As cameras and torches were hastily bundled into rucksacks, we ran into the spine corridor and out
into the office with the open window. I don’t think we checked to see if anyone was outside, we
literally leaped onto a handy table and fell rather ineptly onto the concrete path outside.
Scuffed and grazed, we ran headlong into the warren of pipes and concrete ditches to the
east of the building.
“We’re leaving. Now. Come on.”
The one hundred yard dash was still entertaining as we swapped the gravel and tarmac of Pyestock
for the cover of the woods and bracken. We ran through the undergrowth, picking up more scratches
and stings, tripping and sliding in the long weeds. The fence was in sight.
“Shit! Dog walkers!” We both threw ourselves into the bracken or against tree trunks,
catching our breath and listening for pursuit. None. I peered from behind a tree. The dog
walkers were ambling along the footpath on the other side of the fence without a care in
the world, enjoying their Saturday afternoon stroll in the balmy heat. It took five minutes
for them to disappear from view as we anxiously both watched them, and for signs of activity
behind us within Pyestock. After a tortured five minutes, we finally made our escape.
