by Tania Carver
He turned, started to walk away. A restraining hand was placed on his arm. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ A laugh, an American accent, trying to lighten the weight of the words. ‘I need ya, Decks. I need the old blade runner. I need your magic.’
He didn’t know what he was talking about, tried to walk away. ‘Please. I don’t want … to stay here. I want to go.’
The American accent dropped but the hand remained. ‘To where? Some hostel or B and B? Spied on? Made to sign a form every two weeks? That’s what you want, is it?’
He didn’t answer.
‘A hostel. With the paedos, and the murderers. Real murderers, mind, not like you. And the nutters and the psychos.’
‘But … prison was like that.’
‘Yes, it was. But there was a big metal door keeping them out. You think you’ll have that at the hostel?’
He said nothing.
His companion took that for assent. ‘Thought not. No, you’re better off here. And besides, we had a deal.’
‘What?’
‘Remember? All those years ago?’ His companion’s smile widened. Teeth sharp and shark-like. ‘I said that if you played things my way, then you would end up on top. I said that, didn’t I?’
He couldn’t remember. He might have done.
‘I had a plan, didn’t I? Well, it’s just taken a while to put into practice, that’s all. We’ve been playing the long game.’
‘And what … what is this plan? What do I get?’
‘A new life. And revenge. On the people who put you inside. The ones who took your life away. Got your attention now, haven’t I?’
‘But … but how?’
‘You’ll see.’ He gestured to the caravan. ‘Until then, just make yourself at home. Put your feet up.’
He blinked several times in quick succession. Something niggled.
‘But … Probation. I have to sign on. They give me money to live on.’
‘You’ll have money soon. You’ll have everything you need. And more. Millions.’
‘But I … my name. I’ll be … they’ll be looking for me.’
‘You’ve got a new one.’
He stopped blinking.
‘Yes, a new name. You’re going to be a new person. Completely different. A fresh start. How d’you like that?’
He thought. And in that thought, a smile started. He liked that. He liked that very much.
His companion laughed. ‘Thought you would.’
‘Who am I?’
‘Tyrell. Malcolm Tyrell.’
‘Tyrell … ’ Rolling the word round his mouth, seeing if it fitted. ‘Malcolm Tyrell … ’
Jiminy Cricket laughed again and gestured to the caravan. ‘So, Mr Tyrell. Would you like to make yourself at home?’
The dogs kept barking. He could no longer hear the crying child.
He would like that very much.
13
Everyone stared when Marina entered the bar.
She looked round, eyes adapting to the sudden gloom after the brightness outside. The pub was rough and unadorned. It hadn’t fallen on hard times; it had never seen good times. As shadows took substance, she realised that clientele and surroundings were perfectly matched. A handful of men, all watching her. Eyes hard, wary. Items were swiftly swiped from tabletops, hands quickly disappearing underneath. She had been sized up and immediately identified as an outsider. Someone official and unwelcome. Social services. Probation. Police. Or just some wild-haired madwoman wandered in.
She felt like a lone gunslinger entering a Western saloon. If there had been a piano, it would have stopped playing.
Swallowing down nervousness, hoping it wouldn’t crystallise into fear, she walked up to the bar. Placed her hands on the counter. Found it sticky and took them away again.
The barman was big, middle-aged, like an ex-boxer turned to fat. His face was red and badly repaired, his head bald and sweating. He wore a faded Hawaiian shirt over supermarket jeans, and leaned against the till, arms crossed and unmoving. Waiting to see what she wanted and what his customers would do about it. His eyes were hard and flint-like, two sharp stones in a face of red mud. They never left her.
I have to front this, she thought. I have to do it. A mental image of Josephina’s face flashed before her. I can do it. She looked directly at him.
‘I’m looking for Tyrell.’ Her voice came out stronger than expected. She wished the rest of her could match it, and forced her eyes to lock on to his.
The pub had been silent to start with. Now, if anything, it became even quieter. The only sound was the babbling of the Sky Sports presenter on an old, heavy black TV set, tucked away in the corner.
