We’re OK. Whilst the country opens up and the social distance comes down to a single metre and foreign holidays look possible, we’re still not sure. It’s a combination of things. First we don’t want to be a burden. Second, we don’t want to catch the disease whilst we’re abroad. And with England in particular looking like it’s not going to defeat or control the disease in any sensible way, we just need to stay as safe as possible.

[image error]knitter in chief …

For the record I timed my first run today in three months. It’s the usual 4.6km for which I now have a target time of 20 minutes. I have been running six days out of seven, but only rarely have I run quickly. Today I surprised myself. It didn’t feel that quick, but I got round in 19.55 which I was really happy with. So that’s good news.

[image error]that’s my sock, Cassie – we had her overnight on Wednesday

We are thinking of going to mum’s in the next ten days or so. And we have a picnic planned with Jen and James tomorrow. And I’m off writing for the weekend … I need a break.

Stay safe everyone. Chapter 15/18 attached. Remember it’s unedited!

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Chapter 15

Emily had had the whole afternoon to check out Pierre’s flat – at the same time trying her best, via her phone and the net, to find something which might add to her mum’s story.

Pierre’s flat gave nothing away, other than he had a wardrobe full of smart, chic clothes, more shoes than Clarks, a chemist’s worth of toiletries, an immaculate kitchen – but nothing in the cupboards that was healthy – and a locked, metal box, which she couldn’t find the key to. There was nothing which let on he was a policeman; not even a hint of uniform in any of the cupboards. And she couldn’t find the walkie-talkie.

What little paperwork there was lying about was all incidental stuff: a pay cheque from the cafe which elicited his surname: Legrand; a couple of official letters which looked like they might come from an insurance company; a booking reference for a holiday later in the year to Goa – for just him. A single man to his bones. An empty bed waiting to be filled.

There was nothing. 

Apart from a metal box which looked easily big enough to hold all sorts of paperwork, a walkie-talkie and who knew what else – he could keep a Tommy-gun in there. She had to assume he was what and who he said he was. And, if that were the case, everything about the more official side of this particular two-sided coin was locked securely away. Which made sense, didn’t it?

And, after a fruitless couple of hours on her phone, she had been about to give up on trying to break into her mum’s email address. Then she had one final idea.

Emily decided to send her mum a test message, something which, as she hovered, typed and deleted, and typed, deleted and hovered, really, really unnerved her. It was though she were trying to communicate beyond the grave. 

In the end the message she sent had been a simple one – just a title. It read: I miss you, mum.

She held the phone in front of her face as it pinged her message into the ether. She then put her phone on the table, stood and helped herself to a glass of water.

Ping.

What?!

Emily froze. Dead still.

She looked across at her phone. There was a tiny white LED flashing in the top right corner.

She had a message.

It her took her a few seconds to get her bearings – to overcome her unease.

Sod it.

She picked up the phone, swiped and dabbed, and there it was.

Her heart sank.

Address not found.

Of course. 

She put the phone down again, picked up her glass of water and walked to the window which overlooked the beach. It was on the latch. She pulled it open completely so that she and the world were on the same page.

The sun was a big ball of burning orange gas. It hung just above the horizon like a tentative bather afraid of the temperature of the water 

Directly below her was the cafe’s terrace blind. In this light it was a deep red, almost purple. Under it were three tables, probably some tourists and, possibly, Pierre. She’d not seen him since he’d dropped her off before lunch.  

Beyond the blind was the main road – two narrow lanes with a smattering of car headlights moving in both directions. Then the raised, concrete boardwalk adorned with the darkened silhouettes of people caught between her and the setting sun – an in-line skater, moving quickly left to right, meandering expertly around some older folk enjoying an evening promenade. After which was the beach and then the sea, all early blues and greys leading in the distance to oranges and reds. 

To her right was the bull ring, to her left the promenade and road disappeared into the distance where they were eventually met by scrubby trees and the expanse of the Camargue.

The beach was beautiful – one colour, fine, dark sand leading gently to a Mediterranean which, after the last day or so of being abrupt and noisy, had given up its fight and was now as placid as a mid-summer pond. She could see where, the other night, she’d sat by the breakwater and waited for Pierre. And, when she looked far left and let her eyes focus, she picked out the lighthouse in the distance, a matchstick of dark brown poking up against a brush of greeny-oranges and, away from the sun, penetrating blacks as the land welcomed the dark of the night. 

