Isabel Eriksson - You Are Mine: My horrifying true story of being kidnapped by an evil doctor and held captive as a sex slave

Isabel Eriksson has risen from a real nightmare. Through this book she is ready to move forward and tell the world who she is and what shes had to go through. Here stands an incredibly strong woman who is in charge of her future, taking back her freedom from her imprisoner.

My ears pop as the blood rushes to my head. I clench my fists. Stumble around the place. My legs almost give way. I look around. The place is grey, dusty and messy, like a small garage or building site. Ora bunker.

When Isabel Eriksson wakes up shes not sure where she is. The first thing she sees is a metal roof with wooden beams. Shes got an injection needle in her arm. Next to the bed a man is sitting and staring at her. He tells her that he intends to keep her locked up.

Isabel realises that the only way for her to get out is to somehow make him release her. A psychological struggle begins where she has to play her cards right, or forever stay in the bunker.

This is Isabels true story of survival.

Although this book is based on real people and real events, names, places and identifying features have been changed in order to preserve their privacy.

The neighbour told us that he had lived in the area for more than fifty years. The house where Martin now lives was previously home to a family who kept horses. The spot that Martin built on used to be a paddock. The neighbour was asked whether he had helped Martin with the build. He explained that Martin had started work several years earlier. Martin had cast the various sections within the foundations himself. The neighbour had helped to erect the walls. After that, he wasnt allowed onto the site again.

SUMMARY OF INTERVIEW WITH MARTIN TRENNEBORGS NEIGHBOUR

INTERROGATING OFFICER: When did you start building?

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: I suppose it was about four years ago now.

INTERROGATING OFFICER: So you were having these thoughts as long as four years ago?

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: Correct.

INTERROGATING OFFICER: How many were you planning on locking up in this bunker?

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: How many people?

INTERROGATING OFFICER: Uh-huh.

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: Not sure. But more than one.

[]

INTERROGATING OFFICER: And during this time, what did you say to Isabel about the fact that she was locked in this bunker? How did you explain it to her?

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: Well, that I had kidnapped her, simple as that.

INTERROGATING OFFICER: What else did you say?

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: That I wasnt going to hurt her.

INTERROGATING OFFICER: Did you tell her how long you were planning to hold her in there?

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: Yes, a long time, you could say.

INTERROGATING OFFICER: How long?

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: A number of years.

[]

INTERROGATING OFFICER: Was it locked? Was she locked in the bunker?

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: She certainly was.

INTERROGATING OFFICER: What was Isabels reaction to this?

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: Not great, I suppose. It made her sad, I guess.

EXCERPT FROM POLICE INTERVIEW WITH MARTIN TRENNEBORG, REFERRED TO BY THE MEDIA AS THE BUNKER DOCTOR

INTERROGATING OFFICER: Did he say anything when you came to?

ISABEL: I was very tired and worn out, so probably still drugged. Then he told me that getting me unconscious took him much longer than hed bargained for.

EXCERPT FROM POLICE INTERVIEW WITH ISABEL ERIKSSON

As I open my eyes, my body feels sluggish and stiff. As though its struggling to keep up with the process of waking up.

Jeez, did I crash out?

Im about to yawn and stretch when Im struck by the realisation that its not my ceiling Im looking up at. Above me is a corrugated steel roof resting on light wooden joists. I blink hard a few times. Its cold here.

Here?

When I try to remember where I am, or what I was doing just before I fell asleep, or even what day it is, it just wont work. Its all so completely absurd and I really dont understand at all. Not only that, I cant think straight. Its as though my brain has turned to cotton wool. Something, though, is definitely wrong. Very wrong. I tear my eyes away from the strange ceiling and take a deep breath.

Jeans?

Im lying under my own quilt, wearing my jeans and a thin pink top, but in a bed that isnt mine. When I roll over, I can tell straight away that Im not wearing any knickers underneath my trousers.

But I was wearing that blue dress, wasnt I?

My heart beats faster. That dress, yes. Images from my memory float to the surface, one by one, bursting like delicate bubbles while I try to take it all in and reconcile it with reality. The blue dress I was wearing it because I was going out to dinner? It was going to be a nice three-course meal and I was going to Then it hits me. Not I, We. I try to sit myself up but my body doesnt seem to want to oblige. My mouths dry and my throat feels kind of thick. The smell of masonry dust is overpowering.

Nellie?

My seven-month-old toy poodle, who mustve been lying curled up next to me, is suddenly very close, whimpering and trying to lick my face. Then she stiffens and stares out across the room. I say her name, to calm her down, and Im surprised by how hoarse my voice is. Then I lift my head to see what shes looking at and my whole body turns ice-cold.

Theres a man sitting there, on a stool, next to the bed. Instantly, the adrenaline courses through my veins and I swallow hard. Hes just sitting there, staring at me. More bubbles float to the surface and then burst.

Its him. The American

I remember him from my apartment, was it yesterday? Or earlier today? Ive no idea. The thought that I mustve been so drunk that I fell asleep flashes past, but that cant be right either. And where am I? As I haul myself backwards in the bed to sit myself up and ask what the hell is going on, I feel a burning pain in my arm.

It fucking kills!

I manage to haul myself into a half-sitting position, and it feels almost as though I could do with a slap or two to get my head to clear. My eyes feel blurry and thats when I see the cannula sticking out of my forearm.

Am I in hospital?

Somehow, though, my consciousness has already clocked enough details for me to know that that isnt the case, and the panic strikes me like a punch in the chest. With tear-filled eyes I do the first thing that occurs to me: I grab hold of the thing stuck in my arm and pull as hard as I can. The pain as the cannula is torn from my vein is instant and intense. I drop what Ive pulled out on to the bed and a few drops of blood smear across the sheets.

That wasnt very well done, says the man in the chair. The calmness of his voice brings a shiver to my core. It wouldve been better to let me do it. After all, I am a doctor. His speech is slow, almost a kind of drawl.

Why is he speaking Swedish?

The man sitting on the chair is American, and he lives in London. We were going to have dinner with some of his colleagues. I was wearing my lovely blue dress My head spins and my breathing is getting faster and faster. Im aware of Nellie pressing her little body closer to me. Shes trembling, and growling quietly. Then I disappear off again.