Just the mere thought of his slobbering lips on hers made her feel nauseous. 'How dare you?' She wriggled away as far as possible from him. 'Don't touch me again or I'll ask the driver to go straight to the police station.'

'You fobbed me off didn't you?' he sulked, slumping over against his window. 'Took my money and got rid of me.'

Camellia willed the driver to get a move on, wishing now she'd told him to drop her in Knightsbridge. 'It was you who decided to go for a meal,' she said snootily. 'I waited over an hour before I left. I could only assume you weren't coming back.'

It was so tempting to tell him what a fat, stinking bore he was. But she wasn't that brave.

The atmosphere grew heavier by the minute. Camellia stared out the window, and counted the landmarks. The Scotch House, Harrods, the turnoff to Fulham Road, the Michelin buildingit wasn't much further now.

'I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in England,' she said stiffly as she saw the ABC cinema up ahead. 'This will do nicely,' she called through the glass compartment to the driver.

He didn't say goodbye. Camellia was barely out of the taxi before it pulled away and turned left up Beaufort Street towards King's Road.

She paused to light a cigarette, letting Hank get well away. She had always liked this bit of Chelsea: it wasn't as smart as some parts, but it was intriguing, almost like a cosmopolitan village. She was standing in front of Tully's brightly lit windows. Opposite was the Baghdad House, its Arabic-shaped windows alight with jewel-encrusted lamps. She could hear a faint hum of music and wondered if they had a belly-dancer performing inside. Beyond the cinema, now in darkness was Finch's, and the Hungry Horse cafe. She was shaking a little, unnerved by the big man. In all her time at the Don Juan, she'd never met anyone quite so unpleasant.

Shouting and a bright light spilling out onto the pavement opposite made her look up. A group of student types were coming out of a doorway next to an antique shop with bottles in their hands.

'Want to come to a party?' one of them called out, waving his bottle. 'It's only down in Finborough Road.'

Their cheeriness banished her shakes. Tucking her bag under her arm, she turned into Beaufort Street.

The road was deserted. Up ahead cars passed in King's Road but here all the residents were in bed.

This was the road she and Bee aspired to live in. Once at Christmas they had peered in at one of the elegant town houses through its wrought-iron gates. The front room was lit up, and the table laid for dinner, with silver candelabra, red napkins and flowers. A maid in a frilly apron was putting the finishing touches to it all. Enviously they soaked up the whole picture: a tree strewn with coloured lights in the garden, a holly wreath on the door, a silver Mercedes parked outside. Upstairs behind closed curtains the mistress of the house was probably zipping up a Bond Street evening dress.

There was nothing to see now. The windows were all in darkness. She could just make out the glint of glossy paint on front doors and a canopy of cherry blossom in the gardens.

A creaking noise startled her. She stopped, looking all around, but she could see nothing. Dropping her cigarette into the gutter, she walked on, assuming she'd imagined it.

She felt his presence split seconds before an arm locked round her neck. Before she could even scream a hand was slapped across her mouth.

It happened so swiftly. One moment she was walking, the next held captive. Her bag fell with a clatter to the pavement, scattering the contents. A whiff of foul breath told her it was Hank even before she saw the checked material on the arm holding her.

'You thought you were such a smart arse,' he hissed. 1 knew you didn't live back there, you said earlier you lived near the river. Took me for a sucker, didn't you.'

She struggled to free herself from his grip, but he held her too tightly.

'Do you know what I'm gonna do to you?' His voice was husky with menace. 'Would ya like me to spell it out?'

She couldn't reply. She tried to get her mouth free enough to bite him, kicking out backwards at his legs, flaying her arms around trying to get a grip on him.

But the more she struggled the more firmly he held her, pulling her head right back till it felt as if it would snap at the neck. He was using his knees to push her through an open gate, into the pitch darkness of a garden.

A flash of intuition told her that if he intended to rape her he would have to turn her towards him. She stopped struggling, allowing him to move her forward, waiting for her chance.

As he took his arm way from her neck and momentarily let go of her mouth, she screamed at the top of her lungs, turning and bringing her knee up to his groin. But the scream didn't frighten him and he side-stepped the knee. In a flash he had her by the throat, squeezing her windpipe till she could feel her eyes popping out of her head.