As she stared, her mum came to her. 

And then the monster. 

Don’t be so sure that your mother was a good woman.

What the blazes was that supposed to mean?

Marc Segal was a crook. He was also not beyond violence. She had been knocked off her bike because of him. He would say anything that suited. Crooks lie. That’s how they become successful at what they do, whatever that was in his case. 

Her mum was a good woman. Emily knew. And there was nothing Marc Segal was going to do to besmirch her memory.

Emily continued to stare at the view, picking out little things she hadn’t noticed before. An elderly woman carrying a dog the size of a small rabbit. Two young lovers doing everything other than having sex on the beach. A family of four on a late cycle ride. Mum and dad on a tandem. The two kids following on on children’s bikes.

If only I had been able to look at mum’s emails.

But the address wasn’t recognised anymore.

Did that make sense? Do email providers close down accounts? Facebook hadn’t. Her mum’s was still there, with tales of a rekindled romance between her and Marc Segal.

So why was her mum’s account now closed? And was that why Emily hadn’t been able to break into it? Maybe she had the right password, but the account wasn’t recognised?

The emails … the ones she and Marc Segal had used because Messenger was considered to be too public. Of course the account would be closed down. Because the exchanges on it were incriminating.

Marc Segal had reach. There was no doubt about that. 

Clunk.

A key turned in the front door lock and the handle dropped.

Pierre was popping up. It was very late and she was getting hungry. Perfect timing, therefore. She was feeling better now – more trusting. Hopefully he would be able to fill some of the gaps. She turned to welcome him.

Except it wasn’t Pierre.

‘Who … who are you?’ she said, almost as a gasp.

It was two men. They looked like tramps: dirty jeans, checkered shirts, leather waistcoats, scuffed cowboy boots and belts with big buckles. Their faces were more wrinkles than skin, their black hair looked in need of carbolic soap and a scrubbing brush, and both wore ridiculous gaucho moustaches. One man was carrying what looked like an empty sandbag, which struck her as ood. Their entry was quickly accompanied by a smell. It was a combination of sweat, horses and something she couldn’t put her finger on. It was enough to make her feel nauseous. It certainly didn’t make her feel at ease.

She felt even less comfortable when they didn’t respond to her question.

They were halfway into the apartment. She stepped backwards, her bum hitting the window ledge. With any more momentum she’d have likely toppled through it. She steadied herself with the frame, and then decided to perch her bum on the ledge – which was a better choice than falling out. She crossed her arms in semi-defiance, water splashing from the glass onto her bare arm.

‘’Who are you?’ This time she was more resolute. The men were looking around the apartment; searching for something.

‘Soyez tranquille, Dame.’ The taller of the two men spoke. He had a gap where one of his front teeth should have been. 

Tranquille sounds like ‘quiet’.

He was telling her to shut up.

Were they robbers?

What were they?

Pierre was downstairs.

A multiplicity of thoughts in quick succession.

The window was still open.

I should scream?

But they had a key?

‘Does Pierre know you’re here. He’s just downstairs, you know.’ She tried a different tack.

There was no response. The shorter man, who had all his front teeth, took a couple of steps towards her. The other looked beyond her to the open window.

And then it all happened – so quickly.

The man with all the teeth lunged at her. She threw both arms out in front, the hand with the glass finding the side of the man’s face. The glass splintered and, as she screamed something which might have been ‘help’, the searing pain of glass cutting across the palm of her hand and took all of her attention. 

She had started to fall from the window – literally – the force of the man’s lunge had caught her by surprise and as her body pivoted on the ledge, her shoulders dropped and her knees rose. But she didn’t fall. The man with all his front teeth, but now with a face awash with red which may have come from her hand, but just as likely was seeping from a cut somewhere on his face, had her thighs. A second later, without any ceremony at all, she was back inside Pierre’s apartment, smacking the floor with her shoulder.

Then she screamed. She gave it all she had. But it lasted for nothing. The second man was on her, his hand over her mouth – which she instinctively chewed at, biting into flesh which gave way to bone …

… which was a mistake.

Because the man without a front tooth smacked her on the side of the head. With what? She didn’t know. Probably his fist. All she saw was a brief set of stars. And then darkness.

