The pain in her arm was agonising, the edges of her vision going fuzzy, shock trying to bring her down. She fought against it and staggered away from him, one hand clutching her arm, but he was right behind her and grabbed hold of her hair, jerking her back against him. She lay there unmoving, a lover’s embrace from a different time, and moaned from pain and absolute terror. Then she felt his hands around her throat, squeezing.

His drug-fuelled rage had given him strength and taken away any rational thought. She tried to plead with him, but all she could get out was a mangled wheeze. Her broken arm was useless, her one good hand making no inroads on prying the tightening fingers. Fighting for breath… for her life… she jabbed her nails into his hands, digging them in, feeling skin break under the force of her desperation. He shoved her away and stared at his bleeding hands in disbelief.

‘You bitch,’ he growled, lifting a clenched fist. She backed away, clutching her bruised throat and gasping as she searched for something she could use to defend herself. Knives were out of reach, there was nothing… as he swung his fist, she ducked away and grabbed the only thing on the counter, a giant Perspex salt cellar, swinging it wildly, aiming for his clenched fist and missing. As he drew his arm back, she swung it again, this time aiming for his body. It hit Jack squarely on the side of his head. She brought her hand back, prepared to strike again, fighting against her body’s desire to shut down.

Jack sneered at her and took a step forward, then without warning, he dropped to the ground.

Panting, she leaned against the worktop. Horror coursed through her as she saw a bloody smear on the end of her makeshift weapon. ‘Jack,’ she whimpered, looking to where he lay on the floor at her feet.

Dropping the salt cellar with a cry of disgust, she hung her head for a moment as a wave of weakness washed over her. When she was sure she wasn’t going to faint, she straightened and looked at the man she loved. He hadn’t moved and a circle of dark-red blood surrounded his head. With a moan of despair, she took a step towards him, letting go of the worktop. She was almost next to him, when his hand snaked out and grabbed her ankle. Screaming, she pulled away and kicked out at his hand, but there was no strength in his grip, and it fell away easily. She leaned against the cupboard and stared at him, tears pouring down her cheeks. When he didn’t move again, she shuffled back, gingerly laid a hand on his wrist, feeling for his pulse, sobbing when she didn’t find one.