Getting there …

First an update on my bike battery, the one that I bought from China, sent back to Germany because it was broken, was fully refunded and then they sent it back again – still broken. I had a conversation with them, told them they’d refunded me … and they replied saying they thought their people had fixed it. Anyhow, I took the new and the old batteries apart to see if I could swop over the battery management systems … but they are completely different beasts and there was no way I was going to be able to switch. So, I threw my old, broken one away (to the recycling centre) and was about to do the same to the new one. Instead I put it back together, stuck it on charge for fifteen minutes and, hey presto, it works. That means I have a brand new bigger bike battery for free. I do not feel bad about it. I told them and they still sent it back to me. Hurrah!

I’m 8/17 chapters through the first edit of of Black Bulls and White Horses. And I love it. Much more than I thought I would, I would hope to have the first edit complete by the weekend. And then we’re trying something different. C’s going to read it to me by way of a second edit. And then it’s off to my millenial beta readers. By the end of the month it should be ship shape. Another hurrah!

And Blood Red Earth? Well … that’s done. It’s available to pre-order in e-book (£2.99): press on the photo below. It will be delivered to your kindle on Friday. If you want the paperback (£12.49, I think – I make absolutely nothing from the paperback, sorry), you’ll have to wait until Friday. I’ll remind you all again on Sunday.

[image error] press me to pre-order!

We’ve moseyed along. We met up with Jen and James and Jame’s folk for a very windy picnic by the Severn on Sunday. That was fab. Apart from that we have continued to stay safe, run/walk and keep out of trouble. C’s been cooking and knitting an awful lot – and I’ve been writing.

[image error]a blustery, Sunday picnic

We’re off for another 6 mile trek along the Severn tomorrow and then to Jen and James for a cuppa. Oh, and Bex and Steven in Korea are fine. They’ve finished school and are ‘going up into the mountains’ on Thursday for a week. Covid-19 means they’re not home this summer, but I guess that’s the same for all of us?

Anyhow, Chapter 16/18 is attached – unedited and unproofread. I hope you’re enjoying it.

[image error]flowers

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Chapter 16

Emily was hot. And bothered. The two men had fed and watered her – pain, brie and coffee you could stand your spoon up in – and then left. She had been retied and re-gagged, her ankles tethered to the floor but, and it was a big but, she was now longer hooded. They were about to reapply the hessian sack when she violently shook her head. ‘Noh, noh!’, was as loud a cloth-covered mumble as she could muster, her eyes imploring them not to put the bag back on.

The man missing a front tooth with the sack in one hand dithered. The two men then had a conversation in guttural French which was lost on her; the outcome of which was a huge relief – they had relented. Five minutes later the two men were gone, and she hadn’t seen them, or anyone else since. 

She reckoned it was probably mid-afternoon, but she couldn’t be sure. She had got herself reasonably comfortable, her back against a wooden post, her legs outstretched and her hands resting on the floor by her bum. She stank … she was easily the most pungent smell in the barn – and the competition was tough.  

Her mind had spun, and then relaxed. As the temperature in the barn rose she struggled to keep her eyes open and she had catnapped. She couldn’t stop herself. And then she’d woken and rehearsed all of the same arguments again.

The two men were working for someone else. They had affected the kidnap and now their job was to keep Emily secure. That’s what she felt. After her initial disquiet – that the men had come this morning to do her harm, or, God forbid, ‘do things to her’ – she felt more comfortable with them, which made her feel happier with her incarceration. If that were sensible conclusion, and she wasn’t sure it was. 

Yes, the men looked ragged, dirty and uncouth. And both had looked at her with eyes that couldn’t but betray a deep down, unhealthy lust. But … they hadn’t touched her. Maybe their boss, and she could only imagine that that was Marc Segal, had given very clear instructions: kidnap, but don’t touch.

Marc Segal. He, as he always did, led to so many other questions. 

He’d been very clear. Both about her staying out of his business and the danger she was in. 

You have already been warned. The Camargue is a notoriously lawless place.

She sighed to herself.

What were they going to do with her? Had she seen too much – did she know too much? If that were the case, what were Segal’s options? Surely they couldn’t keep her locked up indefinitely? Maybe there was a big drugs operation going down soon and they needed her out of the way for that? Then they’d release her?

