The gust of belched air comes across the dark green dark of the moor, as does the werewolf. His mouth is spittled and raw, his breath is strong and red.
He will eat you, his teeth in you, his hips cracking against you.
So - knowing this - you run headlong through the gorse and bracken.
When you find the road, its gravel outlying, you run that much faster over its hard return.
No good: you may be faster; so is he.
His breath is on your heels, the leap to bring you down a potential that is about to be.
Escaping in a minute.
Get your car up the ramp from the waiting ferry. Customs is passed, and you are very relieved that, the weight of contraband is undetected - a freight of tobacco, a bible-coded prediction of selling in car boot sales, along with lamps, porcelain dogs and bootleg CDs.
Different kind of capture.
There's no win in the motorway: up your arse all the way to junction nine; until you swing a turn and they pass you. The little lights of the exit, as you swing, studded along the way.
You run the last length of road. A memory of a swimming pool, a polystyrene float in front of you, as you look through the chlorinated blue before you; to the end where the dry, tracksuited instructor beckons you on, with cupped hands and mimed front crawl.
Flecks of spit run up your neck. The burn of teeth surely follows.
If only I could pull that water in my hands, and catapult myself up on the tiles, then the teeth would not catch, the claws would not pull me back.