The window in my lounge.
It’s open.
With my heart beating its way up to my throat, I drop my bag and slowly turn, seeing straight through to my flat. I tentatively creep forward, cautious and fretful. My eyes are darting wildly, taking in my small space. It’s suddenly so cold. Freezing. But that’s only a tiny reason why I’m shuddering. Every hair on my body is standing to attention, warning me, telling me to be on my guard.
I try to conjure up an obvious reason why it would be open. I can’t. Even with the broken lock, it wouldn’t be wide open. Unless someone actually opened it.
Feeling vulnerable and panicked, I rush back to the bathroom and grab my bag, but I don’t make it back out. The door shifts when I clumsily bump into it in my frantic state, and I look up to the mirror, seeing it moving a fraction.
Only a tiny bit.
But enough to see that there’s someone behind it.
The blood drains from my head and I swing around, backing up until I bump into the sink and send bottles and cans crashing to the floor. ‘Oh my God,’ I gasp, my mind screaming, confusing me with two conflicting instructions.
Fight.
Or flee.
Instinct takes over before I can decide, having me snatching my bag from the floor and hauling it with brute force across the space. It collides with the door, pushing it back, concealing whoever is there for a split second before it bounces off their body harshly and then slams shut. I back up until my backside hits the wall, my blood running cold.
My rash decision now has me shut in my bathroom staring at the intruder, who’s clothed from head to toe in black – black combat trousers, black roll-neck sweater, black gloves, black boots . . .
And a black balaclava.
Terror grips me, takes me in its evil clutches and constricts until it feels like my bones could break. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t move. I’m staring at his ominous frame, just staring, waiting for him to attack me.
But he doesn’t move a muscle. He stands motionless. The only evidence of life is the slight rise and fall of his chest. He’s by the door. He knows he has me trapped. My eyes flick continuously from his tall, menacing physique to my only means of escape.
Then he moves. It’s sudden and jerky, and it shocks me back to life. I pelt for the door and grapple with the handle, but my body, my hands, everything is shaking too much for me to control my movements and take a firm grip of the handle. He grabs my arm.
‘No,’ I scream, swinging around with flailing limbs. The back of my hand collides with the side of his head with a force I never thought I was capable of, sending his head cracking to the side. He growls, and I back up, shocked by my own strength. His body reeks power, the outlines of taut muscles clear under the tight material of his sweater. I’ll never fight him off. He’ll crush me.
But my survival instinct is strong. I grab anything I can lay my hands on and start launching things at his head, hoping to daze him and buy myself enough time to escape. He just steams straight through the objects flying through the air towards him and seizes me, wrapping a forearm around my chest and opening the door. ‘No,’ I cry, fighting with everything I have, screaming as he wrestles with my bucking body, grunting each time I kick a leg out and catch him. I’m uncoordinated, thrashing aimlessly, pulling and ripping at his sweater as he tries to grab my hands. I won’t let him. I can’t let him. ‘Get off me,’ I scream, throwing my head back when he wraps an arm around my waist and hauls me up. The pain that sears through my head is like nothing I’ve felt before, making my brain throb instantly. But the loud hiss of pain that comes from behind tells me he didn’t dodge my thrashing head, and that injects more determination into me. Gathering every scrap of strength and energy I have left, I claw at his hands and throw my heel back, catching him cleanly in the shin.
He gasps and we’re crashing to the floor a second later, my head skimming the edge of the sink. The impact is brutal, and I grunt as my back hits the floor, knocking every bit of air from my lungs. My eyes blink over and over, trying to keep their focus. My vision has gone blurry, but my hands still work. I reach and sink my nails into his back and yank, tearing at his sweater and spiking a low grunt of pain. He grabs my hands harshly and shoves them to the floor above my head.