Emily woke. Smell was, she’d read somewhere, the first sense which returns after being unconscious. She got salt. And a farm smell. And … what was that? She had all her senses now. Except she couldn’t see anything, her blinking eyelids catching the sack which was over her head.

The missing smell was hessian. Of course it was.   

She had the headache from hell and a hand which cried out for attention. She remembered that she’d cut it on the glass as the man with all the teeth had lunged at her. She felt to see if it had been bandaged and she immediately realised that they were tied behind her back – and the harder she pulled, the more the plastic ties dug in. The good news was a damp cloth was wrapped around her hand, possibly not expertly. But it was better than nothing.

She wiggled her wrists. 

Everything hurt.

She stopped that. 

Her feet? Tied also, her ankles shouting at her to calm down as she moved one leg against the other.

She tried to shout – but a gag prevented that.

Where am I?

What she did know was she was lying on the floor. Her bare flesh scratchy against … hay? 

She stopped moving. And listened. 

Nothing. 

Nothing human. 

No. There was something.

A rustling. Close to. Louder now. 

A snort. 

And then a masculine ‘moo’ sound, short but rough.

She was in with the bulls. In a barn or similar – although it was difficult to tell through the hessian.

Her survival instincts had run their course. She had been expertly tied, gagged and hooded. Kidnapped by the two disgusting men.

Kidnapped.

It hit her then.

Kidnapped. Stressed and tied and abandoned in a barn with the bulls.

Emily closed her eyes. Her mum’s face met her. 

She tried to stop it. But she couldn’t.

Her bottom lip wobbled.

And then she wept, pitiful floods of tears.

Gbassy was sat in the still of the wood. It was close to pitch black. Next to him was a shallow hole surrounded by earth and pine needles. On his lap was his metal box. It was open. In it was six hundred and seventy Euros – the culmination of all of his wages and tips. In his hand was another two thousand, three hundred and fifty Euros. Today’s takings. Add them together and he got more money than he could ever dream of. 

Was it enough?

If he left now, would three thousand Euro be enough for him to start a new life. Would it give him a buffer, buy him time to find new employment, scratch around for accommodation and, eventually, procure the correct papers so he could do what his village has asked him to do – gather money and send it home so that others might follow him? His last email exchange to the elder hinted that there was money coming soon. Gbassy had the cash.  And he had seen a Western Union sign in town. The process had been explained to him before he’d left Guinea. It was uncomplicated.

All he needed to do was find the time to get to the village when the shop was open. And that opportunity hadn’t yet presented itself.

Maybe it never would?

Maybe he’d be tied to the restaurant until his time came to be dropped in the river – to become fish food? If tomorrow was the last boat for the summer, perhaps that time had already come? Maybe his successor would be on tomorrow’s boat? If that were the case, his village would never see his money. He could well have been working for no reward. At least if he escaped, if nothing else he could send some money now – possibly tomorrow? He’d have made one precious payment to his village. 

He looked down at the cash in his hand. It was so dark he almost couldn’t make it out.

But he could feel it.

He pressed the notes together until they were squashed as one. 

It felt thick – a wodge. It was definitely more money than he’d ever seen.

If he were to go, he needed to go now; to get as much distance between him and the restaurant before Monsieur Segal came mid-morning for the takings. He had little to pack. He could be away in half an hour; even less. That gave him eight hours, or so. He could travel fifty kilometres in that time. He’d be in the next town well before dawn. And once he was there …

… a new life. Free from the shackles of Monsieur Segal, the restaurant and the dreaded boats.

He’d picked a route. He’d walk along the river to begin with; stay off the main road. There was a bridge over the Petit Rhone about a kilometre away. Once across it, he would head back down to the beach. GoogleMaps showed a long stretch of sand to the west, cut by two rivers, both of which had bridges close enough.

If he ran and walked, he’d easily make the next town by dawn. He could hide during the day, wait until the night and then head off again. There were plenty of seaside towns on the coast. One of them would have work for him. 

He squeezed the money together again. And released his grip.

Three thousand Euros.

The price of freedom.

And yet …

… it wasn’t as simple as that.

Not now.

It was, or had been. 

That was until Miss Emily had met Monsieur Segal this morning. 

