I moved away from the curtain's edge, looking round for something to use as a weapon. Amid all the clutter round the bath there was an antique brass soap dish shaped like a giant goldfish, and I picked it up, feeling a satisfying heaviness. It wasn't a lot but it would have to do.

Gripping it in my right hand, I slowly peeked out again. Now I saw one of the intruders properly for the first time. It wasn't the one who'd taken a leak. This guy was big and well built, with a shaven head and the kind of face that didn't waste a lot of time on pity. He was dressed in a blue boiler suit and was carrying a prone, unconscious Jenny over to the cleaning trolley. She was in her bra and underwear, and she'd been gagged with a handkerchief and had her hands tied behind her back. There was something so vulnerable about her in that position that it made me shake with rage.

Yet still I didn't move. Even when he stopped and dumped her into the trolley like a sack of rubbish. Because I was so damn terrified. Because, in the end, I knew that I wouldn't have a chance fighting this man, let alone two of them, and I kept telling myself that there was no point intervening now because it wouldn't actually benefit Jenny. That it would be far better simply to wait until they went and phone the police.

I couldn't see the other one, but then I heard him speak from somewhere behind the door, his words, delivered in that hard Northern Irish accent, cutting through the room like a knife. 'Whose is this, then?'

And then, as he came into view with his back to me, my heart sank.

Because the bastard was holding my jacket, and in the last second before I slid back behind the curtain, I saw both men turn to look in my direction.

Every muscle in my body tensed, and I held on to the soap dish like grim death. I was cornered, and there was absolutely no way out. My jacket's a faded brown leather, distinctly male, and a good three sizes too big for Jenny who was no more than five five and at least eight inches shorter than me. So these guys would know a man was here somewhere, and there weren't exactly a lot of places he'd have to hide in.

Or would they? There was a chance they'd assume that someone had left it here. Maybe I was going to be OK.

But if so, why did the guy pick it up?

The terror I was feeling was worse than anything I'd ever experienced. My legs felt weak and I thought I might collapse at any moment.

What should I do? Run? Stay put? Run? Stay put? I was completely and utterly torn.

The two men were silent for what felt like a long, long time. Then I heard quiet footfalls, first on the bedroom carpet, then on the tiled bathroom floor, and I saw a silhouette appear.

The shower curtain shot back and I was face to face with a man in his forties whose malicious smile was like a bloodless slash across a pale, wraith-like face stretched so tight by plastic surgery that his big saucer-shaped eyes looked like they'd long ago lost the ability to close. Thinning, wiry hair sprang from his scalp like jet-black brush wires.

This was the Irishman, and he was still holding my jacket in one gloved hand, while in the other was a six-inch gleaming stiletto.

I wanted to piss myself; to curl up and die; to let my legs simply collapse under me.

But I did none of these things. Instead, as his eyes widened with an unpleasant glee and the slash-like smile twisted up at the edges, I smashed the soap dish right into it with every ounce of strength I had, knocking him backwards into the sink.

He grunted in pain and dropped the knife as a deep gash opened up on his cheek.

There was very little room for me to get past him but I didn't think about that. I was out of that bathtub like a greyhound out of a trap, and charging into the bedroom.

The big guy with the shaven head was standing on the other side of the trolley, in the same position he was in earlier, except now he was pulling a large knife from the pocket of his boiler suit and glaring at me with cold, confident eyes.

Yelling as loudly as I could in a desperate effort to panic him, I lobbed the soap dish at his face without even breaking stride. He threw up a hand to ward off the impact but it hit him on the elbow and he yelped in pain as it bounced off. Half a second later I charged into the trolley and slammed it into his lower abdomen, sending him off balance, though not quite knocking him down.

It was enough to buy me a second and a half, though, and that was all I needed as I ran at the half-open bedroom door, keeping my head down and dodging the knife as he lashed out wildly, charging through it and into the lounge, feeling a wild surge of hope. I was going to make it. I was going to get out of there.

'Leave him, he's mine!' came a barked command behind me. It was the Irishman with the saucer eyes, and there was an icy calm in his voice that made my heart lurch.

I jumped the coffee table, clipped it, and almost fell into the front door, grabbing at the handle and yanking it as hard as I could, only noticing at the last second that the chain was on. Incredibly, I didn't panic, just flicked the chain across in one movement, threw the door open and ran out into the corridor.

I felt something swish through the air behind me. The knife. It touched the material of my shirt but didn't break it. He was right behind me, just feet away. I could hear him breathing.

I started running, realizing as soon as I did so that I was going the wrong way from the lifts, and that the corridor ahead seemed to be a dead end. I yelled again, hoping someone would hear me, thinking that if I made enough noise my pursuer would panic and turn back; but there was nothing, just an intensely loud silence. It was like I was suddenly in the middle of a nightmare.

Behind me he kept coming, his breath almost on my neck, and it was his patient, predatory silence that terrified me the most.

There was a door at the end with a staircase sign above it, and I felt another surge of hope and accelerated, shouting as loudly as I could into the silence. I hit the door head on in a way that would have made Maxwell proud. Because it was a swing door, it flew open and I stumbled, almost losing my footing before swinging hard right and charging down the staircase, taking the steps three at a time, knowing that if I fell I was dead, no question.

Every part of me seemed to ache from the exertion of running, and in my semi-inebriated state I wasn't sure how long I could keep it up for. I could still hear him, ever so close, and I had a desperate urge to look round, but knew it might cost me a precious quarter second which might end up being the difference between life and death. Instead, I started taking the steps four at a time, praying that the doorman was at his desk so at least he might be able to help. Praying that I made it that far.

The knife suddenly appeared right in front of my face as he jumped on my back and I was flung forward, tumbling down the steps, doing a somersault, smacking my head painfully on the hard linoleum steps. I knew that any moment I was going to be stabbed. But then I heard the knife clatter against the wall as he was thrown clear.

He landed hard against the wall at the bottom of the steps but somehow he still had the weapon in his hands, and now he was in front of me and blocking my way while I was lying on my stomach on the steps, only five feet from the tip of his blade. His face was bleeding where I'd cut him with the soap dish and his wiry hair was slightly askew. But he still wore the cruel, predatory smile as if it had been etched permanently on the stretched skin, and the expression in his eyes was one of chilling confidence, as if he knew that whatever I did it would make no difference because, in the end, the outcome was inevitable.