If she were Marc Segal, would she release her? What damage could Emily Copeland do? She had already been to the Gendarme. They knew that. She’d been kidnapped from Pierre’s apartment. 

Right under his nose!

The audacity of it.

She had to assume that Marc Segal thought she’d already told Pierre everything: the bank account; the photo of Luis in Guinea-Bissau; her mum’s exchange with Marc Segal; and the rekindling of their relationship. 

What else did she know? 

Not a great deal. But he didn’t know that.

In any case, was it enough to …

She couldn’t finish that sentence. 

She was too young to contemplate death. She had too much to do. Too many young people’s lives to influence. She had a Scottish croft to buy and some chickens to purchase. 

She had a man to find – to spend the rest of her life with.

She had …

Emily was crying again now. Soft, nodding sobs. Her tears dripping onto her – what were originally yellow, but were now a kaleidoscope of browns and fawns – shorts.

She didn’t want to die. She had so much to live for.

She sniffed and tried to rub her nose, which was a dribbling combination of tears and snot, onto her shoulder, but couldn’t reach it. Frustrated she leant forward and managed the job by using the bottoms of her thighs,

It’s not fair.

It wasn’t.

She sat up straight again, sniffed and closed her eyes. Her hand was gently throbbing and her jaw was reminding her that it had taken the brunt of last night’s fall. Her wrists were sore, as were her ankles. She was a mess. And, sometime in the future, things might go downhill further. There was no escaping that fact. 

Should she try and escape again?

There was nothing within reach that looked useful enough to cut through thick cable ties. The main door had been bolted from the outside and, whilst the barn looked rough, it didn’t look ramshackle enough for anyone to break out of, let alone a shortish woman.

Escape, on the face of it, seemed pointless.

One of the bulls – there were three – mooed, a gravelly, masculine noise. And then there were snorts and a kerfuffle. Even the bulls were restless.

So. It was just her. And the bulls. And two men, who looked and smelt like tramps. And a white 4×4 which had been used as a battering ram. And an older Frenchman who was doing something illegal and who had roped her mum into the business in some way. And a chef, a waiter and a policeman. The three amigos. 

And her.

A teacher – a good teacher. A millennial.

And three bulls.

She opened her eyes. The sun was streaming in through a thin gap in the corrugated iron ceiling. Its fan lit up a slither of hay, just beyond her feet. Dust and a busy fly took their few seconds of fame under the lights of nature’s transient supertrooper. She watched the beam as it reached the hay-covered floor. It moved imperceptibly towards her as the sun ran its course for the day. Soon her feet would be bathed in its light and, not long after that, she would become the star.

She shook her head.

Was she dillushional?

Had they fed her something to quieten her down? 

That was funny – funny, ha-ha..

She snorted, a small female snort. And then again.

Yes, it was funny. Wasn’t it?

She shook her head. The humour was lost in that instant.

No, there was nothing wrong with her. No toxins flooding her bloodstream sending her high and delirious. It was just …

What was it?

Fear. That’s what it was. Her mind was reacting to the fact that this could well be her last day on the planet. 

Fear. 

The humour was gone – it had dashed away as quickly as it had arrived.

And so there were more tears now. Her whole body shook, her shoulders bouncing in tune to some unheard drum.

Fear. She was scared to death. 

There was no other way to look at it.

Just then she wished they’d get on with it, whatever ‘it’ was.

And still the tears came. 

There were no children. That was a huge relief. Gbassy had helped all the migrants off the trawler, onto the pleasure boat and then across to the breakwater.  There were fifty-one; mostly men. One of the men could hardly walk so Gbassy, with the help of another man, had to half-carry the injured party to the truck. A few minutes later and they were on the way back to Tiki Ill. Gbassy had some chocolate and bottles of water. That was all gone in seconds.

The other good news was the cowboys hadn’t eaten in the restaurant that evening and weren’t waiting around to pick and choose – with their grubby, filthy hands – the women they wanted for their own pleasure.

It was still the worst of experiences and he knew he would hate himself when the separating came and when he had to watch the poor people forced into the three trucks, destined for somewhere he didn’t know – or want to know.

The truck turned off the main road and onto the track leading past the campsite. It bumped and banged and its cargo, the ones not already hanging on for dear life were knocked around like beans on a tray. He couldn’t look at them, so he did his usual trick: he hung onto the final roof bar of the truck and looked out over the tailgate, back the way they had come. Away from the miserable, anguished and exhausted people who were hoping that this was one of the last legs of their journey to a better life.

