His ears throbbed loudly; his chest with a rhythm of its own. He was rushing for his car; it was right there, just ahead of him, waiting in the driveway. He walked—paced, to anyone who noticed—his worn leather satchel under his arm. He had to keep walking. His face would give everything away any minute. He had to look straight on. His bag, with a notable bulge, grew heavier and heavier, and in the night he could just get away with it. He pushed his left hand down his pocket, his trouser, his hip pocket, his chest pocket, and took out his keys. They jangled noisily. He heard the front door creak behind him; he couldn’t turn to look. He heard footsteps, maybe two, loud footsteps, louder and louder. He observed the trees at each side of him, stock still as could ever be. He kept walking, casually. He kept…