The bad thing came from nowhere. The city I lived in — Manchester, England — was known as “Gunchester” then: Kids shot in pie shops, stabbings in the clubs. I knew people who dealt in quantities of drugs that you had to lift at the knees. It was the sort of dark money that skews people.

Under the street light ahead, a car pulled up, just a normal car — a Volvo hatchback, like my Grandad had. A few figures got out, moved around, crossed the road. I was right around the corner from home, but before I’d really noticed, they were in my face and at my back. There was a surprisingly not-all-that-cold blade at my throat, and something hard and pointed in the small of my back. “Get in the car,” they insisted. They opened the trunk. “Get in or you’re fuckin’ dead here.”

I tumbled in. And for the next two hours I was their prisoner.

Being kidnapped was a constant experience. It had episodes, it had specific moments, and I can relate them — but those are going to seem like discrete bits of a story. Being kidnapped didn’t feel like that. It felt like the longest now ever.

Here are some things that happened.

Beatings, prolonged and savage with the backs of knives and fists.

Taunting. “What race are we?” “Are you scared?” “You’re fucking shitting it, eh?”

Robbery. They took my wallet, and we drove to an ATM, withdrawing everything possible until the machine grabbed the card. I was young, I worked in a law firm sorting records and managing backups: There was almost nothing in there.

Attempted burglary. After the card was drained, they switched their attention to where I lived. So I made up an address in the hope that they’d try to get in, fail, the residents would be spooked, call the police. I picked a road near where I lived with bigger houses — houses with burglar alarms, houses where the police would rock up swiftly. I picked a number that sounded reasonable. Off we went, until we reached the made-up address.

“What color is your front door?”

Fuck.

“White.”

“Nope, you’re dead now.”

Gunplay. At this point the car was driven onto rough ground. There were voices outside the car, and the trunk was opened. They made me strip naked. It was winter. It was cold.

Attempted immolation. A can of gas was produced. Was it in the car before? There wasn’t much in it. Just enough to splash over me, and the inside of the car. I was bundled back in, the doors slammed, a lighter was struck and tossed in through an open window.

The sound of running feet crunching on rubble.

Then quiet.

I became aware of my own breathing.

Escape. I clambered over the backseats, grabbed some of my clothes that were still in the car (Trousers? Coat? Shoes? I don’t remember). I looked around the car, saw an unlit Zippo. I pulled on my jeans, jumped out of the car, and ran or crept — possibly both — toward some nearby streetlights.

I looked around. I was about 100 yards from where I started. This was disorienting.