I jumped to my feet. “I’m going to the bathroom.” I didn’t turn to see if anyone was following. I rushed through the door and headed straight for the mirrors. I stared at my reflection. My breathing was heavy with shock. Ollie … Ollie Lawson had hurt me. I stared at the red marks on my skin.
What the hell had just happened?
I needed a cigarette. I rarely smoked, but right now, I needed the smell and taste to calm me down. Leaving the bathroom, I snuck out of the fire door that led to a secluded alleyway. Reaching into my clutch, I pulled out my cigarettes and lighter. I took in a long inhale, letting the nicotine flood my lungs and calm my frayed nerves.
I had barely taken my second drag when the sound of footsteps came from the end of the alley. Something squeezed in my gut, propelling me to push off the wall I was leaning against. My heart kicked into a sprint, and I rushed toward the fire door. I had barely made it three steps before four men moved out of the darkness. My throat tightened in panic, my lungs ceasing to breathe. Hand shaking, I dived for the door handle, but just as I did, the men rushed at me.
My scream was lost to the blockage in my throat, and I was slammed against the wall, a hand slicing across my face. I tried to think, tried to formulate a plan to get away from these men, but my brain wouldn’t work. My cheek throbbed and my head ached and I couldn’t form any coherent thoughts.
Anxiety welled inside of me like quicksand, swallowing me whole, dousing me in pure terror. You always heard of people being attacked, always assumed that if it was you it ever happened to, you could get away. You would fight, resist and be able to escape. But I was paralysed by fear—muscles locked and eyes wide as I tasted blood in my mouth, my vision blurring as I tried to focus on my attackers.
My ears rang like St Paul’s Cathedral’s bells, deafening me, closing down my senses. I tried to gasp for breath, for a way to calm my racing heart. But dizziness consumed me. I blinked, managing to focus enough to see a tall man move before me and wrap his hand around my throat. He had acne scars on his face and a deep red scar through his left black eyebrow. Finding a morsel of fight within me, I silently cried out and pushed at his chest.
But he stood stoic. Unmoving. Then he used his grip on my neck to slam me back against the wall. White-hot pain sliced through my shoulders. Then I froze entirely, pushing through the panic and mental fog to realise his free hand was lifting up the hem of my dress.
I acted on instinct, panic stepping aside to allow determination through. “Stop!” I slammed my hands harder against his chest. A granite boulder disguised as a fist rammed into my stomach, knocking the wind from me. I gasped for breath, legs buckling, just as another man lifted my head by my hair to keep me upright.
No, no. no … please … !
I tried to scream aloud at the fiery pain ripping through my scalp, but a hand smothered my mouth before any noise could escape my lips. I thrashed as I bit down on the fingers, but it was no use. Nothing was working—I couldn’t fight them off. I couldn’t fight them off!
Think, think, think!
But I couldn’t. Everything was happening too fast. They were too strong, too many of them. I was turned and rammed against the wall. A man moved behind me, pushing my dress up to my waist. Even through my thick head-fog, I heard the telltale sound of a zip being pulled down.
My turbulent panic and hopeless flailing grew to a sudden stop. Like all the oxygen within me had been sucked into a vacuum, rendering me still. Time slowed to half speed, the air around me grew stagnant and heavy, and the looming presence of the man behind me pressed down on me like a quilt of smothering darkness.
My pulse thundered in my ears like a drum-heavy soundtrack ominously counting down to his assault. I managed to move my head a fraction, the rough brick of the wall scraping against my cheek. That was all it took to rip through my paralysis. The clay of the brick gouged into my cheek, jerking my body and mind into motion.
I bit down harder on the hand over my mouth, sinking my teeth into flesh as hard as I could. “You fucking bitch!” the man behind me snarled, yanking his hand away. I took advantage of the moment and stole a much-needed long breath, sucking in the humid, salty Spanish air.
I needed to keep breathing. I just needed to keep breathing. I needed to keep moving, to keep slipping from their grips.
“Stop!” I uselessly begged, trying to kick out my legs, my arms, anything to get them off me. “I said STOP!” I threw back my head, managing to butt the nose of the man behind me. The crunch of broken bone ricocheted off the walls of the alley.
“Fucking spoilt Harlow cunt!” a voice hissed, and two hands wrapped around my throat from behind, cutting off my breath again. His hold was harder this time. I’d pissed him off.
The sticky air kissed my naked behind, my dress still rolled up to my waist, baring me to their eyes. Black spots danced in my vision as the man pushed his fingers against my trachea. I thrashed harder and harder with as much strength as I could muster. But as his grip only grew harsher, I knew this was it. My chances of escape were waning along with my ability to breathe.
As I danced on the verge of consciousness, my arms were forced to either side of me, as if I were bound to a cross. Unyielding hands held me still, but the hands around my neck loosened enough for me to siphon a breath down my burning windpipe.
My eyes welled with tears. “Stop,” I rasped out, my throat feeling like it had been shredded by razors. “Please, stop …” I whispered. But I knew they wouldn’t. Then—
“I believe she fucking told you to stop.”
I froze. In that moment, the sound of the thick cockney accent was like the voice of God himself in the deserted alleyway.
“Fuck off, prick,” one of the men spat.
“No can do.”
I managed to move my head to the side, my skin scraping against the rough brick, only to see a familiar head of black hair and piercing blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses penetrating through my attackers.
“Arthur,” I managed to whisper, tears of relief filling my eyes. His gaze flitted to mine for only a second before it was back on the assailants. Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife.
The men behind me laughed. “Last chance to fuck off,” they said. Their accents were definitely not English or even Spanish. I had no idea where they were from or why they wanted me. “Or you won’t make it out of this alley either.”
My heart crumbled. They were going to kill me. I fought back nausea and prayed my legs would keep me upright even as my body shook profusely in terror.
Arthur pointed his knife in my direction. “Be good boys and cover up the lady you’ve stripped down, and I might consider not killing you.” He spoke with no emotion, his face giving nothing away. “Give her back her modesty, and I might just maim you instead.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the leader of the group said. “Kill him,” he instructed his men.
My arms were released as the men holding me rushed at Arthur. I swayed as fear, true and stark, took me in its hold as the three men charged. Arthur didn’t move. Didn’t even change his stance. He simply waited for the first man to attack and, in a second, slashed his knife across his throat. The man dropped to the floor.
Before the others even had a chance to attack, Arthur stabbed one in the chest, right through his heart, and stabbed the other in his neck, right in his jugular. The men fell like swatted flies around him, the alley floor instantly flooding with red.