He didn’t want to look at them. 

He didn’t want to be complicit.

So why had he come? Why had he stayed? He should have escaped last night – with three thousand Euros in his hand.

Why hadn’t he?

He didn’t really know. It was a mess; a combination of the fear of actually breaking clean, with all its perils and detachment – leaving something he was very uncomfortable with to take on something he knew absolutely nothing about, and that was fraught with its own danger. And Miss Emily – her plight. And that Luis Segal had not risen when he’d mention that she was in danger. He hadn’t hinted that he might confront his father. And, although agitated, he’d shown no enthusiasm for confronting the issue. Instead he had disappeared into the night – running from, rather than toward Miss Emily’s predicament. 

Today had been no different. He’d got in late for lunch, said barely two words to Gbassy, and then disappeared like a scurrying rat as soon as he were able. This evening had been the same. Such was the chef’s tardiness, at one point Gbassy thought he might have to cook himself. Luis had arrived just as the first clients had taken a seat, looking all hot and distressed. He had quick hands, there was no getting away from it. And, as a result, the first plates of food were ready just on time and looked as delicious as they always did. 

Again nothing had passed between them other than the details of the food orders. And, again, the chef had left as soon as the last plate had been served. He disappeared. In the kitchen one moment; gone the next.

It was hugely frustrating for Gbassy. He had lost a whole day and was now faced with a huge dilemma. Should he leave then, in the gap between the restaurant closing and the boat arriving? The opportunity was short and he was never sure when Monsieur Segal would turn up to take them all to the port. If he had left, what would his boss do? Gbassy may have made it across the river by then, but all Monsieur Segal would need to do was contact a couple of his people who weren’t involved with the boat and the search would be on.

How far could he have got? 

Not far enough, he suspected.

And – what about the boat? The migrants?

At least with Gbassy in attendance their passage between the trawler and the trucks would be as humane as he could make it. If he hadn’t been there, one of the French men would have to take charge and who would know how he’d treat the new arrivals? 

It was a split, in the moment decision … 

… but it wasn’t. 

Not really. 

The migrants from Africa – his people – they’d come first.

But then he’d escape. After. After they migrants had been packed in the drums. Once Monsieur Segal and his men had left the restaurant.  

He’d have about three hours before dawn and another three before Monsieur Segal arrived for his coffee. Six hours. He could get a long way in six hours. 

And there was a bonus. They’d had their best day in the restaurant. And he had another day’s salary and tips. A quick total added up to around three and a half thousand Euros. Those extra five hundred would mean a huge amount to his village.

He hoped it was the right decision. He would know soon enough. 

As the truck pulled up his heart began to beat heavily in his chest.

He had two jobs. Neither were without a huge amount of angst.

First, he had make the human transfer as trouble free as possible.

Second, he had to gather his things together and, once the coast was clear, disappear into the night like a fox.

He dropped the tailgate, jumped down and immediately started the process of unloading the migrants.

‘Faites attention,’ he said kindly as an elderly woman fell into his arms.

‘Deux groupes, femmes et hommes, s’il vous plaît,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

As always there was a kerfuffle as the couples amongst the group pulled and pushed, desperately trying not to be separated. One of Monsieur Segal’s men was already prising a pair apart, his fist raised threatening to hit the man if he didn’t do as he was told.

Then they were all off and, as his boss’s men carried out the further separation of the older cargo into the third group, he jumped on the back of the truck, found a black bag and started to clean up the rubbish.

A new noise. 

Another vehicle. 

Gbassy looked over his shoulder, out through the back of the truck. There were a pair of headlights. He shielded his eyes with his forearm.

It was a pickup. It was too dark and the headlights too bright for him to work out whether or not he’d seen it before. It turned and skidded to a halt. Both doors opened at once and two men quickly got out.

The smell of the men hit him before his eyes could make out who they were.

It was two of the cowboys. And they were in a hurry.

‘Segal!’ One of them shouted.

Gbassy swiftly picked up the last of the rubbish and jumped out of the truck. In front of him were the three groups of migrants; they were quietly murmuring amongst themselves. Behind them and to the left were the three trucks. Beyond that was the cowboy’s pickup. To Gbassy’s right were three men, soon to be five. Monsieur Segal was centre stage; he was flanked by two of his men. And now came the two cowboys. They put themselves between the three men and the groups of immigrants.