And since Gbassy had spoken with the chef this evening.

The conversation hadn’t lasted long.

‘Luis.’ Gbassy had been standing at the entrance to the kitchen, his boss had just turned his back on him and had headed over to one of the tables. The news of the impending boat had taken everything from Gbassy – except one thing: his determination to confront Luis Segal.

‘What?’ Luis had his back to him; he was working a frying pan with sliced potatoes, olive oil and paprika.

‘I need to talk with you.’

The chef continued with his cooking. ‘Go on.’ It wasn’t a dismissive reply. But it lacked enthusiasm.

‘Face to face. Please. It’s about the woman.’

Luis didn’t stop pushing the potatoes around the large skillet, but Gbassy noticed that his shoulders tensed.

‘What about her?’ He still hadn’t turned around.

Gbassy knew that the opportunity to talk was short. There was work to do front of house, and the chef had a final table’s worth of food to prepare. Talking to the chef’s back wasn’t getting them anywhere.

He quickly dropped the dirty plates on the drainer and moved to Luis’s side.

The chef looked at him, still working the potatoes. His face was stern, his mouth tight.

‘She came here today. To see your father.’ The chef’s stirring slowed, but didn’t stop. ‘She was confronting him about his relationship with her mother.’

‘It was years ago.’ The chef seemed to lose interest, looked back down at the pan and worked the potatoes further.

‘No. Your father has been in contact with her mother since then. It started a couple of years ago. Your father was encouraging her to help him.’

The stirring stopped. Luis seemed ready to say something. But he didn’t. Instead he turned up the gas under the pan.

Gbassy took a deep breath.

‘Miss Emily wanted to know what your father did, other than the restaurant. He was paying money into her mother’s bank account. Large sums of money.’

The chef stopped stirring. He bit his lip. And then he raised his eyes to the window which was behind the stove. It was dark outside now. There was nothing to see but four small panes of black and a reflected kitchen.

But still he didn’t say anything, the smell of burning paprika filled the void.

‘She asked him what you were doing in Guinea-Bissau.’ 

Gbassy flinched as he said it. He knew it would be something the chef couldn’t avoid – so big was the piece of information. He waited for an explosion.

But there wasn’t one. The chef continued to stare out of the window. And the potatoes continued to burn.

Gbassy reached forward and turned the gas to the hob off. The chef didn’t flinch.

‘Are you going to say anything?’ Gbassy asked.

Nothing.

‘What were you doing in Guinea-Bissau? Were you finding people like me – for your father’s business? People with hopes and ambitions? With children and families? People determined to find a better life?’ Gbassy had started something he couldn’t stop. He tried to sound calm and respectful, but he knew he came across as goading and hurtful.

The chef looked at him then, a face full of … what? Regret? Disappointment? The stare didn’t last long. It was moments. And then the chef turned his attention back to the skillet.

‘I have a table to prepare. And these potatoes are beginning to burn.’ Luis nodded in the direction of the sink. ‘And you have dishes to clean. We have jobs. We should do them.’

There was no malice in the chef’s words – just resignation.

Gbassy didn’t move.

‘Your father organised for Miss Emily to be knocked off her bike – he could have killed her. And he threatened her, before she left – today. It is not safe for her here. We both know that.’

It was Gbassy’s last shot. He let it hang.

Luis Segal’s face stiffened further. His eyes sunk deeper into their sockets. And he pushed the potatoes around the skillet without flourish. It was then that Gbassy noticed the muscles in the man’s forearms. All of the man’s limbs were long and sinuous, his muscle definition pronounced. Those Gbassy could see on his arms now were raised and tight, as if the chef were about to take on some massive endeavour.

‘We should serve this table.’ Luis’s final response was said through gritted teeth.

And that had been that. 

Except …  

… Luis Segal had left the restaurant within a minute of the final dish being served – he had handed the last plate over to Gbassy and was gone. Normally the chef hung around for a little while; for the last three nights he had left Gbassy some food.

But not tonight. Either he was so disgusted with their conversation that there would be no more free dinners. Or he had somewhere to go – quickly.

As Gbassy sat in the dark, holding more money than he had ever seen, their exchange had left him with a problem. He had hoped Luis Segal might have opened up to him; maybe shared his concern about Miss Emily. Perhaps Luis would have his own confrontation with his father. Something, anything, to put Gbassy’s mind at rest.