'I was a marine,' he snarled at her. 1 know at least ten ways to kill you, but that ain't what I got in mind.'

Her chest felt as if it would explode as he squeezed her throat still harder. She was growing dizzy and could no longer see. All at once she felt rape would be better than death. He continued to hold her by the throat, yet kicked her legs from under her so she fell back to the ground. Still holding her, he followed, his knees either side of her.

'I had my bellyful of English girls during the war,' he croaked, one thumb right on her windpipe. 'Sucking up to us, asking for nylons and tins of food then laughing at us behind our backs. Nothing's changed, though we won the war for you. Still so goddamned arrogant.'

The oddest things sprang into her mind as he leaned forward onto her, using his entire weight to subdue her: Bee at home wondering where she was, the twenty pounds tucked in her bra, her lovely coat lying in mud. All so unimportant compared with rape or death.

He fumbled for something in his pocket. Holding her windpipe with just one hand, he thrust some material in her mouth, pushing it back till she retched.

Now she could only plead with her eyes. One of his knees held her firmly to the ground; each time her arms moved to fight him off he squeezed her neck tighter.

'You understand at last?' he whispered as she became still. 'Now I'm gonna truss you up like a turkey at Thanksgiving.'

Something white and long appeared in his hand. He had a noose over her head in a second, pulling it tight round her neck. Then he grinned, and somehow that was even more terrifying than his scowls.

With one end of the cord he made another slip knot, putting her wrist inside it. But as he reached down behind him, yanked off her shoe and grabbed her ankle to add to the wrist, she saw what his intention was and knew that she was going to die, slowly and painfully.

Camellia put all her strength into struggling to get free.

Once he'd tied one wrist and ankle, then pulled the cord tight to fasten the other side, she would strangle herself if she moved.

She bucked her body under his violently, lashing out each time she felt him loosening his grip on her still free arm, but his weight was crushing her like a tank, and the rope merely tightened more round her neck.

As he pulled on the second leg to attach it to her wrist, it was agony. A sharp crack rang out like gunshot and she knew he had broken it.

Pain obscured everything nowthe wet grass beneath her, his foul breath, even the expected rape. She was entirely helpless, any movement tightening the noose round her neck. She felt tears turn cold on her cheeks. Her attempted screams gurgled in her throat, inaudible to anyone but herself.

'I saw some guys do this to a nigger,' he said almost casually, pulling her skirt up above her waist. 'If you lie still you just might live, struggle and you'll die.'

She was shivering and burning up at the same time. Her whole being centred on the pain in her leg and on stopping herself from trying to lower it. Even so she saw his hand move to open his fly as he kneeled between her splayed open thighs.

'Let's have a look at that pussy you wouldn't sell,' he said, reaching forward and snatching at her tights. The ripping of the nylon jarred her leg again, bringing a fresh wave of agony. Next came her panties, his fingers digging into soft flesh and yanking away the crutch. The cold breeze told her she was exposed, but that was nothing compared with the excruciating pain.

He knelt before her, his face in shadow. His jerking elbow was silhouetted in the faint light from a street lamp beyond the garden wall. Why didn't someone come along? How could the people in the house sleep while this was going on right under their windows?

He grunted, pausing for a moment, then the jerking movement started again.

'You bitch,' he spat at her suddenly, the sound of his zipper like a wasp in the darkness. 'You've even robbed me of that.'

She didn't see his leg move back as he jumped to his feet, just felt the blow as he kicked her with all his force right in the crutch.

'I think someone's trying to break in.' Diana Wooton nudged her sleeping husband into wakefulness. 'Gordon, wake up, someone's down in the garden, I heard the gate squeak.'

Gordon Wooton sat up, listened and scratched his head in the dark. He couldn't hear anything, but Diana would insist he checked.

'Okay,' he sighed, reaching for the switch on the bedside light.

'Don't put that on,' she whispered fearfully. 'If they see it they might hurt us. Just creep down in the dark and look. If there is someone there, call the police.'

Gordon fumbled in the dark for his dressing gown. By day in his office he gave the orders, and his staff jumped. But at home, and particularly at night, he obeyed Diana to the letter.

He crept into the sitting room first and opened the thick curtains just a crack. The arched wrought-iron gate was open, but there was no one in the garden. He went back into the kitchen and peered out of that window too.

