Eleven Minutes

This brief story contains a small amount of bondage and kidnapping peril. Reader discretion is advised.

10:27

You leave the pub, slightly fuzzy from the beer but not drunk, not really. Despite all his jokes about Bud Lite it wasn't any stronger than the stuff you're used to back home. He's heading for the Northern Line but offers to go the other way and walk you to the hotel; you decline. Not wanting to seem like a creep he doesn't push it. You half wish he would.

10:28

The streets of Soho are quieter than you expected and you're not sure if that's good or bad for your safety. It's not kicking-out time yet so most of the late-night drinkers are still in the pubs, visible through the windows in animated poses, noisy but contained. The faces you see outside are friendly and curious: you're hot; you're American. It's to be expected. You're a little self-conscious about the tight

10:29

grey-and-black striped dress which seemed such a good idea two hours ago and don't want to draw more attention by taking off your leather jacket. A good jacket is armour. It's a hot night, though, and you can feel the damp on your back, the cool on your face as the sweat evaporates. The boots are hot and uncomfortable. You're looking forward to stripping off

10:30

and jumping in the hotel pool, drifting and gliding free underwater. If he'd asked just once more you'd have let him join you, touch bodies in the dappled half-light. You dwell on that idea just a little. It was fun flirting tonight, guessing what he was thinking: throwing up smoke signals, trying to decode the replies. With the distance, though, and your jobs; it probably wouldn't work. Do you need to be worried

10:31

about the kids up ahead? Four boys... no, five, one sitting behind. Not boys. Men. Each of them capable of overpowering you without trying. To walk around with that constant possibility, the exhaustion of it. They've noticed you, and the fear is palpable, cold and bone-deep. You

like

young people, you want to be the kind of person who sympathises with their problems. But their anger, their impulses, their need to prove themselves... it scares

10:32

you, knowing how much less they have to lose, how much less they

think

they have to lose, too young to understand the stakes. No. They're looking but not threatening, no catcalling, no bullshit. It's okay. The relief washes through you and, a beat later, the embarrassment. Did you think you were in an episode of Top Boy, you fucking tourist? You're flooded with compensatory goodwill. Bless the people of this city. Bless the city itself, dark and old and alive. An alley

10:33

looms on your right, a productive shortcut if Google can be trusted: ten years ago, maybe. Not any more, not after the things you've seen, the things you've heard from too many friends. Goodwill has its limits. You walk on. Will you suggest another drink? There's time before your flight, but only just... Call tomorrow? Call when you get into the hotel? You don't want to seem too - a shape crosses your face, a strong calloused hand

10:34

clamping over your mouth. Panic. You try in vain to call out. Scrabble clawing at the hand. But now you feel a tight grip on your right wrist. Wrenching the arm back. From the corner of your eye you can still see the teenagers. Too distant to hear you. Pushed back into the alley. Out of sight. You're shoved against the side of a van. Other figures around you. Your wrists held together, crossed. Something wrapped around them. Bound, hands bound

10:35

with tape? Try to break it. Too many turns. Still wrapping your wrists. Too much. Too tight. Can't twist or lever out of - your mouth suddenly clear of the hand. Shout, shout for - the cry stifled, something in your mouth. Stuffed. Tastes of what? Sponge, maybe. Stale. Dry. You try to see how many. Two of them at least? Three. Must be three. Men? Too much happening at once. Too fast. Tape goes over your mouth before you can spit out the sponge. Something covers your eyes. Elbows crushed together and taped like that. Pain

10:36

everywhere. Shoulders screaming from the posture. But adrenaline keeps it unreal. Panic is maturing into fear. What do they want. What is this? Someone wrapping tape around your body. Glad of the jacket. Small mercies. But arms useless now. A phrase unhelpfully in your head. "Gagged and bound." Will you be on the TV news? A kick brings you to your knees. Your legs are being taped. Quickly. Almost savagely. Ankles and knees. Can't run. No noise

10:37

that's the strange thing. None of them have spoken the whole time. Moving like they're practised. Professionals? Testing your bonds. Too tight. That terror of realising you're completely helpless. Can't see. Can't speak. Lifted off your feet. Carried like a package. Must look like a package in all this tape. You hear the van open. Land on one arm, painful, as they dump you down. The door slams, the engine starts up. And finally you hear them speak:

10:38

"We've got her."

FIN