That hadn’t happened.

And that presented him with a problem. 

He didn’t have two options, stay or escape, the latter of which was calling him from the towns down the beach. 

He had three: stay, escape or … it was madness to even think it … go and find Miss Emily – and help her.

Whatever that meant.  

Clunk and then a grating sound of wood on concrete. It was enough to wake Emily up from a deep and disturbed sleep. It took her a while to come to.

She was stiff. Everything ached. 

She had fallen last night. 

It was a stupid thing. She thought only her hands and ankles had been tied. If only she could get to her feet, she could stumble to a door, if she could find one. Turn her back to whatever the lock might be, open it and escape. Sure, she could only waddle – blindfolded, but maybe she could make it to a road and alert someone?

She was on her backside seconds later. She had made it to her feet, after a couple of attempts, and shuffled to find at least one side of the barn. But before she’d got there a rope, which was tied to whatever was securing her feet, reached its maximum arc. And that was it. With no free arms, her chin hit the floor before any other part of her body. Thankfully, the straw had cushioned the fall, but it still hurt like hell. 

She had fallen.

And then she had cried – it hurt so much. 

As did the ignominy of where she found herself. And the fear and anxiety of what may be coming. It was all too much. There wasn’t room in her head – it was nursing too many wounds – to think through the detail about where she was, or who had taken her.  

So she cried some more. And then promptly fell asleep.

She was awake now. A door had been opened and a waft of warm air rushed in at ground level. She was still lying on her side, her feet tied and her hands still behind her back. The hessian sack smelt as it did – if she were ever to get out of this, it would be a smell she would hate forever. And her gag was damp; its taste something akin to snot that dries in the back of your throat when you wake up with a cold.

She smelt like a gap year backpacker. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime, her hand hurt – more so if she tried to move it, and her chin, where she had fallen, ached like a bad tooth.

And she needed a wee. Badly.

It was a pitiful state to be in and, regardless of what was following on from the open door – be it good or bad – she couldn’t stop herself from crying a little more.

‘Enlever sa capuche.’ She recognised the voice. It was from one of the men from last night.

A hand grabbed her head, Then – light.

She blinked, the tears spraying the straw.

It took her a few seconds to get her bearings.

She was in a barn, about the size of … the one she’d had lunch by the other day. It was split seventy – thirty along its axis by a metal fence and several gates. She was at the far end of the thirty, away from the door. As far as she could tell, there were three bulls at the other end of the seventy, next to the door. She was sure the bulls hadn’t been in the hut when she’d stopped and looked at the egrets. Maybe it wasn’t the same hut?

Apart from the bulls and the metalwork, a lot of straw and the odd feeding and water trough, it was a plain, ramshackle wooden barn. Which might be next to a pond and some egrets. 

She had been joined by the two men. The one closest to her, who had a hessian hood in one hand, had some steristrips on his cheek; they crossed a deep red cut like a kid’s drawing of a railway. 

Good.

Did she mean that? Was she really comfortable having hurt somebody?

The second man, the one missing a tooth, was behind him. He was carrying a plastic box. She had no idea what was in it – it could be anything. That thought sent a spasm to her bladder and she did all she could not to wet herself.

She lifted her head off the straw and tried to say, ‘I need to go to the toilet’, but the words were lost in the gag. She tried again, this time louder; her eyes wider.

The man with the hessian sack looked at her quizzically.

Emily closed her eyes and took a deep breath. And then opened them.

The second man was with them now. He put the plastic box on the floor and she immediately recognised the top of a flask. That made her close her eyes again. She had no idea why she thought the box might contain something with which damage could be done. It was a relief that the worst these two thugs might do was feed her.

The man with the sack put his hands under her arms and lifted her to the sitting position. She let out a gagged, ‘yelp’. Everything hurt.

He then crouched, his face – that of an antagonist in a spaghetti western – was very close to hers. He studied her for a while and then, with some tenderness, lifted her fringe from her forehead and pushed it up onto the top of her head. It was a remarkably kind act … until he smiled, his yellow teeth and bad breath reminding her that she was at these two men’s mercy.

But he didn’t touch her any further. Instead he said, ‘Mangez …’, and used his hands to demonstrate eating.

