A few minutes later he saw the glare of car headlamps through the hedge to his right and he slowed down, killing his own lights. Moonlight was enough to see by at this speed. There were sparse white clouds in the sky now, like smudged paint on a blank black canvas, the stars splashes. He lowered his window, saw the entrance to the driveway, turned off the engine and coasted to a stop between the gateposts, blocking any route of escape.

The pistol felt good in his right hand.

It was Robert's car. Luck had lead Cole on …

Luck and her, luck and Natasha, because she wanted me here.

He wondered where she was, and guessed the boot. Roberts would not have wanted to put something like that, something old, mysterious, dead, on the backseat where anyone could see it.

The car's rear lights were still on, and there seemed to be a commotion in the driver's seat. Cole squinted, glancing aside to allow his night vision to make out the shapes, and then he smiled. Perfect. He felt no thrill at killing, took no pleasure; it was a job well done that pleased him.

This would be over very soon.

Opening the door he heard a woman's voice, raised and muffled, angry and relieved, and as his feet crunched down on the gravel he was glad she was making so much noise. This way, Roberts would not even hear the gunshot that killed him.

The interior light of Robert's car was on, and Cole saw him look in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening, mouth dropping open to shout a warning.

"Shit!" The last thing Cole wanted to do was to hunt these people down. This had to be quick.

He cupped his right hand in his left, braced his legs and started shooting.

Chapter Six

Tom had heard gunfire once before in the last twelve hours, but this was different. Out there on the Plain he had heard the blast and that was all; no bullet swishing by, no echo, no ricochet, no evidence of the shot other than the sound itself. Now it felt as though his whole world was exploding.

It took him a few seconds to associate what was happening around him with the gun blasts coming from behind. As he looked in the rearview mirror the back windshield shattered, misting and showering down in a thousand pieces. The mirror itself smashed, firing glass shards at his face, and a hole the size of his fist appeared in the front windshield. Something hammered on the roof once, twice, as if someone had taken to the car with a sledgehammer. The whole vehicle shook. The passenger seat rattled in its bracings, and a puff of stuffing erupted from its front face. It drifted lazily down onto the mat as the car stereo and heating panel exploded in a shower of plastic, glass and wires.

Jo had slumped down over his lap, hiding from the shooting. He could feel her shaking with fright, mumbling her terror, and he put his hand on her head to show her he was still there. She was wet with the sweat of fear.

The noise was incredible. The various sounds of the car being destroyed around him—Go back, go back!—the explosive gunshots, much louder than he could have imagined—Go back go back, now!—and his own screaming, so loud and yet so detached from him that for a few seconds he wondered whether it was Jo.

Go back, Daddy, back, back, he's hurting me!

Tom tried to lean forward in his seat to offer less of a target, but Jo was heavy in his lap, still jerking and gasping from the shock of what was happening. Her legs protruded from the open door, the most exposed part of her, and he was terrified that one of them would catch a bullet.

It hurts! Natasha screamed, and suddenly Tom realised what she had been saying, and why, and he knew that she was right. He turned the ignition key, slipped the car into reverse and slammed his foot on the gas.

The shooting paused as the car started to move, and Tom guessed that Mister Wolf was reloading. Good timing. He turned to look back over his shoulder just at the instant when the rear of his car struck the front grill of the Jeep, jerking him back in his seat. Jo pressed against his stomach and chest, and Tom gasped. He saw the man leap away to one side, roll on the gravel and stand again, fumbling in his pocket with one hand and holding the gun with the other. For a second their eyes met. The man frowned, cocked his head to one side, holding Tom's gaze. And then Tom saw the game of distraction Cole had been playing when he brought up the gun and aimed it at his head.

The bullet exploded the seat's headrest as Tom drove forward again. He braked quickly and reversed into the Jeep once more, careful to keep Jo's legs safely clear of the impact. He felt hot metal glancing across the back of his scalp, opening up fresh wounds.

Hurts, hurts!

The car struck again and he kept his foot on the accelerator, wheels spinning in the gravel and sending small stones flying, the stench of the burning clutch filling his nostrils, the Jeep moving back now because the man had somehow, miraculously, left the parking brake off.

The gun exploded again and again, punching holes in the car. Jo shook but Tom did not look down, could not, not now that there was the slightest chance they might escape. He could smell something other than the clutch, something that must have been the sweet tang of a gun growing hot.

"Come on!" Tom screamed, and the Jeep rolled from the driveway and back out into the road.

Jo jerked on his lap and then lay still. Tom looked down and saw a blossom of blood on her back, spreading slowly outward from a ragged hole in her dressing gown. "Jo?"

Footsteps, running on gravel.

He kept his foot on the gas.

Another engine roared and a tractor ploughed into the side of the Jeep, shoving it several feet along the road with a screech of tires and the howl of breaking metal.

"Jo?"

There was room now to reverse between the Jeep and tractor—tangled together as if they had rolled off the production line as one—and the gatepost, and as Tom saw Mister Wolf standing directly in front of the car, leveling his pistol, he spun the wheel and ducked down over Jo. Two bullets thudded into his seat. He felt the warmth of Jo's blood on his cheek where he was pressed against her back. Her legs and the open door snagged the gatepost and then flipped free again. The car hit something, scraped by, and Tom sat up in his seat, blood and tears dropping from his chin and cheeks as he twisted around and reversed quickly up the road.

He was sobbing, blinking fast, trying so hard to keep his eyes clear so that he did not bury them in the hedge. More gunshots followed him, but he did not care now, would not care if one of them struck him in the neck. At least then he could hold Jo one more time before he bled to death.

There's still Steven, Natasha said.

"Shut up!" Tom shouted. He aimed the car around a bend and steered its smashed rear into a gateway, knocking the gate from its iron moorings. It fell slowly, as if wanting to remain standing. He saw dawn blurring the night in the east. Jo's blood ran warm on his legs. He twisted the wheel and drove forward, away from the cottage and the Jeep and Mister Wolf, who wanted so much to kill him.

Me, Natasha said, it's me he wants to hurt, Daddy, not—

"I said shut up!" Tom screamed, and two wheels churned briefly along the grass verge before he regained control.

Jo was still and silent, and he could see now that the bullet in her back had not killed her. How could it, when there was so little left of the back of her head from those first few shots?

He touched her there, hoping that somehow, as he drove, he could share in his dead wife's final thoughts.

Tom was aware that he was dreaming, but that awareness gave him no control. He had slipped from a chaos of nightmarish images into this almost filmic episode, and though he could feel the sudden outside influence that drove this—it was more like a memory than a dream, yet one that someone else was remembering for him—he could do nothing to steer or influence its course. He sensed that it would be bad. He tried to close his ears, his eyes, but he was asleep, and dreams paid little heed to external senses.