What did they want?

More women?

Gbassy’s jaw tightened. And his fists clenched. He wasn’t expecting a fight. Not tonight. 

If I have to …

‘Que?’ Monsieur’s Segal’s response was curt. He had things to do.

‘Nous venons de voir ton fils. Il était à vélo. Il est passé devant nous. Nous pensons qu’il se dirige vers la fille.’ One of the cowboys blurted out.

Gbassy’s second language was French. He got every word. 

‘Pourquoi ne l’as-tu pas arrêté?’ Monsieur Segal’s response was sharp and angry.

‘Nous nous dirigions vers la ville. Nous sommes venus directement ici.’ The talking cowboy was frantic. He had just been chastised by the boss and that wasn’t going to be good news for him and his pal.

‘Idiots!’ Monsieur Segal shouted. ‘Je traiterai avec toi plus tard.’ His boss was already on the move. ‘S’occuper des migrants. Je veux qu’ils disparaissent au moment où je reviens!’ He shouted orders at his own two men. 

And then he was off, stepping around Gbassy past the truck towards his vehicle which was out of sight.

‘Que veux-tu que nous fassions?’ One of the cowboys shouted.

‘Va te saouler en ville, et te noie dans ton propre vomi pour tout ce que je veux!’ Now past the truck, his boss’s voice could be clearly heard.

You can drown in your own sick, for all I care.

Gbassy looked at the two cowboys and then to Monsieur Segal’s men. The cowboys were looking very sheepish. His boss’s men were already busy ordering the migrants towards the trucks.

Which presented Gbassy with an opportunity. 

He turned and stealthily followed Monsieur Segal in the direction of his pickup, staying in the shade of the army truck until …

His boss’s 4×4 was backing up at speed. But it had to stop. And it had to turn. And when it did …

… now!

The vehicle was moving much quicker than Gbassy expected, but it wasn’t moving so fast he couldn’t grab at the shoulder of the rear bed and, with one agile leap, he was in the back. He immediately dropped down … and held his breath.

The vehicle didn’t slow. And there was no shouting in his direction from either Monsieur Segal’s men or the two cowboys.

He was safely in the back of his boss’s truck. A truck that, if the cowboys were right, was chasing Monsieur Seagl’s son to where they were keeping ‘the woman’. 

He knew exactly what that meant. And, whilst the cowboy’s intervention had been the perfect distraction for him to collect all the money and slip away into the night, if he were able to help Luis Segal and Miss Emily in any way, that might right some of his previous wrongs. It was an instinctive decision and he didn’t regret it. 

And he regretted it less when he picked up some of the telephone call Monsieur Segal was currently making in the cab, his shouty orders easily louder than the noise of the truck. Luis Segal and Miss Emily were going to need all the help they could get.      

Emily woke to frantic banging on the barn door. It was pitch black even without a sack on her head.

‘Emily! Emily!’ It was Luis’s voice. ‘Are you there?’

It took her no time to get her bearings. She forced herself upright so that her back was pushed up against the wooden upright.

‘Luis!’ she screamed. It was as loud as she could make it; inevitably it was muted by the gag and was a poor attempt at calling out for being rescued.

‘Emily! Emily! It’s Luis! Are you there!’ More shouts were accompanied by more bangs.

She screamed again, this time hoping that closing her eyes and scrunching up her face was going to make a difference. 

Then, ‘Emily!?’ A single word. No banging.

She screamed again. 

‘Is that you?’ His voice was softer – from the other end of the barn he was difficult to make out at all.

One of the bulls bellowed.

‘Merde, taureaux sanglants.’ Luis banged the door as he swore at the bulls.

He thought it was the bulls!

She screamed again. And again.

Nothing.

Bugger!

What could she do?

She was … no, too far from the wall to bang on its wooden side.

Bucket.

There was a metal bucket. It was six feet away, maybe?

Could she reach it? Could she, literally, kick the bucket?

She screamed a muted scream again to fill the void of her dropping to the floor, onto her side and then pushing and sliding into a position where she could stretch her tied feet …

… and, yes, that was it. Wasn’t it?

Feet meet bucket.

