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.