In Trouble

Three

Three

You always hear on the news, either radio, TV or even online, that London has a severe problem with knife violence. I would always hear about stabbings, muggings and heinous crimes against young women that had the audacity to be out past sundown. Yet it never occured to me that I would find myself in the shoes of a victim. I’ve survived too much and beat the odds enough times not to allow myself to die like this.

Just when I was looking at my holy grail, at my salvation in the form of a car park that promises a few other souls to be around, preferably without the foul intentions of my previous acquaintances, I got tackled from the side.

Initially, I’ll be honest, I thought I might have gotten hit by a car in light of the sheer force of the collision. Then I inhaled a whiff of cologne that was much too close for us to be separated by a car, and much too expensive to belong to one of those vile creatures that wanted to have their way with me.

You’d think I got the luxury of blinking a few times, adjusting my senses, making light of what just happened, but no, no such luck. With the gentleness of a bear mauling a freshly caught salmon, I get yanked by my arm and hurdled towards the parked cars.

I can see how my captor is cautiously looking around to see if anyone would spot us and I take a big breath, preparing myself to scream my lungs out.

“Heee…” A large hand covers my mouth, making the sound muffled and eventually stop.

“Would you cut it out, already? I’m sweaty, stinky from those pigs and genuinely pissed off for how this situation escalated, so unless you want me to return you to your little friends back there, shut it and walk!”

His words debunk my previous theory of him being in cohorts with the homeless, and so does the expensive feel of his clothes.

A shiny new car, the type that comes with a hefty price tag not only for purchase but also for maintenance, flashes its yellow lights a few steps ahead of us. It sits neatly parked in a row of other cars, nothing suspicious about it. For a brief moment my heart raced at the prospect of a wealthy man, hopefully with a bodyguard trailing around, coming and wanting to get in his car, aiding me in the process.

My dream gets crushed when no one comes to claim a seat in the car, but instead my captor, still firmly gripping my upper arm, opens the passenger door and then proceeds to rudely push me inside. Yup, he’s definitely not with those other bastards. No, he’s some sick, rich man who gets off by doing God knows what to innocent women and then getting away with it, most likely parading to his corner office in Canary Wharf like he didn’t kill every weekend.

“Don’t you even think about doing something stupid.” I hear a low warning before the door is slammed shut. I’ve landed on a cold leather seat, and without my jacket I’m in a flimsy tank top that does little to keep me warm.

The driver’s side door opens and with a thud, the man climbs inside, still mumbling and finally taking his hood off. I dared to look up at him and I’m shocked to see how good looking he is. His skin is gleaming with a sheen of sweat or maybe it’s from the light drizzle outside. His jaw is squeezed tight, like he’s gritting his teeth, but in the process flexing all those facial muscles.

A narrow, slightly bent nose fits perfectly on his face, and his dark eyebrows match his raven hair that’s all kinds of messy because he slid the hoodie off. A stupid voice inside my head sighs resigned: At least he’s not ugly.

This man may be handsome, but that doesn't make him less of a monster. I wonder how many others have had the same fate as me? How many women went out to clear their heads and ended up never to be seen again? How many did he chase like a hound chases a fox and how many did he charm so they went with him willingly?

Glaring at him while he starts the car, I don’t bite my tongue and speak up.

“Do you get off by chasing your victims, seeing them scared and defenceless?”

The look he gives me could have made a grown man piss himself, yet I stand my ground. I looked at him and spit in his face, turning my body and trying to get the gun from where I saw it tucked as he was chasing me.

His hand instinctively goes to his face trying to wipe the spit. “What the actual f**k, lady? That’s disgusting, what is wrong with you?” He blurts out, clearly taken by surprise.

I'm also surprised I don’t find the gun, and my future killer somehow grabs both my wrists in his large palm, while his other hand retrieves the pistol from his back.

A dark grin plays on his lips. “Looking for this?” He flashes the gun, toying with me. But little does he know, I’ve lost all common sense. All that’s driving me right now is my fierce wish to stay alive. So I make a play for the gun again.

Having the target in my eyesight seemed, in theory, easier, but the man curses again and pushes me back into the passenger seat, quickly fastening my seatbelt and handcuffing me to the door handle. And not the one at arm level, but the one near the ceiling, so I’m practically hanging right now, my bum barely touching the leather underneath me.

I can tell I’ve managed to anger him way past getting off or whatever thrill he was looking for tonight. God, I really hope dying won’t hurt.

Surprisingly enough, the now heated seat inches upwards until I’m sitting rather than dangling from my wrists.