No one paid him any attention. All eyes were on Marina.
She tried again. ‘Tyrell. Is he here?’
The barman’s eyes focused away from her, on someone or something behind her. She turned. Had he been looking at one of the drinkers in the bar? If so, which one? All of them were affecting not to look at her.
She turned back to the barman. ‘Tyrell.’
He found his voice. ‘No one here by that name.’ His voice matched his frame, big and ugly.
Marina felt desperation well within her. ‘Please.’ Her voice caught. ‘Tyrell. Is Tyrell here? I must— please … ’
He leaned on the bar and looked at her. She could see the sweat, feel the heat coming off him. ‘And I said there’s no one here by that name.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, the words out before she could stop them. The barman’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘You’re lying to me.’
He stared at her, lost for words. Then a smile spread over his features. ‘Am I, now?’
Marina felt suddenly embarrassed by her outburst. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I was … I was sent to meet someone called Tyrell. He’s supposed to be here. He … ’ She sighed. ‘He must be here.’
‘Listen, love. I know everyone in this bar, and there’s no one called Tyrell here.’
She looked round the bar, scanned every face she saw, looking for truth, a human lie detector. No one was giving anything away. They were either watching the TV or finding their drinks fascinating. One, small and middle-aged, poorly dressed, was staring at Canvey Island through the bar’s tiny, cell-like window like he had never seen it before. They were stuck between wanting to be seen to help a damsel in distress and not wanting to get involved with the madwoman having a meltdown in front of them. She turned back to the barman. ‘Please, there must be … ’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, love, can’t help you.’
Marina looked round the bar once more. She had never felt so helpless. All her training, her professionalism had gone out of the window. She had squandered whatever advantage she had by her outburst. She ran a hand through her hair and wished Phil was with her. They wouldn’t have lied, wouldn’t have held out on him. They wouldn’t have dared. She decided to give it one last shot. She had nothing to lose.
Her voice dropped so only the barman could hear. She swung her gaze back on him once more. ‘Look. Tyrell is here. He must be here because I was told he was. I have to meet him. It’s very important that I speak to him. Very important. So please let me know which one he is so I can talk to him. Then I’ll not bother you any more. Please.’
‘Listen, darlin’, I would if I could. But I can’t. There ain’t no one here called Tyrell. I don’t know no Tyrell.’ He shrugged as if that was the end of the matter. ‘So there you go.’
Marina felt impotent anger rise within her. The image of Josephina was fading away, hope of finding her going along with it. She made one last attempt. ‘You’re lying. You must be. It’s important. I need to find Tyrell. Please. You have to help me.’
‘I ain’t got to do anythin’, darlin’. ’Cept run this pub.’ He gestured to the meagre display of optics behind him. ‘Gin and tonic?’
She shook her head.
‘Then I think you’d better leave.’
Marina didn’t know where to
look, what to think or feel. Or what to do next.
Love Will Tear Us Apart. Her phone. She took it out of her bag, answered it.
‘Step outside,’ the voice said.
Marina did so. The light, the sun and the warmth hit her immediately, causing her to squint. She had forgotten it was still daylight.
‘Well, is Tyrell there?’ the voice said. ‘Have you met him?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘The barman said there was no one there called Tyrell.’
The voice laughed. ‘Quite right too. There isn’t.’
Marina frowned. ‘What?’
‘It was a test. To see if you could follow instructions. Do as you’re told, don’t tell anyone and don’t get tailed. And you can. Good girl.’
Emotions welled once more. Anger. Unease. Desperation. Swirling around, turning her head into a vortex. ‘Where is she?’
No reply.
‘Where is she?’
‘You’ll see her. When you’ve done what we need you to do.’
‘But when will—’
‘We’ll be in touch,’ the voice said.