She screamed again. And then, with all her might, she pulled her feet back and let rip.

It was a pathetic effort. Something happened with the trajectory of her legs. They got caught up in the straw and the rope that was still tethering her to the floor and … she didn’t know … but only her toes connected with the bucket. It moved a little, toppled over and made a dull clank as it fell.

She listened.

Nothing.

Just absolutely nothing.

Her one chance to persuade Luis that she was in the barn was lost in a miserable attempt to make noise with a bucket falling onto hay.

She was so tired. And scratched and cut and hurt and … miserable.

And defeated.

She couldn’t stop herself, she cried again. Sobs and sobs of the stuff.

‘Emily?’

It was so quiet a call from just over her shoulder – on the outside of the barn – she almost didn’t hear it.

She sniffed and sniffed.

‘Emily, is that you?’ Louder this time.

‘Yes, Luis. Yes!’ A cloth reduced bleat. But loud enough to be heard if you were just there – on the other side of an old wooden wall.

‘Emily! Wait …’ Luis was thinking. ‘I need to get into the barn. Bear with me. It’s not going to be easy.’

Relief flooded through her. And more tears came.

She was to be rescued by the man she hadn’t trusted. He had come looking for her. And he had found her. Pierre had not. She’d been snatched from the policeman’s apartment – from under his nose. He had the whole of the gendarme at his service – and yet, she’d been found by the son of the man who had abused her mum.

It wasn’t making any sense. 

There was banging here and there.

‘If you can hear me, Emily, I’m looking for a way in. the door is bolted and I don’t have any tools.’

More banging, from further around the barn. And then more.

And more. 

‘Wait.’ It was a call from the far end of the barn, next to the bulls.

‘I’ve found a loose plank,’ Pierre shouted.

A series of rips and grunts followed. The process lasted a few minutes. As Luis did his superman thing, she righted herself again against the post.

Another rip, followed by plenty of ‘Merdes!’

And then … a pause.

‘Whoa, whoa, mes amis,’ was the call from the far end of the barn.

Emily could only assume Luis had found the bulls.

It was a frantic few seconds. Luis yelped at one point and the bulls, who had been quiet until they had company, became noisy and unreceptive very quickly.

Then she saw him. He’d vaulted the metal fence at the far end of the barn. It was a black silhouette against a black wooden wall, but she knew from its gate it was him.

He ran – although he seemed to be favouring one leg over the other – to where she was.

Luis was with her now.

He crouched, his face next to hers. And then there was light. He’d lit the torch on his phone.

‘What have they done to you?’ His face dripped with sympathy and hurt. ‘Are you okay?’

She mumbled; he raised his eyes to the ceiling.

‘Idiote.’ He chastised himself.

He had the gag off in seconds. And didn’t that feel good?

As he worked he spoke.

‘My father did this?’ He said as he tried to loosen the plastic grips around her ankles, the phone on the floor, its torch’s beam catching his earnest face. She didn’t know if it were a question or a statement.

‘I think so.’ Emil hadn’t said anything for over twenty-four hours. She was surprised her vocal chords worked.

Luis didn’t respond to her. Instead he spat, ‘Merde.’ to himself.

He stopped what he was doing, half smiled at her and then looked around.

‘We need to get you out of here. I’m looking for …’

Emily interrupted him.

‘There’s an old scythe. At the end of the barn by the door.’ She’d noticed it when she’d been taking for the loo first thing.

He didn’t reply. He got up and jogged, with what looked like a lame leg, down to the end of the barn, his torch bouncing with him. He was back with the scythe a few seconds later. She couldn’t fully make it out in the intermittent dark but he looked like the grim reaper. 

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m going to put the blade under your ankles.’ He paused, staring at her. ‘I can’t assure you that this will be pain free.’ 

She nodded meekly in response.

‘D’accord.’ This time to himself.

It took him a minute to sort her ankles and the blade so its outer edge was on the ground, with the cutting edge pointing upwards. He’d positioned her ankles – just – either side of the blade. Luis was standing, the wooden handle in both hands, ready to pivot.

‘Hold your feet down as hard as you can,’ he ordered.

She did.

And he pressed down and pulled on the handle. The blade lifted and tugged at her feet. Emily was pulled along a few centimetres, but the tie held fast.

No luck.

