I have planned this moment for a long time. Thought about how I might bring down a man who is at least thirty kilos—that’s almost five stone if you’re better with old money—heavier than me. The drug is one that no one will think to even test for it. So, it will need to look convincing that I could have overpowered him even if he’d been fully compos mentis. I had a few ideas that bordered on the avant-garde: a croquet mallet could have been fun, or even a Juicy Salif lemon squeezer—you know the one that looks a bit like a tripodal spaceship?—but eventually dismissed them. Kept it nice and simple. A metal wrench, the type that you find in every man-who-doesn’t-DIY’s toolkit. Heavy enough to really hurt, too light to actually be of much use but at least I could swing it with ease.

His mouth is goldfishing as I swing the wrench at his head. The drugs have dulled his senses and he’s unable to process the shine of the metal swinging toward him before it’s all too late. He crumples—and I don’t mean that figuratively, it’s actually rather fascinating to watch a fully grown man fall into a literal heap—to the floor before a sound can pass his lips.

The backpack I left just outside the door contains everything I need. I drag him a few feet and use a pair of handcuffs to secure him to a floor bolt. I think it was put in to chain a motorbike to, but it works just as well for a human. Then I set to work. It’ll be better to set the scene while he’s unconscious—and yes, I have checked he’s breathing—and then once he wakes up, we can have a little chat. I pour the contents of the backpack on to the cold stone floor and begin.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” My voice is singsong, almost chirpy. “Did you have a lovely rest?” I watch the realization sink into his handsome features, his hand fumbling for purchase but thwarted by the handcuffs. “Oh, don’t move too much. We wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, would we? Not like you hurt me, oh brother-in-law of mine.”

His eyes suddenly flash open, and I smile as he takes in the scene I have set.

In one corner a bucket emits the rancid stench of piss and shit, as if someone has been forced to use it for a while. A long chain, the kind you would buy from a hardware store if you were into some pretty weird stuff, snakes from the motorbike bolt toward the back of the garage, where a wad of rags is streaked with dried and fresh blood. I am wearing a pair of gym shorts and a grubby-looking vest, the same ones I’ve been wearing during home workouts for over a week. They smell pretty ripe. My hair is tangled and pulled off my face in a rough plait, a plait that screams of inexperienced fingers. The flesh on my right ankle is swollen and bruised around the cuff I have attached to myself and then to the long chain. My nails are bloody and there is quite a lot of his skin buried under my nails from where I tried to fight him off me in my attempt to escape.