I don't think the fear of what they were going to do to me was enough to give me the incentive and the speed and the strength and the manic force I needed to take the action I did. It was humiliation, working through rage, that committed me to taking that action in one instant of explosive dementia that had been building up in the psyche since he had come into my cell and said what he did. So there was nothing he could have done to me. I would have stopped him. He shouldn't have said that. I think I shouted at him as the car pitched against a kerb stone and rolled again. I think I tried to tell him what had happened, that he had said something wrong, that I was a sensitive man and quick to take offence. I heard my voice shouting something, and it was to him, so perhaps that was what I was saying. Then the car rolled again and I could smell the petrol fumes and feel them pricking against my eyes, so I looked for the space where the windscreen had been. My hands were sticky with blood and they slipped on the edge of the instrument panel as I used it for purchase, but I managed to kick back against the seat squab and get the momentum I needed. The car was still in motion when I slid across the bonnet and grabbed the windscreen pillar to save myself as it bounced for the last time and turned over on to its side. This was when I caught a glimpse of Vader's face again: he'd got out through one of the side windows and timed it badly because of the rolling movement, and went down with his legs still inside and his hands trying to stop the impact as the car turned over on him. His head was just in front of the rear wheel and there was still a certain amount of forward motion. Perhaps he'd been trying to follow me out, I don't know. I began running.