The field seems to go on forever, and although the all-round whiteness prevents the darkness from being absolute, I still can’t see anything with any real clarity. The seemingly endless hedge/fence is just a blurred presence, a long dark shape to the left of me, its darkness a slightly different shade to the darkness surrounding it, and while I’m still keeping my eyes on it all the time, searching hard for any sign of a gap, I honestly don’t know if I’d see one if it was there.

But what else can I do apart from keep going?

There’s no point in turning back, and the only other option is to simply give up — dig myself another snow cave, curl up inside it, close my eyes, and go to sleep.

I might never wake up . . .

Would that be so bad?

Yes, it would, says Ellamay.

“We’d be together again,” I tell her.

We’re together now.

“Not all the time.”

What makes you think I want to be with you all the time?

I smile at her.

She smiles back. Just keep going, okay?

“Okay.”

There’s a weird kind of lightness at the top end of the field. It’s only faint, but it seems to run all the way along the fence that separates the field from the wooded valley on the other side, and what makes it even stranger is that the valley is so utterly dark, so dense and black, that it’s almost beyond darkness. It’s like a vast black hole, sucking everything into its depths, devouring every little flicker of light . . . and I wonder if that’s why there’s a lightness to this side of the fence. The light feels safe here, the black hole can’t reach it . . . or maybe it just appears lighter here in comparison to the ultra-black void of the valley.

There’s no hedge or ditch on this side of the field, just the barbed-wire-topped fence, and as I hobble along through the snow — my right leg is numb from the knee down now — I’m reasonably sure that without the added barriers of the hedge and the ditch, the fence wouldn’t be too difficult to climb over. There’s a narrow dirt path on the other side of it. It’s hidden beneath the snow now, but I know it’s there because I’ve seen it on Google Earth. It runs all the way along the top of the valley — with perilously steep paths leading off it that wind their way down into the dark heart of the woods — and eventually it comes out into the fields at the back of the houses in the village.

I pause for a moment, closing my eyes and picturing Shirley’s house — the small yard at the back, the ramshackle fence, and beyond that the fields . . .

If only the woods weren’t so paralyzingly terrifying . . .

If only.

I open my eyes.

I wouldn’t even have to climb over the fence. There’s a stile . . . right there in front of me. A wooden stile set into the fence. All I’d have to do is step up onto it, step across, and step down, and I’d be on the dirt path on the other side . . . the path that leads along to the field at the back of Shirley’s house.

If only . . .

Why don’t you just try it? Ellamay says. You can always turn back again if it really is too scary.

“No.”

It might not be as bad as you think.

“It is. I know it is. And so do you. You’ve been there with me in the nightmares, haven’t you?”

Well, yes, but they’re nightmares. This is reality.

“You think there’s a difference?”

She goes quiet, and I wonder for a moment if she’s leaving me again, but when I can still feel her presence after a minute or two, I know she’s not going anywhere just yet. She’s just being quiet.

I move on, leaving the stile behind, and I start heading over to the right-hand side of the field, the final side of the rectangle.

Whatever little hope I had of finding a way out is all but gone now. I’m pretty much just going through the motions — struggling along through the snow, peering into the gloom, looking for gaps in the hedge/fence, gaps that almost certainly aren’t there . . .

And then I see the lights.

At first I only see them from the corner of my eye — a flash of bright lights down at the bottom of the field — and for a second I assume they’re just the headlights of a passing car, but when they don’t go away, and I stop looking at the hedge/fence and focus instead on the gate at the bottom of the field, it’s obvious that the lights aren’t headlights. They’re flashlights, down at the gate, and there’s at least four of them, which means there’s at least four monkems down there.

It’s too dark — and the monkems are too far away — to see clearly, but as the powerful flashlight beams keep sweeping around, I catch momentary glimpses of illuminated faces and figures, and I’m pretty sure they’re all men — big coats, hats, boots. Big voices. The still air carries the murmur of their voices up the field, and although I can’t make out what they’re saying, there’s a hardness to the voices that gives me a really bad feeling. I’m not sure why, but there’s something of the hunter about them.