Nothing but the glimmer of white blossom against the dark of the lawn.

'A drunk having a pee in the garden,' he muttered to himself, then groaned as he stubbed his bare toes against a box of wine he'd brought home the night before.

The squeak of the front gate in the wind halted him just as he was about to go back upstairs. Diana would lie awake for the rest of the night if he left it like that.

He walked cautiously down the brick path to the gate. Drunks had been known to do a great deal more than pee in their garden before now and his feet were still bare. He shut the gate securely, but as he turned he saw something white on the lawn, right up by the side of the house.

For just a moment he thought it was a swan, curled up with its head beneath its wings. He blinked, then looked again, then hurrying back to the house he switched on the porch light.

'Good God,' he gasped, hardly able to credit that what he was seeing was real. 'Diana,' he yelled at the top of his lungs. 'Call the police. And an ambulance.'

Camellia felt light rather than saw it: a pinkish glow which wouldn't clear. She tried to raise her hand to rub her eyes, but it was too heavy to move.

'Hullo,' a male voice spoke close to her. 'Can you hear me?'

She couldn't answer. She could hear questions shaping in her mind, but her mouth couldn't form them. She managed a croak, but nothing more and lapsed back into sleep.

The next thing she was aware of was a hand on her arm and the sound of pumping air.

Opening her eyes she saw a nurse in a blue and white striped dress.

'Welcome back,' she said. 'You've been out a long time. Are you feeling any pain?'

Camellia couldn't say: she was confused even by the question. The band round her arm was tightening, and she looked to the nurse for explanation.

'I'm just checking your blood pressure,' she said. 'Do you remember anything about last night?'

Memory came back as she tried to move and speak. There was a rope round her neck and as her hand came up a loosen it, Hank's leering face came clearly into focus.

As she tried to turn to one side to ease a throbbing in the lower part of her body, she felt a stab of pain in her legs. Her hands moved to soothe them and she found heavy plaster on one.

'Hank Beckwith,' she managed to croak out.

She was confused for some time. Fragments of memory floated bylighting a cigarette in Fulham Road, Denise pouring her a drink, a canopy of cherry blossom above her headbut her throat hurt too badly to ask the questions which might fill in the blanks.

It was a policeman who helped the most.

'You are in St Stephen's hospital.' His deep voice was soothing and for a moment or two she thought it was Bert Simmonds. 'You were attacked in Beaufort Street at some time between midnight and three in the morning when you were found in someone's garden. It's nine at night now and you have had an emergency operation on your knee. But we don't know who you are or where you live. You must try to tell me so we can find the man who did this to you.'

Slowly Camellia managed to get the words out. Her fingers kept returning to her neck to try and ease the burning, constricting sensation. She was glad when a nurse came and injected her with something which made her sleepy again. She didn't want to be awake.

The next morning Camellia woke to find her mind clearer, though she ached everywhere and the lower part of her body felt as if it was on fire. She was in a small private room, and she was told she'd be moved back to the main ward once the police had finished questioning her. Her right knee was badly injured, and they still had to do more tests on her to discover whether there was internal damage from the kick in her crutch. It would be weeks until she could walk again. But she was lucky to be alive: if the people in the house in Beaufort Street hadn't found her that night, the police would be heading a murder investigation.

The American Embassy were searching their records for Hank Beckwith. All airlines had been alerted and a checking of London hotel registers was under way. An appeal had been put out for the cab driver who dropped Camellia off in Fulham Road. Late the previous night the police had called at the Don Juan to question Denise and the other girls.

Bee arrived to see Camellia at eleven in the morning, and was allowed in after the police had been through the entire story with her yet again.

Bee was distraught, her eyes pink-rimmed, her hair lank and bedraggled. 'Oh Mel,' she sobbed, even before the police were out of the room. 'This is like the worst nightmare. I can't believe anyone would do such a thing to you.'

A little later once she'd calmed down, she explained how she'd found out. 'I didn't wake up till ten yesterday morning. When I found you hadn't come home I just thought you'd met someone nice. I never thought anything bad had happened to you. I waited in all day, then I began to get cross because you hadn't phoned me. Eventually at nine in the evening I rang the club to ask Denise if she knew anything. Once she told me about that man I had a nasty feeling. Soon after the police called round. You'd only just come round enough to give your name and address. They told me what that man did.'

