Choked

by Tania Carver

  And that was where the Golem was being patched up.

  He studied Bracken as the man worked on his arm. He was small, frail-looking, but his eyes burned with an intensity that often seemed to be the only thing animating his scrawny frame. Like he was lit and powered by an individual fire within. A fire that burned with a dark, ugly light.

  Probably the same light that powered the soldiers who killed my mother, raped my family. Destroyed my village and homeland, the Golem thought. But it didn’t matter at the moment. The doctor was helping him, patching him up, so he would call a truce.

  Besides, he knew where he lived.

  Bracken pushed the needle in again. The Golem smelled what he always did coming off the man. Alcohol, sweat. And something more. Fear and despair. Bracken didn’t do this by choice. Perhaps this wasn’t his place after all. Perhaps he was just a prisoner here. The Golem didn’t care. As long as he patched him up, got him working again.

  ‘Met you before,’ Bracken slurred as he worked. ‘Don’t usually remember them, but you stick out. The skin.’

  ‘I killed some people who killed my family. Then I was dead inside. My skin turned grey. Then I was dead outside.’

  Bracken nodded. ‘You take any colloidal silver?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Golem. ‘I take many things to keep me healthy and strong. Is good. Heals you. Keeps you fit. Stops Aids, they say.’

  ‘And turns your skin grey.’

  The Golem thought about that. ‘No. It is because I am dead inside.’

  ‘Whatever works for you, son,’ said Bracken, and kept pushing the needle.

  Bracken used big, looping strokes, like he was stitching leather or hide, and thick black thread. The local anaesthetic hadn’t blocked out all the pain. The Golem had to rely on himself to do that.

  His side had been done first. The easiest wound to clean, treat, stitch and bandage. Then the knife slashes to his arm. Again, relatively simple. But his left arm was proving problematic. It had been chewed to bits.

  ‘You should probably have a skin graft on this,’ Bracken had said. ‘Reconstructive surgery. It’s the only thing that’ll save it. Make it good again.’

  ‘I don’t have time,’ said the Golem. ‘I am working. Put me together again, send me back out there.’

  ‘You’ll be going nowhere for the next few days, state you’re in,’ Bracken said.

  ‘No,’ said the Golem, not arguing but stating. ‘Patch me up. Send me back. I am working. I have job to finish.’

  Bracken waved his hand, shrugged. Not his problem. ‘As you wish … ’

  He pulled the last length of thread through the Golem’s arm, tied it, cut it. Stood back. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Best I can do.’

  The Golem stood up, looked at himself in the mirror.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, you’ll be unsteady on your feet … ’

  The Golem stood firm. Regarded his reflection.

  More wounds to heal. More life markers on his body. More scars to carry. He could live with them. But Bracken was right. His left arm was a mess.

  ‘Bandage me up,’ he told Bracken.

  ‘That arm needs more than bandage.’

  ‘And it will get it. After I finish job.’

  Shrugging once more, Bracken bandaged the Golem’s arm. The Golem kept looking at himself.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Pills?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pills. You give me pills. You know the kind. You give before.’

  ‘Oh, now look … that’s not, that’s not a good idea … ’

  ‘Pills now. You know. The kind to make me strong. To make me not give in. The kind that make me feel no pain.’

  ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea. You don’t … They’re dangerous. They could damage you when you take them. Hurt you.’

  ‘If they do,’ the Golem said, eyes hard and flat, ‘then I won’t feel it. Pills. Now.’

  49

  Mickey Philips had received the call over an hour ago. Murder in Jaywick. Get yourself there as quickly as possible.

  Now he parked as near to the crime-scene tape as he could. Silenced the Fleet Foxes CD that had been playing and made his way to the barrier, warrant card at the ready.

  Fleet Foxes, for God’s sake. It was something Phil had burned for him and left in the car, insisting he listen to it. He had played it once, under sufferance, then relegated it to the bottom of the glove box, treating it with the contempt he reserved for most of his boss’s music. At least he hadn’t launched this one out of the window on the A12. The same couldn’t be said for Neil Young’s Sleeps With Angels album.

