Ursula holds her wrist to her nose to smell her perfume. “Jesus Christ.”
The man’s flat is empty. The windows are covered with swaths of black fabric. A tiny fridge sits beneath a grimy counter with a hotplate on top.
“Where the hell is the bed?” She turns to ask the man, but he’s fast. He knocks her down to the cracked linoleum, his weight crushing her. “Fucking bastard!” She aims a kick at his shins, but she’s positioned all wrong. He jerks her arm behind her back and her scream is huge inside the empty room.
“No bed, love,” says the man and stabs her in the back viciously with a knife he takes from his jacket pocket.
Ursula shrieks. The sour stench of blood fills the air.
“No! No, don’t!” Tears track down her cheeks, blobs of black mascara dot her face. He raises the knife over his head to stab her again and his face contorts. He drops the knife, grabs his chest and, with a shocking suddenness, topples over, striking the back of his head against the linoleum. He sprawls, still and silent.
Bleeding, Ursula crawls for the door, leaving bloody smears in her wake. “Oh, please,” she whispers. “Please someone help me. Please. Someone.”