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shaking from the exertions of the driver and Penelope knew she was fast approaching the point when it would be too late to save herself. She needed to fight now and live or die by her efforts. Chester sighed, staring at the box held out in front of him, perched on the tips of his fingers. "Don't worry," he said, "I won't abuse you." He inclined his head towards the driving cabin. "Not like that. Henryk has his tastes. I pander to them but they are not my own." Had she been feeling braver Penelope might well have asked him why, if that were the case, he had felt the need to remove her clothes. It was a pointless question; she knew hollow words when she heard them. "I want something altogether more spiritual from you," he continued, "though I can't pretend it won't hurt." He held the box towards her. "There is a box, and inside that box is a door, and beyond that door…" He smiled. "I'm getting ahead of myself. The problem is that the door is locked. I want you to help me unlock it."
      "With pleasure, Chester," Penelope said, punching him as hard as she could between his legs. If his tastes were so noble she wouldn't be damaging anything he intended to use. Chester bent forward, dropping the box. Penelope grabbed it, wrestled with the door handle and pushed the heavy black door open. She was aware that Henryk had paused in his ministrations; she could see his face through the glass partition. He wasn't grinning any more.
      She stepped out of the car. Chester's hand tugged a pinch of hair from her scalp as he snatched at her. Her feet complained at the grit of the road but if cut soles were the only injury ahead she'd consider herself lucky.
      She expected to hear the sound of pursuing feet but when the engine turned over she realised that chasing her on foot was the last thing they would do. She ran down a gap between a storage shed and a churning drainage gully. The water rushed past and she wondered if escape might be found by jumping in. The decision was taken from her. Tripping over a pipe that led from the shed into the gulley, she went head-first into the rushing water. For a moment the box seemed to twist in her hands, as if tugged free, then there was nothing, no water, no car, nothing…
    Then she woke up.
     
    "Come on!" Penelope shouted, pulling Miles back through the doorway and sprawling on to his arse. She slammed the French windows shut and, though there was still nothing to see, she felt the door bow inward as if something had collided with it from the other side. She let go of the handle as a surge of static nipped at her palms, and backed away from the door, hoping that whatever was outside stayed there.
      "I don't know what was wrong with me," Miles said. "I just couldn't move."
      "Can you now?" Penelope asked.
      "Yes, I'm fine." Miles got to his feet.
      "Then let's get out of here."
     
     
     

CHAPTER THREE
    Only flies could pretend to savour the Valencian midday heat. Everything else kept to the shade, dozing through siesta-time as the clock crept towards the threat of more work. Curtains of humidity draped themselves across the streets in such thick layers it was almost impossible to force yourself through them. It was a day that sapped effort, a day to be endured from the comfort of an armchair or the cool shade of a bar. Certainly it was not a day for running, but then Kesara, as always, had little choice.
      Kesara was good at running, having done a considerable amount of it during her twelve years. She had run when she left home – of course she had, her father was likely too drunk to chase her but only a fool would take the risk – and she had never really stopped. Travelling north along the coast she had run just because she could, betraying a childhood of captivity and oppression with lungfuls of sea air and the urge to see how fast your legs could carry you. Once she had reached Valencia, and sat at the port dangling her hot feet in the sea, she realised she would have to