‘What?’ Marina couldn’t believe what she was hearing. If the phone went dead, she feared that all hope of seeing her daughter went with it. ‘You can’t do this. Please. I did what you asked for, please … ’
‘You’ve done well so far. Don’t spoil it.’
The phone went silent in her hand. She looked round, up and down the street. Checked doorways, passers-by. No one else was about. No one was on the phone.
She was completely alone.
14
‘You took a risk.’
‘And it paid off. I found out what we needed to know.’
She shook her head. That wasn’t what she had meant, and he knew it.
The man who had called himself Stuart Milton sat down beside her on the bed. She had been waiting for him, dressed up as he liked her. All seams, heels, spikes, straps and sheer black see-through. The bed had been prepared with restraints of leather and rope. Tight knots and heavy buckles. Blindfolds and toys. The house slave had been banished to her room. They had been planning a celebration, just the two of them. Now everything had been put on hold.
She knew he was looking at her. Out of the corner of his eye. Taking her in, running his glance up and down, his tongue at the side of his lips, subconsciously licking. She felt stirrings inside her. Despite everything that was going on, she still felt stirrings. And he would be too. Because he could never resist her. She made sure of it.
She didn’t move, just concentrated on her breathing. Looked at herself in the strategically positioned full-length mirror. She still had it. Her hair was still dark, her face unlined. Her skin smooth, tanned to a rich shade of coffee. Her legs looked good, tits firm. She loved to look at herself. It affirmed who she was.
The affirmation and maintenance cost — and not just financially. But it was worth it. All of it.
Her nipples hardened slightly just at the sight of herself.
‘I gave them a false name,’ he said, also looking at her in the mirror.
‘What?’
He paused. A smile curled the corners of his lips. ‘Stuart Milton.’
‘You idiot! What if they—’
‘They won’t. They can’t trace me. Or make a connection. Don’t worry. I acted.’ The smile opened his mouth. It was all sharp teeth. ‘You’d have been proud of me.’
She said nothing. Just kept looking at herself. If she ignored him, that might make him angry. She hoped so.
‘They took her to the hospital,’ he said, voice rising slightly. ‘They haven’t got her. I know that.’
She kept her eyes on the mirror. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because the police told me. They haven’t got her.’
She turned her face towards his. Eyes on his, locked, unblinking. Mouth full and red, like a bruise waiting to flower. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. Really.’ His cheeks were starting to redden. ‘I grabbed her first. Stopped her from going back in. And then … ’ She watched him. Knew he was remembering the explosion. Could almost see the memory reflected on his irises. The flames, the heat … ‘They took her away. Said I’d saved her life.’
‘That wasn’t the plan.’
‘No,’ he said, voice rising once again. ‘I know. But the plan changed. It had to, because … you know. They were there. I had to improvise.’ He placed his hand on her bare arm. Stroked his fingers towards the crook of her elbow. Goosebumps raised themselves where his touch passed. ‘We have to be flexible. Stay with what’s happening. Move with it. It’s quite exciting, really.’
She made no attempt to stop him. Or encourage him. But then she didn’t need to.
‘You should have stuck to the plan.’
He took his hand away, angry now. Stood up, walked away from her. She watched him go, her breath catching in her throat.
‘It’s gone. Everything’s gone. I even lost the car.’
‘You lost—’
‘It went up in the explosion. Don’t worry, it’s not traceable. But everyone else went up too. They must all be dead.’
‘Apart from her.’
He nodded. Conceding a point. ‘Yes. Apart from her.’
‘And the child.’
He turned to her. ‘Yes,’ he said, voice rising once more. But not in anger this time. In triumph. ‘Exactly. The child. And I know where she is.’
‘No you don’t.’
‘Oh yes I do. You know who I saw there. Before the explosion.’ It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact. ‘And you know what they were doing. Now they’ve got the kid.’
‘Well if they’ve got the kid,’ she said, speaking slowly as though she was explaining a simple point to a particularly backward child, ‘then the mother will have it back soon. And we’ll be no further forward.’
