Smash hit

Telling me not to move, he went off and rummaged through a wardrobe. Hearing me scrabbling about trying to find my mobile, he came back. More kicks. My pleas were useless. He tied my arms behind my back and attempted to assault me sexually again, unsuccessfully. Another huge beating ensued. The only possible survival strategy was to submit, to try to minimise the force before it became lethal. And then to play dead.

I waited for a blow to the head, and when it came I collapsed, gurgled, exhaled and held my breath. (Yoga and scuba training helped here, and I was good at this as a child; it used to be my party trick, playing dead.)

He said “shit” and kicked me, lit a cigarette and stubbed it out on my face. There was a hiss as the blood extinguished it, causing minimal burning. I did not flinch but continued to pretend to be dead. In fact I was losing consciousness.

Perhaps two hours later I started to come round. I can remember floating in darkness, looking down at my body, thinking: “Shall I come back? It’s very peaceful here. It’s going to hurt coming back into my body.”

Then I thought: “He might still be in the house. He might be about to burn the house down. You have got to escape while you can see he is not in the room! Come on, Rachel, wake up, get up, get up, get up!”

The carpet rushed up to my face and I was back in my body with my arms tied behind me. My weak wriggling gradually became stronger. I could kneel and then stand.

I shook my matted hair from the one eye that could still see and found I was naked with something hanging round my neck.

I managed to stagger upstairs to another of the flats in the house. No sound would come out of my mouth so I threw myself repeatedly against their door. No answer.

Blundering downstairs again, barely able to see or walk, I put my back to the front door to the street, raised myself on tiptoes and managed to unlock it. (Yoga flexibility came in handy again.)

In a final blast of adrenaline, I threw myself down the concrete steps, spraining both ankles and tearing ligaments, as a police car screeched to a halt. There had been somebody upstairs, after all, and they had dialled 999.

I suddenly found my voice in an earsplitting, roaring scream. The police were in total shock. When I was able to speak words I told them to take the bloody noose off my neck. They said they couldn’t because it was evidence. I screamed at them and forced them to cut it off. It turned out to be the lead from my electric toothbrush recharger. How, when or why he had tied it there I don’t know.

While dozens of police officers began frantically to search the area for the rapist, an ambulance took me to hospital covered in a blanket, and the forensic examination of the two crime scenes — my flat and my body — began before they could even treat my injuries.