Mike Dixon

Janet stopped in her tracks. Someone had got there be-
fore her. She drew in a deep breath and stared at the bloodied
figure on the floor. Footsie was on his back, choking on
something thrust down his throat.
Her eyes ran past the knife protruding from his naked
belly and alighted on the hole where his genitals had once
been. Footsie was bleeding profusely but was not yet dead.
Whoever had performed the worthwhile deed had only just
left. If she‟d got there a moment earlier she would have
blundered into him.
There wasn‟t time to think about it. Barry said one of her
friends was there. She turned off the rap and listened. The
room was lit by a portable gas lamp and decorated with toy
balloons. Her eyes sped round the walls and settled on an
open door.
Moans came from inside.
She grabbed the lamp and the flickering light fell on a na-
ked figure spread-eagled on a dirty mattress: hands and
feet tied to the corners of a steel-framed bed.
„Lizzie!
She ran inside.
„He can‟t hurt you any more … ‟
She eased the bottle from between Elizabeth‟s legs and
ripped the tape from the hysterical teenager‟s face.
„You‟re safe now. I‟ll soon get you out of here.‟
She struggled to untie the knots and gave up. Her fingers
were numb and there wasn‟t time. Barry and his homicidal
mate could be back at any moment. She ran back to Foot-
sie, pulled the knife from his belly and used it to cut Elizabeth
free.
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