The sausages were good. Delicious* in fact. I ate them quickly and enjoyed the hot, greasy* food. I felt better and my face glowed red. But while I ate, the man on the other side of the small room watched my every move. We were surrounded by boxes and bags of potatoes. The room smelled of wet soil. But at least it was warm.
I put the last chip in my mouth, screwed the newspaper into a ball and dropped it into the bin next to me. ‘Well, thanks for the food,’ I said. ‘I should be going. I need to find a phone.’ I stood up.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘You can use my mobile if you want. It’s charging.’
‘That would be great. I need to call a garage and my wife. She must be worried.’
‘It’s through here,’ the man said, walking to the other door and opening it just a little. He stood back and gestured* that I should go through.
I stepped past him and put my hand on the door, ready to push it fully open. And that’s when he hit me. One moment, I was standing; the next, I was on the ground. As I lay there, stunned*, a kick struck me in the face. Then another.
After that, everything went black.
Delicious* – good tasting
greasy* – fatty, oily
gestured*– moved hands in order to signal something
stunned*– knocked out, half-conscious