  But today he had enjoyed it. Especially ‘Your Protector’; that track had struck a chord with him. Played it three times. Even started singing along. And he knew why.

  Anni. And the night they had just spent together.

  As he walked, he thought back. They had sat together on the sofa in her living room. Glass of wine in her hand, beer in his. Budvar. Because she knew he liked it. He hadn’t noticed at the time, but afterwards he realised that she must have got that in especially for him in case he ever called round. That made him smile.

  Anni had been curled in one corner, legs beneath her, Mickey at the other end. Trying to relax but remaining upright and forward instead. She had put some music on. Fleet Foxes.

  ‘Not usually my thing,’ she had said. ‘Phil downloaded it for me. It’s really grown on me.’

  Mickey nodded. Sipped his beer, listened to the harmonies. Something about coming down from the mountain, being gone too long. It wasn’t bad.

  ‘I think he did me a copy too,’ he said. ‘Never played it.’

  ‘You should. You might like it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, looking at her, ‘I might.’

  ‘After a hard day at work,’ she said, ‘glass of wine, this music, great way to unwind.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said.

  She placed her wine glass on a side table. Took a deep breath, let it out. Mickey watched her breasts rise and fall as she did so. He couldn’t help it. He put the can to his lips, noticed his hand was shaking. Swallowed hard on the beer, put it down too. His body was burning with desire mixed with a fear of rejection. He looked along the sofa at Anni. She smiled at him.

  ‘I can think of a better way to relax, though.’

  She moved towards him. He thought of picking up his beer can again, draining it, just to take in some courage, but left it where it was. She had worked her way along until she was beside him. She placed her hand on his chest, ran her fingers down his shirt front. Her touch felt good.

  She looked at him. Eyes locking with eyes. She smiled. Moved her head in towards him.

  The first kiss. The first proper kiss between them. Her tongue was in his mouth, he met hers with his. Touching, exploring, mouth on mouth. Her lips so warm, so soft. Just like he had imagined. And he had imagined this a lot.

  He pulled away. Looked at her. She smiled once more, eyes lit by an inner fire.

  ‘D’you think … ’ he said.

  ‘Yes … ’ Her voice breathy.

  ‘D’you think we should be doing this? What with … y’know. Everything that’s happened today.’

  She sat back from him. ‘Don’t you want to?’

  ‘Yes, but … ’ He sighed. ‘The boss. Everything that’s happened.’

  She sat back from him. ‘If you don’t want to … ’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ She leaned forward. ‘After today, I think this is just what we need.’

  And she was back beside him, mouth on his, hands running over his clothed body, finding buttons, zips. Undoing them. Pulling his shirt off, breaking off from their kiss to slide her hands over his chest, smile.

  He moved in to her neck, began kissing her there, hands slowly caressing her. Moving gently inside her T-shirt, down her chest …

  She pushed herself against him. He kept caressing her. Her hands found the buttons of his jeans, began working t
hem open. He kept his hands above her breasts.

  Anni stopped what she was doing, looked at him.

  ‘You OK?’ she said, voice a near-whisper.

  He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You sure you want to do this?’

  ‘Yeah … ’ He frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘You just seem … I don’t know. Like you’re holding back.’

  ‘Holding back? No, I’m … I’m not.’

  ‘Good.’

  And she bit his neck. He loved it. Felt an electrically sexual charge run through him. His hands moved down to her breasts. She groaned, pushed her body towards him again. His strokes became slightly more urgent. She stopped once more.

  ‘Don’t you fancy me?’

  ‘What? Yeah, course … ’

  ‘Then show me. I won’t break, you know.’

  He sighed. ‘I know, but … ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m just … I’m sorry. I just … you’re someone special. To me. Very special. And you know … I respect you.’

