by Tania Carver
The boxing ring was still in use. Two lean-framed teenagers danced round each other in vests and shorts, heads and hands padded, concentration fixed. Their trainer shouting instructions from the sidelines. Along the side of the room, the free weights were being used, the bags being hit. Boys and men, their skins all shades from pasty white to rich dark brown, worked the room. No trouble. Just the camaraderie of contained aggression.
But not in the basement. The regulars, the punters, never got to go down there. Never had need to. Because there was a different kind of aggression going on below. Not contained, no rules. A room for hire. Soundproofed. Where payments could be made and scores settled. For a price.
Mike Dillman knew all about that. He’d known Lisa was a handful when he met her. That was why he had married her. She was fiery, loud. Quick to anger and ready to fight. He loved that about her. Because it also made her a fantastic fuck. But there was a down side. She got hugely jealous. He just had to look at another woman for her to kick off. And Mike had done more than just look. Often. Now, sitting on a chair in the centre of this room, he wished he’d kept his eyes and hands to himself.
He felt dead. His arms tied behind his back, his legs tied to the legs of the chair. His shirt open. He felt blood running down his face, pain all over, like his body had been wired into the mains.
And there was Lisa, standing in front of him, sweating hard. Bloodied heavy metal glistening on her fists. Chest heaving, eyes shining with a primal light. She looked beautiful. He would give her that.
Behind her, a bored man in a suit sitting on a chair with a porn magazine open on his lap looked at his watch.
‘That it, then?’ he said. ‘You done?’
Lisa shook her head, checked the clock on the wall. ‘Got another quarter of an hour yet. Paid for it. Got to use it.’
The bored man shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ Went back to studying his magazine.
Lisa looked down at Mike. The hatred in her eyes, the rage. Beautiful. When she got like this, the sex afterwards was always brilliant. He still wanted her, even after what she’d done to him.
‘Learned your lesson?’ she shouted. ‘Still want to go fucking around with other women? Have you, Mike? Need reminding who you’re married to?’
‘Yeah,’ he managed to gasp in a voice he didn’t recognise as his own. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve … you’ve made your point an’ I won’t do it again. Let’s … let’s go home … ’
Lisa nodded, pulled her fist back, brought it quickly forward, connecting with his chin. His head went back, blood and spit flew. Jesus Christ, that hurt. Not as much as the last time, though, he noticed. She was getting tired. Her aggression running out like her time.
She stepped back. Head to one side, she studied him.
‘That’s it,’ she said, not turning. ‘I’m done.’
Mike looked up. ‘I’m sorry … Let’s … Get me up an’ we’ll … we’ll say no more about it, yeah?’
Lisa walked away, ignoring him.
The suited man stood up, threw her a towel. ‘Go get yourself cleaned up. We’ll finish off in here.’
Mike Dillman watched her leave the room, puzzled. The man put his magazine on the chair, looked at the beaten man before him. ‘Shouldn’t mess around, should you?’ he said. Not judgementally, just as a matter of fact. ‘Look where it gets you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mike. ‘Won’t do it again.’ He tried to move his arms. They hurt. He looked at the man, tried to focus through swollen eyelids. ‘You … you let me out now, yeah?
‘Just got the cleaning up to do,’ said the suited man, crossing into the shadows. He gestured. A shadow detached itself from the back wall, stepped forward. Mike’s ruined face managed to register surprise.
And fear.
The shadow moved forward. It was a huge man, hair cropped short, wearing a T-shirt and jeans tucked into boots. His size was impressive, but that wasn’t what had drawn Mike’s attention. It was his skin. He was the colour of smoke, of shadow. He was grey.
‘Who’s … who’s that?’
‘We call him the Golem,’ said the suited man, his voice businesslike. ‘You’ll call him the last person you’ll see on this earth.’
The man’s words registered. Mike began to shake, his earlier pain gone, the need to get away, to live now his only thought. He heard screaming, shouting. Realised it was him. Did it some more.
‘Sorry, mate,’ said the suited man. ‘Out of my hands. She paid for the works. She has a go at you first, then we get rid of you. No point screamin’ either. This place is soundproofed. Take it like a man, eh?’
The Golem advanced. Mike screamed.
The Golem reached out. Then stopped as a ringing sound filled the air.
Oh thank God, thought Mike. Thank God …
The suited man frowned. The Golem reached into his jeans pocket.
‘I have to take this,’ he said, pulling out a phone and looking at the display. He spoke heavily accented English.
He put the phone to his ear, waited. Mike stared at him, mouth open, breath held.
‘Now? … Where? … Fee? … ’ He nodded. ‘Good.’ Pocketed the phone.
‘Don’t want to hurry you, mate,’ said the suited man, ‘but we got another one in at seven.’
‘No trouble,’ said the Golem with his heavy accent. ‘Take seconds.’
‘No,’ said Mike, ‘no, no, no … ’
The Golem reached out, wrapped a huge hand round his neck. Mike stared into his eyes, expecting to see … something. Anything. His life flash before him. He saw nothing. Just empty grey pools.
No, he thought, this isn’t fair. I can’t … no. This isn’t the way my life ends. It can’t be … I’ve—
A quick snap and it was done. Mike Dillman was gone. The Golem straightened up, turned away. ‘You clean up,’ he said as he passed the suited man. ‘He has pissed and shit.’
The Golem disappeared into the shadows. The suited man watched him go. Then he crossed to the centre of the room, began to clean up.
As he reached for the broom, he noticed that his hands were shaking.
