This is a nightmare.

The key is in my hand, and my hand is shaking so badly that even when I grab them with both hands, I can’t steady it enough to get it in the lock. I can see at least two of them through the glass doors, getting closer, and I tell myself to breathe, slow down, get the key in and you’ll be safe.

I think of the times I’ve watched movies or tv shows, and someone is being pursued, and my friends and I would yell at the screen when the hero would trip, take forever to open the door, do something stupid and make things worse.

Minutes ago I was watching the men from across the garden, the metal and glass of the gallery illuminating the flowers and fountain, and me, behind a hedge. I had it in my head that I needed to get across, and if only I could get to my car things would be all right.

There were bodies splayed beneath paintings and sculptures, and I refused to believe I would be one of them, so I steadied my nerves and crept along the hedge and found my way to the valet’s podium, the key box open, the valets themselves dotting the circular driveway.

I looked over my shoulder every few seconds as I ransacked the box and found my keys.

Time to run.

I know they’re behind me but I’m almost there, and this is where my hands, and really my body, betray me. The characters in those movies weren’t stupid. They were scared. We’re not all heroes.

I tell myself that if I don’t calm down I’m not going to make it, I can hear myself say this as the key finally goes in.

I open the car door and see there’s two of them, and when they draw their guns at me –