  ‘Good. So you should. And you can still respect me.’ She smiled. ‘In the morning. But tonight, I want some fun.’

  ‘Permission granted,’ he said, smiling.

  And from then on, Mickey didn’t have to be told twice.

  50

  After Mickey had left, Anni couldn’t get back to sleep.

  She lay there in bed, replaying the events of the previous night over and over in her head. And they were worth replaying. She and Mickey had just … fitted. Not at first, though. Mickey had seemed reticent. She had found it quite sweet. But since sweet wasn’t the defining feature she looked for in a man – it wasn’t even in the top ten – she had gently but firmly shown him that that wasn’t what she wanted. And he had responded.

  Oh yes, he had responded.

  The night had been wonderful from then on. Filthy and tender by turns, thrillingly fast at times, achingly slow at others. Anticipation and fulfilment in equal measure.

  But with Mickey gone, something else took hold of her mind. The CCTV footage of Marina in the garage from the day before. She kept replaying it over and over in her head. They had missed something, she was sure of it.

  She ran through it once more, and … there it was.

  Anni was up, showered and out of her flat in record time, calling ahead to tell the farmer’s wife from the garage that she was coming back, asking her to have the CCTV footage ready to view again. And not to empty the bins.

  Less than thirty minutes later, she was standing in the back room of the service station, looking at the TV screen. She saw Marina standing impatiently in line, waiting to be served. Watched as she looked up at the CCTV camera then moved forward in the queue, bought her mints. Took one, threw the wrapper on the floor.

  ‘There it is,’ said Anni. ‘Stop it there.’ She pointed at the screen. ‘See?’

  The farmer’s wife paused the footage.

  ‘She … throws the wrapper on the floor,’ said the woman, a puzzled look on her face.

  ‘Yes, she does. Have you swept up since then?’

  ‘Yes, but … ’

  Anni pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket. ‘Can you show me where the bins are, please?’

  The farmer’s wife took her outside to the back of the building, where black bags and flattened cardboard boxes were piled up. She told Anni which bag was the likeliest. Anni spread newspaper on the ground, split the bag, tipped the contents out. She talked as she sifted.

  ‘I thought it was just rubbish,’ she said. ‘At first. Just her being untidy. But then … ’ her hands worked over the garbage, unfolding every piece of paper she could find, ‘I thought of the way she found the CCTV camera, looked at it. It bugged me. And watching it back now … ’ she held up a piece of paper; discarded it, ‘I knew I was right.’

  The farmer’s wife was standing beside her, watching. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘The look,’ said Anni. ‘At first I thought she was just checking where the camera was. Thinking about avoiding it. But no. She looks at the camera, then looks to the floor.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Not just anywhere, but to a specific part of the floor. The identical same spot that she threw that bit of rubbish down at.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the farmer’s wife, her voice becoming excited. ‘You think she’s left you a clue? From the wrapper on those mints?’

  ‘Not the wrapper. She just wanted to make us think it was a wrapper. She was being subtle in case … I don’t know. Someone else was watching? But she hoped one of us would see what she was doing.’ She held up a piece of paper. Smiled. ‘Here it is.’

  As she unfolded the paper, the farmer’s wife leaned in closer to see. ‘It’s a postcode,’ she said. ‘She sent you a message.’

  ‘She certainly did.’

  Anni thanked the woman, who said she would clear up, and that she was glad to help. Then she made her way to the pool car she had borrowed from the station, a Fiesta, buzzing like she had just speed-downed thirty espressos.

  Thank God it’s got sat nav, she thought, and keyed in the coordinates. She was ready to go.

  She just had one phone call to make first.

  51

  ‘So who called it in?’ Mickey Philips asked the uniform next to him, walking down the common approach path towards the crime scene. The morning was white, fogbound. The mist curled round him like a character in a Steve Ditko comic.

