Where are you?’ — one of the girls, shrill with panic. ‘Gaaaaargh!’ ‘Sssssssssss …’ Desperately I lunged through the trees towards the sounds of the struggle, terror for Richard washing through my brain in a icy tide. ‘Richard! Hold on! I’m coming! I’m here!’ My lungs were raw; adrenaline burned like acid in my blood. I smashed though the bushes, branches tearing at me, twigs whipping my face, my clothes ripping. At last they were in front of me, shapeless in the dark — a writhing, twisting, struggling shape convulsing on the ground. I skirted the dark mass with my weapon raised, waiting for a clear strike. Then one of the shapes reared up over the other, straddling it, its face — dimly lit by the distant fire — a mask of blood. ‘Stop struggling, or I’ll throttle you within an inch of your life! I mean it!’ The face was unrecognisable, but the voice — harsh and gasping, savage with pain and triumph — was Richard’s. The dark shape on the ground lay still, face down in the dirt.
