McFarlane jumped the ditch, scrabbling up the steep bank, clutching at sodden grass and weeds. A fence topped with barbed wire skirted the crest. He clambered over, snagging his filthy jeans, then set off at a canter across a broad field towards a gateway and the road beyond. Headlights danced along the hedgerow. He dropped to the sticky soil, heart thumping like a bass drum. The car disappeared, fading to a low hum, then silence. He savoured the moment, then rose and set off again, trotting through the crop. He’d made it. Freedom.