Relief washed through her. She wasn’t going to be tortured and, as of yet, they weren’t going to do other unpleasant things to her.

‘Toilet.’ It didn’t come out like that. She took a quick look at her crotch and then nodded her nose in the direction of the open door.

The man looked confused … and then a light bulb went on.

‘Toilette?’ he said, nodding.

‘Oui, s’il vous plaît.’ It was another gagged response.

It took both men a couple of minutes to get her to her feet, untie the plastic shackles around her ankles and then, with one man at her side, his hand on her upper arm, she stumbled past the bulls and into the light of the day. 

She was exactly where she thought she was. And that was miles from nowhere. It was a beautifully clear day, the sun already strong enough to burn exposed skin and, as she remembered, there was nothing in any direction other than lakes and scrubland and a single, straight track that linked the two main roads.

But there was a car. It was facing the same direction she’d taken the other day on her bike. It was an old Renault, more rust than paint, which looked as if it would never pass an MoT back in the UK. 

The man stepped in front of her and turned so they were face to face. He then pointed around the back of the hut and nodded.

‘Deux minutes,’ he said.

She still had her hands tied. And she was still gagged.

How on earth …?

She tossed her head over her shoulder, half turned and wiggled her wrists.

The man looked unsure.

‘Come on, pleeease.’ It was another gagged response, but her face was telling the story.

The man  was unsure. He looked around, checking for who knew what. And then he took a knife off his belt and cut the cable tie behind her back. 

The relief was instantaneous.

‘Deux minutes,’ the man reaffirmed. 

Emily hobbled around the shed until she was out of sight. Her mind was racing, although any hint of a plan was being interrupted by her need to pee.

Car. Keys? Two men.

Could she make a break for it?

It was no good.

She crouched, pulled down her skirt and pants and …

… the egrets were there. All awkward and swan-like. 

She peed.

As she did and against the backdrop of somewhere she had lost herself in just two days ago, the enormity of it all washed through her again. Tears welled up and then ran down her cheeks, lost their battle with gravity and fell to the floor joining the river of wee which was meandering down to join the lake.

Get a grip.

She finished, pulled a leaf from a small, stunted bush and wiped herself.

Could she outrun the men? Could she knock one down and take the car?

Really?

Did she need to? They had brought a flask and probably some food. Was the ordeal nearly over?

Emily stood and dressed herself. She then tentatively walked around the barn away from the direction she had come. She reached the track, looked left … ahead of her there was at least three kilometres of straightish, hard-packed, muddy road until she would hit tarmac. Right, beyond the car, the same, but this time five kilometres before any help.

‘Oi!’ It was the man. He had followed her around the barn.

She jumped. He had scared her. Which sent a spike of adrenalin rushing through her veins.

Her decision was instantaneous. She was wearing pumps. He wore cowboy boots. She was late twenties. He was … who knew what.

Could she run three kilometres faster than him?

There was only one way to find out.

The race lasted longer than she thought it might. She sprinted to begin with and easily left the thug in her wake. She kept glancing behind. First he was very close … and screaming blue murder. Then she had a couple of metres on him. Then five. Then ten. Soon she looked behind and he was stood still, bent double – hands on hips. She had outrun him! And she knew she was fit enough to keep outrunning him all the way to the main road. 

But he wasn’t the problem.

The Renault was.

It must have taken the pair a couple of minutes to turn the car around. And then it took them a few more to catch up with her. The thing was, she could have turned left or right between the many lakes and ponds where a car couldn’t follow. Off the track she would have had the legs to keep ahead of them.

But, by the time Emily realised the car was her next competitor, she had reached a point on the track where there were large expanses of water on both sides of her. There was literally nowhere for her to get off the track. Not without swimming, or wading. She hadn’t thought it through. And, by the time the Renault was on her ankles, she was so hot and so tired – she had little fight in her.

They could have knocked her over. But they didn’t. They got close enough to be a threat and stayed that way for no more than a minute … and then she slowed, and then jogged and eventually stopped. It was her turn to bend double and take gulps of fresh air.

The tears came again now. More of frustration than fear. She had got so close … and had failed.

She was manhandled into the back of the Renault by the two men – it was two door, so there was no way for her to escape again. They turned the car around at the next opportunity and she was back in the barn a few minutes later.