She crashed the door closed, but the big man piled into it from the other side, his weight shoving her back. Desperately Angel threw her own weight at the thing, but she was slipping back over the tiled floor, being forced back. She was unable to get a grip. Her head turned and she thought Something to hit him with. Something. Anything.

Her eyes fell on the bath, right beside her. Some sort of spray there in a bottle. Mould stuff. She grabbed it one-handed

and squirted it through the door opening at head height. He yelled and fell back a step. Hopefully she’d blinded the bastard. She’d done something, anyway. The pressure on the door lifted.

Panting, breathless with fear, she shot the bolt home and leaned her back against the door. But he was still there and now he was damned furious. A massive impact shuddered through the door, knocking the mould retardant out of her hand. She flinched back. He was still trying to get in. But . . . the bolt would hold. Wouldn’t it?

No. She didn’t think it would.

She looked around the tiny room. There was a window over the bath. As the man outside the door kept slamming into it, rattling it on its hinges, she stepped up into the bath and lifted the window stay and . . .

She couldn’t open it. It was stuck fast.

Don’t panic. Slow down. Think, she told herself.

But he was going to break down the door. It was flimsy, and he was a monster.

She tried again to open the window. It was jammed from all the moisture coming up from the bath. That was all. With all her strength she pushed and shoved at it, growing increasingly desperate. It wouldn’t move. She stopped, breathing hard, her brain in a whirl. She stared at the stay, the join between the window and its wooden edge. Oh Christ! It dawned on her then that the damned thing was painted shut. Whoever had last decorated in here, they’d just painted over the whole thing and now it would never open.

She was trapped.

She was going to die in here.

154

Now there was a hefty crash from the door. Angel gasped and her head twitched back. Eyes filled with fear, she stared at the splintered hole that was slowly opening in one of the two panels on the door. Another crash. The hole was getting bigger, second by second, and now a hand was probing, big thick fingers pushing in, then more crashing blows from the knife and . . .

Christ, he was going to get his hand through and open the bolt.

She didn’t know what to do.

Give up and die. What else can you do?

No. She wasn’t going to let it end this way. She couldn’t. Angel shot out of the bath and over to the sink. Above it there was a medicine cabinet, the mirror’s reflection softened and peppered with mould like a Venetian museum piece. She flung the mirrored door open and trawled through deodorants, talc containers, sleeping pills, cough medicine, until she found what she was looking for. She turned back to the door. Another juddering blow – and now his hand was through, fumbling, searching for the bolt.