She runs across the moor, as hard and as fast as she can. The sliver of an old moon hangs above her and, somewhere far behind, the village lights shine anaemic yellow. But she keeps her eyes fixed forward. She sees nothing but the road ahead and hears only the wheeze of her dry breath and the cawing of the gulls as they swoop and dive. There are no sounds of pursuit, no shouting, no howling of dogs. She is safe, she thinks. She can calm down, stop running and walk. It’s over.
But still she runs. She pushes herself harder, her limbs wheel, momentum carries her until she is on the edge of tum- bling like a marionette, wires snipped, head over heels. A car flashes past on the horizon, and then it happens. Her body goes numb, as if she’s fallen into cotton wool. Her arms and legs circle in front of her but they look alien, they’re moving independently, she has no control. It’s like looking through the wrong end of a telescope.
She tries to draw breath, to blink herself back to reality, but it’s too late. Her body has rebelled. When she tries to stop running she finds she can’t.