I hear a metallic creaking then, and as one of the monkems directs his flashlight at the gate, I see another one — a big rough-looking man with a black beard — clambering over into the field. The sheep are still there, but they’ve moved back from the gate now, and when the bearded monkem turns around and shines his flashlight at them, they all suddenly take off, running away into the darkness on the left-hand side of the field.

The fear’s flooding through me now, emptying my stomach and chilling me to the bone, and the next sound I hear makes me feel even worse. It comes from the gate, a short sharp bark, and as my breath freezes in my throat, and I stare wide-eyed down the field, I see that three of the monkems are in the field now, and the fourth one — who’s still on the other side of the gate — is bending down to pick up a dog. It’s a big hefty-looking thing, and the monkem has to cradle it in both arms to lift it up. The dog barks again, and the monkem passes it over the gate to one of the others. He then climbs over the gate himself, takes the dog’s leash from the other one, and squats down beside it. As the bearded monkem shines his flashlight on them, I can see the fourth one holding something out to the dog, letting it smell it. For a moment or two, I can’t work out what it is. It looks like the lower half of a human leg, including the foot, but it seems kind of floppy too, which doesn’t make sense. Why would a human leg be floppy? And for that matter, why would these monkems have half a human leg in the first place, and why would they be encouraging their dog to smell it? But then one of the other monkems directs his flashlight at the monkem with the leg and the dog, and because the change of angle gives me a better view, I can see now that it’s not half a leg — of course it’s not — it’s my Wellington boot. They must have found it on the other side of the gate, and they’re letting the dog get my scent from it, and then the dog’s going to follow my trail around the field and lead the monkems to me.

They’re going to hunt me down . . .

You haven’t done anything wrong, Elliot, Ella starts to say. There’s no reason for them to —

“THERE HE IS!”

The guttural shout comes from one of the monkems. I can’t see which one because all of a sudden I’m blinded by the dazzling light of a flashlight, and as I raise my hand to shield my eyes, another beam lights me up, and then the dog starts yapping and more voices ring out.

“HEY, YOU UP THERE!”

YAP-YAP-YAP-YAP-YAP . . .

“HEY, KID!”

YAP-YAP-YAP . . .

“DON’T MOVE! JUST STAY WHERE YOU ARE!”

As I run off up the field, back the way I came, I’m remotely aware that the shouts are getting louder and more desperate, but I’m not really conscious of them. I’m not conscious of anything now. I’m in automatic fear mode. My body’s taken over, and all it cares about is running, getting me away from the danger. It’s making me race through the snow as fast as possible, making me ignore the awful pain in my frozen foot, and at the same time it’s assessing all the options and making split-second decisions. Is it best to keep going in a straightish line, following my tracks in the snow — for easier and quicker running — or is it better to start zigzagging, darting from side to side, to make it harder for the monkems to keep me in their flashlight beams? An instant later my body lunges to the right, out of the lights and into the untrammeled snow, and before the monkems have time to redirect their flashlights, it veers to the right again, and then immediately to the left. And then, as someone shouts, “WHERE’S HE GONE?” my bare foot hits a snow-buried rock, and I scream out in agony and tumble over into the snow.

The pain’s so bad I have to grit my teeth and clamp my hand over my mouth to stop myself crying out, and as I lie there in the snow — with the flashlight beams sweeping around — I can feel the cold stickiness of blood oozing between my toes, and although it’s too dark to see the gut-wrenching redness, it’s still terrifying enough to sicken me to the stomach. I roll over onto my side and vomit into the snow. My stomach’s empty . . . all that comes up is some yellowy goo. I spit it out, retch again, spit again, and when I feel the nausea subsiding, I rinse out my mouth with a handful of snow, and use another handful to clean up my face.

My foot hurts so much . . .

