As we've been shooting, I've spotted the Furai's central exhaust spitting a thin cone of blue flame on downshifts. It's this I want to capture on our last run. Ticehurst, duly instructed, heads off at pace, and Lee and I jump into the tracking vehicle and barrel after him, leaving the fire and support crews at the end of the runway. We catch the Furai over the crest of the runway (the tarmac at Bentwaters rises in the middle, something that's about to take on significance) and track it down towards the far end, Brimble snapping furiously. As Ticehurst begins to slow for the turn and drops down through the gears, things start to go wrong. The Furai is making a noise less Le Mans racer and more... fatally wounded elephant. "That doesn't sound good," mutters Lee, face pressed to camera as we track the Furai around its turn.
Then, as the Mazda straightens, Lee and I spot the same small lick of fire deep within the engine bay at the base of the bulkhead. Priceless concept. Flames. Ah.
"FIRE! OH GOD, IT'S ON FIRE!" I state calmly, resisting the urge to panic. Ticehurst, of course, can't hear me, so I bury the throttle to try to catch him and warn him of the danger. Unsurprisingly, even a wounded, smoking Furai is faster than a people carrier. It takes a few seconds or so of furious gearshifting and horn honking for us to draw alongside the now-smouldering Furai.
"MARK! FIRE! FIRE! GET THE HELL OUT! MARK, IT'S ON FIRE!" I bellow, still entirely keeping my panic under control.
Ticehurst kills the engine and jumps out before the car has even reached a halt. He starts running. He keeps running. The lick of flame has taken hold, and now the engine bay is engulfed. Where are the fire crew? I realise that, because of the natural rise in the middle of the runway, we're out of sight. As Brimble scrambles from the tracking car, I thrash towards the horizon with horn blaring and lights flashing, desperate to draw the fire crew's attention to the unfolding situation, which, though shrinking in my mirror, is clearly worsening by the second.
Eventually alerted, Suffolk's finest leap into their truck and set off towards the plume of smoke, siren and lights blaring. I turn back to the Furai, where the scene is even grimmer. Ticehurst is crouched, head in hands, 200 yards from the car, watching the fire take hold. As the ethanol burns, it's clear the game is up. With the wind blowing from directly behind the Furai (the name aptly translates as sound of wind), the fire is being fanned inexorably towards the nose of the car.