‘Wrong.’ He stood over her. Placed his hand on her chin. Forced her face upwards, made her look up at him. She put up token resistance, but they both knew she would submit eventually. ‘Wrong. Because I dissembled. I seeded.’
‘Tell.’ She licked her lips.
‘I said I’d heard her. Saying it was her fault.’
Something flashed across her eyes. ‘That was risky.’
‘I know. But it worked. Because then I overheard the police talking. They took her to hospital, but she left. They think she’s running.’
‘So she’s on her way to meet them. To get the child back.’
He smiled. ‘D’you think it would be that simple? They’ve got a job for her.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Obvious. Follow the police. They’ll lead us to her.’
‘And them? How do we take care of them?’
Another smile. All teeth and reflected, glinting, razor light. ‘Send in the Golem.’
Her eyes widened as his words sank in. He took her lack of response as an answer in itself.
‘Exactly. What d’you think of that?’
Her breathing grew heavier.
He continued. ‘If we can’t trace the kid and the police don’t lead us to them through her, the Golem will. So it’s one way or another. And then … ’ he squeezed her jaw in his hand, ‘we’ve got them.’
She felt her stomach start to tighten. Her body temperature to rise. Especially in her groin. Like coiled electric eels, swimming and sparking, trying to find a way out. She kept her eyes on his, opened her mouth slightly. The bruise flowering. He looked down at her, smiled.
There was nothing of the Guardian-reading, middle class aesthete in his features now. The veneer of civility was falling away, leaving something feral, carnal in its place. A primal lust. He let her face drop roughly from his hand. Hurriedly took off his suede jacket. Pulled at the buttons of his shirt.
She lay back on the bed, propped up on her elbows, watching him, her legs slowly opening, breasts rising and falling with her breathing. Wanting him. Wanting what he could give her.
He was soon stripped off and joinin
g her on the bed. She saw straight away how hard he was. She smiled. He moved right in next to her. Pushed against her. Towered over her. She could feel the heat coming off his body.
‘Do you love me?’ Her voice was low, urgent. ‘Do you love me?’
‘Yes … ’ The word was a hiss through clenched teeth.
Her eyes widened, voice dropped lower. ‘Do you hate me?’
He gave a reply that was almost a growl. He grabbed her. Hard.
She needed to hear it. ‘Do you hate me?’
‘Yes … ’ His voice a snarl now.
She smiled. Good. ‘Then show me. Show me. Show me what I mean to you … ’
He straddled her, his thick, muscled legs either side of her, balancing his weight. He drew his right hand back and, eyes locked on eyes, let it go.
The slap caught her firmly on the side of her cheek. Her head whiplashed sharply to the right. She quickly recovered, looked back at him. A face full of pain, eyes full of lust.
‘Again … hurt me … ’
He hit her again. Her cheek reddened, began to swell.
‘Again … ’
He did it again.
And again. Rage and lust driving him on.
She loved him. Like she had never loved anyone or anything before.
He kept at her. Both hands now. Her face, then her body.
She closed her eyes. Lost in pain.
Lost in rapture.
Lost in a special, private love.
15
Marina moved slowly towards the car. A dead woman walking. Her heart was heavier than it had been in a long time; heavier, even, than it might have ever been before.
She opened the door, sat down in the driver’s seat. Put her head against the rest. She heard herself sobbing before she felt the tears on her face. Like something coiled so tight within it could only leave her body in short, jagged bursts. Anger. Pain. Loss. Helplessness.
Josephina. Phil. Don and Eileen. Her life.
Coming in sharp, emotional sword thrusts, every blow a hit, stabbing and wounding.
She clenched her fists. Hammered them against the steering wheel, screaming. Pounding hard, pummelling. No words, just incoherent rage. On and on. On and on. Until there was nothing left within her to come out. Until she no longer had the energy to expel it. Until she was spent. Then she sat, head back, eyes closed, breathing like she had just run a marathon. Empty. Empty and down. Her emotions crashed, burnt out.