“ANYONE SEE WHERE HE WENT?”

“OVER THERE.”

“WHERE?”

The voices are getting closer.

I can’t stay here. I have to get going again.

But where?

I roll over onto my front, prop myself up on my elbows, and cautiously raise my head just enough to see over the parapet of snow. The fence at the top of the field is about ten yards away, and I’m about a third of the way across the field. I glance over my shoulder. The monkems are directly behind me, and they’re a lot closer than I thought. Forty yards . . . maybe less. The flashlight beams are still searching for me, sweeping around all over the field, so at least the monkems don’t know where I am yet. But if I stay here, and they keep coming this way . . .

An idea suddenly comes to me.

A way out.

There is a way out.

I sit up, crouch down low, and peer down the field toward the gate. The sheep haven’t come back. The gate’s unguarded. If I can get to it without being spotted . . .

The flashlight beams are still sweeping around the field, like searchlights hunting for an escaped prisoner. I watch them closely, waiting for the moment when none of them are shining in my direction, and then I make my move.

My mashed-up toe screams out in pain as I jump to my feet and start running, and I almost give up there and then. I can’t do it . . . it hurts too much . . . I’m going to have to stop . . .

But then more shouts ring out . . .

“THERE HE GOES!”

“WHERE?”

“THERE!”

. . . and the dog starts barking . . .

YAP-YAP-YAP-YAP . . .

. . .and someone yells out, “NO! MOLLY! NO! COME HERE!”

. . . and a searchlight picks me out . . .

“I’VE GOT HIM!”

. . . and all this triggers a renewed flood of fear that surges through me like an electric shock, and now I couldn’t stop running even if I wanted to . . . it’s all I can do . . . and the pain can’t stop me . . . it’s just pain . . . a thing, a feeling . . .

YAP-YAP-YAP-YAP . . .

“MOLLY!”

I’m almost halfway across the width of the field now, running parallel to the fence at the top, and about five yards away from it. Although the monkems have me in their sights, there’s still a chance I can make it to the gate before them. They’re just about level with me now, around twenty yards behind me. If I feint to the right and make a sudden turn to my left, it might just surprise them enough to make them lose sight of me — at least for a few moments — and then if I run straight down the field, as fast as I can, I might just have enough of a head start to reach the gate before them.

YAP-YAP-YAP-YAP . . .

“MOLLY! HERE!”

I suddenly realize that not only has Molly the dog been barking nonstop for the last minute or so — and that one of the monkems has been yelling at her nonstop — but also that the continuous yap-yap-yapping isn’t coming from behind me, where the monkems are. It started there, then began moving around the field, and right now . . .

YAP-YAP-YAP-YAP . . .

. . . it’s coming from the darkness directly in front of me . . .

YAP-YAP-YAP-YAP . . .

. . . moving toward me . . .

YAP-YAP-YAP-YAP . . .

. . . and there’s another sound with it . . . a muffled rumbling . . . getting closer and closer . . . louder and louder . . .

And then I see them, looming out of the darkness, stampeding through the snow, heading straight for me . . . the flock of terrified sheep. Molly the dog’s right behind them, yap-yapping and nipping at their heels, and they’re running like crazy things, desperate to get away from her. They’re not going to stop for me in the state they’re in, they’re not even going to try to avoid me. They’re blind with fear, just mindless running machines, and at the speed they’re going — which is unbelievably fast — I’ve only got a fraction of a second to decide what to do. If I don’t do anything, I’m going to be trampled into the ground by thirty-odd stampeding sheep, and they’re far too fast for me to outrun them, especially as I’ve only got one good leg.

As I rapidly glance around, looking for an escape route, I see three of the monkems fifteen yards behind me, and the fourth one about the same distance away, but just over to my left. He’s marching across the field with the dog leash in his hand and an angry scowl on his face, so I assume he’s Molly’s owner.

