The water steamed and hissed as it hit the hot engine but she pulled out easily enough on the other side. It had been a dry spring so she decided to risk it.

The car headlights reflected from the surface, making it impossible to gauge the depth. Five years ago a student on his way back to Baikie’s after a night in the pub had drowned, his car turned over by the force of the flash flood. When she reached the main track it was almost dark and she was shaking.Īt the ford she stopped the car and got out to test its depth. She pushed the gear into first and moved forward with a jerk before reversing again. The bumper hit a stone bank hidden by undergrowth. Branches scraped against the paintwork with the noise of chalk on a wet blackboard. She had to reverse back to where the track forked. She drove on, hoping for a place to turn but the track divided into a footpath, the trees meeting over her head. On either side conifers blocked out the evening light.

Instead she was on a sandy path, not so uneven but very narrow. She should have come out from the trees into open countryside, should by now have reached the ford. Still the exhaust bumped against a rock.Ī mile on she realized she had taken the wrong track through the forest. She drove slower than walking pace with two wheels on the verge. The track was worse than she remembered, pitted by frost. The steel of the latch was so cold that it seemed to freeze to her fingers. They didn’t lamb up here until the end of April. A ewe with a tatty coat and mucky behind nuzzled up to her as she got out of the car to open the gate. One of the Holme Park tenants trying to impress.

There was a new tubular steel gate and she’d almost driven into it. Rachael turned off the metal led road, then stopped with a jerk.

The crow trap