Page 154 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

… mark

What one weak woman can achieve alone.

Matthew Arnold Merope: A Tragedy

He was on top of her, forcing her backwards onto the passenger seat; she felt the handbrake pressing into her back; she couldn’t cry out, because of his hands around her throat; he was crawling on top of her, pinning her down; and she felt her handbag slide into the footwell—

He was trying to force her further into the car and she knew his plan was to drive off with her; she heard her phone fall with a clunk; saw his face in strangely cubic light and shadow, the ferocity, the thick eyebrows—

She managed to free her right hand from beneath him and seized his wrist, trying to drag it from her throat, but with her left, she was groping on the floor, in darkness; it was there, she knew it was there, she’d checked before leaving the flat that morning—

Her fingers closed on the plastic, felt for the nozzle, and now black spots were popping in front of her eyes, but she had it—

The first spray didn’t hit him – she felt the sting of it in the air—

The second covered the side of his head and Robin closed her eyes—

She heard him choke, splutter and gasp; the grip on her neck loosened; she sprayed again and again and heard him swear – now he was trying to evade the spray but still kneeling on her—

With every bit of strength she could muster she punched blindly upwards with her right hand and heard the thud of knuckle on bone—

She opened her eyes; they began to water from the noxious vapour now thick in the air, but she knew where to aim, now—

Another spray and another, directly to his face—

She drew breath and her lungs burned, too, but no matter: she screamed as loudly as she’d ever screamed in her life, now hanging on to fistfuls of his curly hair.