Now one of the other three shouts out to him, “WAIT THERE, GEOFF! DON’T LET HIM GET PAST YOU!” And as he stops and turns to face me, I realize that I’m boxed in. Sheep in front of me — almost on top of me — three monkems behind me, and one to my left. I look despairingly to my right, knowing what I’m going to see, and knowing I’m not going to like it.

The wooden stile.

It’s right there, almost level with me, less than five yards away.

No, I can’t . . .

You have to.

No.

You don’t have a choice.

There’s no time to think. The sheep are thundering toward me — ten yards away, nine, eight . . .

Go, Elliot!

. . . seven . . .

I can’t . . .

Go!

. . . six . . .

GO!

I fling myself across to the stile, and I only just manage to scramble onto it before the rampaging sheep go crashing past. And even then, they’re so closely bunched together, and so desperate, that some of them don’t swerve around the wooden step of the stile, they either just smash into it and keep going, or leap right over it. And it’s one of the leaping sheep’s horns that clips my right leg just as I’m trying to drag it out of the way. It’s only a glancing blow, and I’m so pumped up with adrenaline that I barely feel any pain, but I’m already off balance — tottering on one leg — so as the impact whips my other leg into the air, I kind of spin around and fall off the stile.

The path on the other side of the stile is so narrow that when I hit the ground — face-first — my head’s actually hanging over the edge of the path, and although the darkness is so thick here that I can only see a few yards down the treacherously steep drop into the pitch-black depths of the valley below, there’s something inside me, some kind of primitive bodily sense, that can physically feel the terrifying drop below me, and I can feel it turning my legs to jelly. I can feel something else too. There’s a sense of “othersideness” here, a feeling that I’ve crossed over into something . . . a different world . . . a world where nightmares and reality are the same. And as I scramble desperately away from the edge, scrabbling backward on my hands and knees, I know without question that if I hesitate now — if I pause for even the tiniest moment — the fear will take hold of me and I won’t be able to get moving again. So as I back into the fence and shakily get to my feet, I resist the almost irresistible urge to grab hold of the fence and cling on to it like a limpet, and I force myself to start shuffling off along the track.

It feels wrong, unnatural, as if I’m forcing myself to walk off the edge of a cliff, but the sound of more shouting — and barking — from the field helps me keep going. I know the monkems must have seen me going over the stile, so they’re going to be coming after me, and the thought of that spurs me along too.

The snow on the path is deep and undisturbed, so I can’t actually see the ground beneath it, and because there’s no fence or railings, I can’t see where the edge of the path is either. There’s just a narrow white ribbon — the path — with the fence and the fields on one side, and a seemingly vast expanse of absolute blackness on the other. And the darkness on this side of the fence is so dense that I can barely see my hand in front of my face. So I’m staying as close to the fence as I can, continuously running my left hand along it, and I’m moving as fast as my useless right leg will let me, but not so fast that I risk falling over.

There’s nothing in my head now. I’m not thinking about anything. I don’t have a plan. I don’t consciously know what I’m doing or where I’m going, and I don’t seem to consciously care. I’m pure animal — driven by the urge to survive, existing from moment to moment — and the only thing that matters, the only thing there is, is living through the next second, the next step, the next breath . . .

I’ve never felt like this before.

The nightmarish fear is still there, still raging through me, and it’s still as overwhelming as ever, but somehow it feels as if it doesn’t belong to me anymore . . . or it does belong, but to a different me, a me that’s down there — stumbling along the snow-covered dirt path, staying as close to the fence as he can, continuously running his left hand along it . . .

I can see him down there.

I can see him . . . wet and bedraggled, his haunted face streaked with mud, his right leg dragging through the snow, leaving a trail of blood behind him . . .

I see him glance awkwardly to his left as he hears the wail of an approaching siren, and I see the flashing blue lights that he sees, the pulsing strobe of emergency lights speeding up the road toward the village, and just for a moment I see the animal fear in his eyes . . .

But that’s it.

I don’t see him fall.