He jumped down right behind her but then he skidded, almost falling over, and she took her chance and ran again. In her terror, she seemed to find a new gear and she reached the gate and managed to slam it before he could get through. Ahead of her now, she saw, twenty or so feet away, was a deep ditch, an old ha-ha, and then fields, just fields, and here and there a stand of trees and then – thank God, thank God – she saw a handful of lights, tiny, like jewels, a mile away, maybe more, but lights.
The gate slammed shut again.
Into the ditch and then up the other side, legs burning, Mark thundering down after her, ten feet behind. She tripped, put her hands out to stop herself, felt thistles. Across the first field, her ankles turning over again and again as her feet found rabbit holes and stray briars, a half-buried lump of stone. Overhead, the sky was smothered in cloud and gave hardly any light. Her heart was thumping, her breath coming in great jagged gasps. He would kill her – if he caught her, he’d kill her. Run.
The next field was ploughed into furrows a foot high, each one a mini-breaker of solid mud. She started hobbling across it, heading towards the lights, tripping on huge clumps of clay, struggling to keep her balance.
Then, without warning, she caught the tip of her boot. She sprawled, hitting her head on the crest of a furrow, cutting her palms on stones. As soon as she landed, she started to get back up but before she could do it, a hand grabbed the material of her coat. He pulled her up, threw her down on her back and straddled her.
She fought, hitting him, scratching his face, trying to get her knees up behind him like Nick had, but he was too strong. He caught her wrists and forced them down on either side of her head. She wrenched her upper body sideways, turned her head and bit his forearm.
‘You . . .’ He lifted her by her collar and thumped her head backwards against the ground. The pain was stunning; it spread in waves across her skull, and for a moment she lay still. Above her, his face was lost in the darkness; she could only make out his eyes by the shine across them.
‘Nick was right, Hannah,’ he said, breathing hard through his mouth. ‘I do love you.’
‘Oh, God, you’re mad.’ She struggled again, trying to get her hands free, but he just held her down harder, pressing her wrists further into the mud.
‘Stop it. Stop fighting and listen to me.’
‘You’re a murderer – you killed Hermione, Mark. She’s dead. Do you even know what you’ve done? Do you know what that means? You’re a killer.’
‘How can you say that?’ he said, and to her amazement, he sounded hurt – actually wounded. ‘This was for you.’
‘What?’ Her voice was full of horror. ‘No.’
‘It was all for you.’
‘No, Mark. No. This had nothing to do with me.’
‘It had everything to do with you. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve been working to try and keep this all under control, to try and save our marriage?’
‘Save our marriage?’ She was incredulous.
‘The stories, the explanations – layer after layer and nothing seemed to satisfy you. You just wouldn’t stop digging – it was like you were trying to destroy us.’ He seemed to choke and she heard blood bubble in his nose. Was he crying?
She tried to move but he pressed his weight down again, pinning her firmly.
‘You’re the first woman I’ve ever loved, Hannah. Do you know what that means? Before you, everyone I’d ever met was with me for one of two reasons: as a way of getting to him or for my money. But when I met you – I can’t give you my money. You don’t want it.’ He laughed, as if the whole thing were delightful. ‘You won’t use my cards, I know you feel weird about the Audi – and I love it. It’s wonderful – you’re with me because you want me. Me.’
‘Mark, please – let me go.’
‘No, I need you to listen, Hannah – I’m trying to explain. You’re different. You’re everything I ever wanted – remember I told you that, on our wedding day? I could have had a lot of different women – once you’ve got money, it’s amazing how attractive you are suddenly – but you’re not like that. What I’m trying to say is that you’ve got class. It’s in everything you do – the way you dress, how you look. Your books and music and films. Even your running – I know you hate it but you do it because you’ve got backbone. That’s class.’
‘Mark . . .’
‘Hannah, I love you and I want to be with you for the rest of my life. We can keep a lid on all this, Nick, until the deal’s done – we’ll find a way. I’ll sell the company and then we’ll leave London, go wherever you want. We can forget this ever happened – put it behind us and . . .’