  The circus had arrived before him. The house and grounds had been cordoned off behind black and yellow crime-scene tape, fluttering in the breeze like disgruntled wasps. Through the fog, the white-suited forensics team were treading carefully and warily, sticking to the square metal stepping stones of the CAP, not wanting to tread on the wrong thing, explode some hidden time bomb. They never failed to remind Mickey of a team of scientists in some Hollywood blockbuster, trying to halt the spread of a deadly virus or chemical spillage. The most visible symbol to observers that something in their ordered world had gone very wrong.

  Ahead of them, two white plastic tents had been erected, both to preserve the crime scene and to obscure the view of any TV news crews. Mickey had noticed a couple getting into place as he pulled up. Finding good positions for their cameras and reporters. White mist, white tents, white-suited people. Wouldn’t make for the most dynamic TV pictures.

  Since Mickey was with the Major Incident Squad, he tried to avoid the crews. If they recognised him as he approached, they might think there was a story to be had, and that would make his job even more difficult.

  The uniform by the inner cordon checked his notes, hurried to keep up with him. ‘Someone out walking their dog. Proper angry old man. Saw a lump on the lawn.’ He pointed to the first white tent. ‘Thought it was someone asleep. A tramp, he said. Went to … ’ He checked his notes. ‘Berate the person, as he said.’

  ‘Berate? He used that word?’

  The uniform nodded. ‘His exact word.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Right.’ He looked down at his notes once more. ‘He then realised they were dead dogs. Went up to the house to complain, found the body. And here we are.’

  ‘Given a statement?’

  ‘Yep. Got it. Very angry. Apparently there should be a law against killing dogs, he reckons.’

  ‘Whereas doing it to people is fine. Thanks.’

  The uniform went back to his duties.

  Mickey reached the first white tent. He pulled on the offered white paper suit, shoe covers and gloves. He asked if it was OK to enter, was given an affirmative. The corpses of the two dogs took centre stage. Forensics had positioned a workbench at the side. The bodies had been marked, catalogued, inspected. The surrounding area cordoned off, subject to investigation. Mickey always regarded a crime scene as a spiral. Start at the edge, work inwards to the centre – the crime itself. And once that story was told, a conclusion could then be worked towards.

  ‘What have we got?’

  Jane Gosling, another MIS
DS, turned to him. He knew her well. Pleasant temperament, passionate about amateur dramatics. He made a mental note: must get round to seeing her in something. Only polite.

  ‘Two dead dogs,’ she said, deliberately stating the obvious. She was a large woman, and although she filled out the white suit, she carried herself with a grace that belied her size.

  ‘Great observation,’ said Mickey, bending down. ‘You’ll go far.’

  Jane joined him. ‘This one here … ’ she pointed to the dog on the right, ‘seems to have taken a punch to the neck. Then a boot to the head. Or something heavy.’

  ‘And that’s what killed it?’

  ‘Not sure. The head’s at an angle; looks like its neck’s been snapped.’

  ‘Jesus. And the other?’ He indicated the second dog. ‘Someone’s had a right go at this one.’

  ‘They have. Blood all over its face. What we think is that it attacked someone and they fought back.’

  ‘Must have been a hell of a fighter. More than one of them?’

  ‘Don’t know. Yet. We’re still examining the footprints around the area. We’ve only found one set so far.’

  ‘One person did this? Jesus … ’

  ‘And look at the dog. What’s been done to it. It looks like it attacked someone.’ She gestured with the tip of her pen towards its mouth. ‘See there? Bits of flesh on its fangs.’

  ‘Should be able to get some good DNA off that.’

  ‘Hopefully. All that blood can’t be the dog’s own.’

  He felt himself staring at it, appalled but fascinated. ‘But … what happened? It looks like its head’s been ripped apart.’

  ‘It has. Something very strong’s been put in its jaw. And the jaw’s been pulled apart.’

  ‘And that’s what killed it?’

  ‘It’s got a broken neck too. That seems the most likely. At this stage. But it would have died from the injuries anyway.’