A blindingly bright light wakes me up, the harsh rays slicing through my eyeballs and a piercing sharp laser beams directly into my skull.

‘You go now. I work, OK?’

I blink, trying to stop a multitude of stars from flashing in front of my eyes, trying to focus on whoever is standing in front of the window, silhouetted by the sun. It takes me a moment to realise that there is no balcony. I sit up too quickly and my head spins. The sheet that’s covering me slips down, and I realise three things, all at once: I’m naked, I’m not in the hotel, and I have no idea where I am.

‘Fuck,’ I mutter. My voice is a rasp. My throat burns. ‘Could I have some water, please?’

The figure walks towards me, bottle outstretched. The man is fully dressed, suit trousers and a crisp white shirt. He has a handsome face and neatly gelled dark hair. He’s not like any of the Russian men I’ve met so far.

I’ve no idea who he is.

I take a greedy gulp of the water. It’s cold, and soothing as it flows down my throat. I pause, then take a couple of slow sips. I’m trying to buy time, trying to work out what I’m doing here, and whether I can somehow get back to the hotel, where I want to curl up in bed and forget that the last few days have happened.

He picks up a jacket and slides his arms into it, and I notice them bulge against the unyielding fabric of his shirt. He glances around the room. ‘This place is shithole. I drive you home.’

I sit up further, pulling the sheet up to hide my nakedness. Judging by the chafed feeling between my legs and my raw, stinging nipples, I’m pretty sure he’s seen it all already. Unless there was someone else on this mattress with me. At the moment, I’m not willing to place any bets.

He tosses a pile of clothes at me, and I hastily pull them on. Wafting the sheet releases the fetid stink of dried bodily fluids, and I have a sudden urge to vomit, but I manage to hold it back and finish getting dressed.

He mutters various things in Russian as he walks through the flat, me trailing behind him like a lost puppy. He’s right. The place is a shithole. Paint is peeling off the walls, the floors are mostly bare or partly covered with dirty, fraying rugs. There’s a stale, musty smell throughout, a mixture of mould, spilled drinks and old smoke. I have to breathe through my mouth, taking small, shallow breaths until we reach the fresh air outside.