‘Okay.’ He smiled at her again … and then she noticed a dark mark on a leg of his jeans. ‘Let’s do this again. This time I’m going to stand on one of your ankles. Okay?’

‘But, Pierre, you’ve been …’ she tried to say.

He was having none of it. He put a foot on her left ankle, and pulled the scythe down with such speed that, whilst her feet twisted and lifted, the blade did a better job and snapped the plastic tie.

Ping!

And. That. Hurt!

‘Ow!’ She tried her best not to sound like a baby.

‘Sorry.’ He said. He knelt down quickly to face her. ‘Can you stand?’ 

‘Yes, but, you’ve been hurt.’ She nodded in the direction of his thigh.

‘Bloody bulls’, he gently dismissed her. ‘Now, come on, let’s do your hands.’

The next few minutes were fruitless. It was a much more difficult job to break the tie around her wrist. There was no obvious way to get traction and leverage, and the scythe’s blade was too blunt to use as a cutting tool.

And then it didn’t matter.

Because Emily spotted something which changed their plan.

A light through the crack in the barn door. It was just a flicker. But it hadn’t been there before.

‘Luis!’ she said.

‘What?’ He was still unsuccessfully working the scythe as a saw.

‘There’s a light. Over there, through the door. It wasn’t there before.’

He stopped what he was doing, looked … and then dropped the scythe and headed for the barn door. She followed on, hands still tied behind her.

‘Merde!’ he spat.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘A vehicle. It might be my father. It could be some of his men. Whatever, they’re coming here. There is no other reason for them to head this way. Merde!’ He was turning around, looking for options.

‘What …’ Luis didn’t give Emily the chance to finish her question. He moved around to the sturdy metal gate which held the bulls in their pen. He paused, as if thinking of a plan.

He came back to her.

‘Okay. I’m going to put you on the fence, by the door.’ He shone the torch to where the metal fence met the end of the barn. ‘Lean against the wood. Whatever you do, don’t fall off.’ She picked out a half-smile in the dark.

‘I … what?’

He didn’t let her finish again. Instead he lifted her by her arms as if she were a doll, walked the few steps to the barn door and perched her on the fence.

‘Stay there,’ he ordered.

She didn’t have a choice. She pushed her right shoulder against the wood of the barn and did her best not to fall, either back from where she came, or in with the bulls.

In the meantime, Pierre had opened the gate and was calling at the bulls to make their escape.

Nothing happened.

‘Allez vous putain de choses!’ he shouted.

Still no movement.

He rattled the gate. As he did, Emily noticed that the light over her right shoulder was getting brighter.

‘Pierre!’ She hated sounding like an incapable woman, but there was little she could do but warn him.

But he was gone. He’d pushed the gate to and was hobbling down to where she had been tied up. He was back a few seconds later with the scythe.

And then all hell broke loose.

She had seen the bulls at first hand – as close as you’d ever want to get to one, even if they had been surrounded by horses.

They were intimidating then. Now they were bloody frightening.

Luis was in the pen, prodding and shouting – shouting and prodding, his torch twirling and flashing. The bulls were making more noise than she ever thought animals could make. They were dancing around Luis. At first, from what she could see, they appeared to be scared themselves. And then they seemed to get very angry.

But Luis had the upper hand. One bull was out of the pen, encouraged by a poke to the backside. Then the second, with Luis giving it a mighty slap with the scythe’s wooden handle. The third seemed intent on a fight, but Luis pirouetted like a master bullfighter, screaming and toying and then it was gone, through the pen door and … 

… Shit! 

The bull had turned right – towards her. It was coming at her. She could see it now, the lights from the oncoming vehicle providing a laser-show of illumination through the cracks in the barn wall.     

It was going to … she flinched, and ducked – every muscle tightened as if she were in a slow motion car crash.

Smash!

The bull hit the fence and the barn wall simultaneously. The noise was terrifying. 

But it hadn’t hit her. Just before impact Luis had whipped her off the fence and into the pen – the bull left behind with no victory, all snorts and grunts.

And she could see it clearly, because the vehicle was with them now. It had stopped outside the barn, its ghostly, segregated beams slicing the bull and the flying dust – all of the animal’s anger and contempt captured in a disco-like trance.

‘We have to go now.’ Luis whispered to her. ‘Through the crack.’ He was pointing.

She nodded.

And then he led her out through the gap in the barn wall and into the night.