'It's over now,' Camellia said weakly. 'Try not to think about it, Bee, that's what I'm doing. I'll soon get better, you'll see.'

'But you don't understand,' Bee sobbed. 'They think we are just a couple of prostitutes and you got what you deserved for leading a man on.'

'Who thinks that?' Camellia asked.

'It's all over the papers today,' Bee raised her overflowing eyes to Camellia's. 'The journalists are camping on our doorstep.'

Camellia was in no fit state to even talk, much less think anything through.

'Find someone to stay with till it blows over,' she managed to croak out. 'Don't come and visit me again. Just stay out of sight.'

In the next few days, Camellia grew very glad that Bee didn't take her advice. She soon discovered she hadn't any other real friends. Apart from a warm letter and flowers from Denise at the club, no one else contacted her. She had always believed Bee and herself to be two of the most popular girls in Chelsea. Now she saw that was just so much worthless window-dressing.

The newspaper stories about her made her even more upset. Clearly someone from her past had been talking to them. Not only had they got an old photograph of her in an almost diaphanous blouse and no bra, but they'd dug up the story about her mother's death. It was pure sensationalism, the facts distorted, almost as if the editors had decided to use her as an example.

After a few days Camellia was moved down to the main women's ward. It hurt to see the hostile looks from the other patients, and to hear them whispering about her. When her leg was put into traction it seemed as if every time someone passed her bed they knocked it purposely.

But Bee's loyalty was unfailing. She was always the first visitor through the ward door, the last to leave. She made sure she sat in such a way that Camellia couldn't see herself being pointed out to the other women's visitors and did her best to soothe all Camellia's anxieties.

'I'm working every night now, so don't worry about the rent,' she said. 'I'm trying to save some money too so when you get out of here we can have a holiday somewhere.'

'You shouldn't be working there now,' Camellia said again and again. She worried about her friend every night, imagining that all the men there were like Hank. 'What if someone attacked you?'

'I'm quite safe,' Bee insisted. 'One of the bouncers sees all us girls into cabs now. Besides that Yank would never dare go in there again, would he?'

'They haven't caught him yet.' Camellia groaned as she tried to move into a more comfortable position. 'The police seem to think he gave me a false name. He's probably back in the States now.'

Bee saw Camellia wince as she moved. 'Does it hurt terribly?'

'The leg or knowing the world thinks I'm a tart who got her comeuppance?' Camellia tried to laugh but it was hollow.

'Your leg, silly.' Bee laid her head on Camellia's arm. She thought her friend was the bravest person she'd ever met.

'The leg isn't too bad,' Camellia said. 'As long as no one jogs the bed. It's the bruised fanny that's really doing me in, especially when they give me a bedpan. Why couldn't I find a nice straightforward rapist?'

Making jokes about her ordeal was the only way she could cope with it. The black looks from other patients, the journalists who kept asking to interview her, the anxiety and the question marks over her future were bad enough. But added to this was the constant physical pain and the mental torture, and combined they conspired to push her towards the deepest, darkest depression. Perhaps it was a little sick to joke about something so serious, but it was preferable to sobbing.

As Camellia's body slowly began to mend, it was Sergeant Rodgers, rather than Bee who showed her a way out of the dark morass her mind kept sinking back into.

He was the policeman who'd told her where she was when she first came round from the anaesthetic, the man whom she had mistaken for a moment for Bert Simmonds. Like Bert, he was a policeman of the old school, a man of integrity, committed to maintaining law and order, yet retaining compassion for those weaker than himself.

At first his visits were purely official. He took her statement and called in repeatedly for more information and to keep her abreast with the police inquiries. Gradually she found herself trusting this plain-speaking sergeant and opening up to him.

Camellia had been in hospital for almost a fortnight when he called late one evening to ask her to look at some photographs of men. Camellia had been crying nearly all day. She hated having to lie still in bed, forced to ask for everything from a bedpan to a glass of water. Outside the sun was shining. Hank Beckwith was out there somewhere, free as a bird, while she was still in pain. She'd become infamous overnight. Her past shamed her and she could see no future.