A lot.
19
DS Jessica James checked her notebook once more. Looked up. Back to the notes. This wasn’t right, she thought.
She looked at the house in front of her, expecting it to match up to the one she had pictured in her head. It didn’t. Old, she had thought, but well maintained. Perhaps wooden or clapboard, with charm and character. Idiosyncratic even, but speaking of money and taste. Probably in a stylishly understated manner. Blue and white pottery on the windowsill.
The house before her was nothing like that. It was old, yes, but poorly maintained. The wooden window frames were flaking paint, rotting round the glass. The once white front was now a mottled, mildewed green. The path to the door was broken concrete, weeds sprouting unchecked through the cracks.
Not the kind of house she had expected Stuart Milton to live in.
DCI Franks had phoned her while she was on her way here. She hadn’t minded; in fact she had expected it. Would have done it herself if the positions had been reversed. He wasn’t trying to tell her her job, he had said, and from the tone of his voice she had believed him. He just wanted to check how the investigation was proceeding and see if there was anything he could do to help.
‘Like what?’ she had asked.
There came a noise down the phone. She imagined him puffing out his cheeks and blowing air. This, along with the gruff Welsh roll of his voice, gave her the mental image of a bull. ‘Anything really,’ he had said. ‘Background, stuff you want to run by me, support, you name it.’
‘I already told—’ She stopped herself. Unsure whether Mickey Philips had told his boss that he had come along to help. She suspected Franks knew, but she didn’t want to be the one to tell him, just in case he didn’t. She didn’t want to get Mickey into trouble. ‘I’ve got a team out looking for the missing girl. We’ll be following up any leads. I think we’ve got everythin
g covered,’ she had said. ‘But if I need anything, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Appreciate it.’ Franks sounded genuine enough. He paused. For all the gruffness, there was a quality in his voice that she found appealing. Eventually he spoke. ‘Marina, Marina Esposito, she’s gone. Left the hospital. Did you know?’
‘I had heard.’
‘Walked out. We need to find her. She’s in a fragile state of mind.’
‘I can imagine. I’m off to re-interview the eyewitness who was with her. Something he mentioned got me thinking. I’ll see if he can add anything else.’
Stuart Milton’s testimony hadn’t quite rung true. Something niggled and she didn’t know what. When she had run the conversation back in her mind, she could find nothing wrong with it. He had seemed like a perfectly credible witness. He had stopped Marina from re-entering the burning cottage, and had the grazes to prove it. But there was something not right about him. Copper’s intuition, she had thought. The fact that he had disappeared from the car just confirmed it. Or at least deepened her suspicions of him.
‘Good idea, DS James. Keep me posted.’
She said she would, and cut the call.
It was only afterwards that she realised Franks hadn’t pressed her on what Stuart Milton had said. That meant he was either a bad copper, which she doubted, or he already knew. That was more likely. At least she didn’t have to worry about keeping Mickey’s involvement quiet.
Jessie looked round, up and down the terrace. She wouldn’t have said Aldeburgh had any mean streets until she came here. She stepped up to the door, knocked on it. There was a bell, but she doubted it was working.
She waited. Was about to knock again when she heard someone making their way towards the door. Slowly, like they were dragging something.
The door opened. A man stood there. Definitely not Stuart Milton. He wore tracksuit bottoms and carpet slippers. An old fraying vest with ingrained stains; on top of that an open shirt with a faded print. His hair was greasy, and although he wasn’t fat, his frame looked loose and flabby, like his body had lost a lot of weight but hadn’t told his skin.
‘Yeah?’ He was breathing heavily, like he’d just finished a marathon.
Jessie held up her warrant card. ‘DS James, Suffolk Police. I’m looking for Stuart Milton. Is he in?’ She’d guessed the answer to the question before she had even asked it.
His eyes turned away from her, unreadable. ‘Who?’ Said in a rasping voice.
Jessie glanced behind the man into the hallway. It was dimly lit, which hid the poor state of the decor. A little. Against the gloom she made out the frame of a wheelchair, the outline of an oxygen bottle. She didn’t need to be a detective to work out that the man had severe respiratory problems. Fatal, even, from the sound of him.
She persisted. ‘Stuart Milton. I spoke to him earlier. This was the address he gave me.’
His eyes closed. Once more, she couldn’t read them. ‘There’s … no one here … by that … name … ’ He began wheezing, gripped the door for support. The wheeze threatened to turn into a rumbling, racking cough.
Cancer, thought Jessie. Lung cancer.
He made to close the door. It was clearly an effort.
‘Can I just describe him to you? I won’t take up much of your time.’
He said nothing. She took that as an invitation and described Stuart Milton.
As she spoke, the man’s expression changed slightly. Jessie thought she caught a flash of recognition flit across his eyes. He might even have smiled. She stopped talking. ‘You know him?’
The man shook his head. ‘No … ’
‘Sure?’
‘I said no, didn’t I?’ There was anger behind his words. It threatened to bring on another coughing fit.
‘I won’t take up any more of your time, then. Mr …?’
He just looked at her.
‘I didn’t get your name.’
‘Didn’t … give it … ’
‘Mr?’ She waited.
He’d obviously realised he wouldn’t get rid of her until she had his name. ‘Hibbert. Jeff, Jeffrey … Hibbert.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hibbert. I’ll be on my way now.’
She turned and started back down the path. The door closed behind her. She heard the deferred bout of coughing start, even through the closed door. It sounded like he was trying to cough up his insides.
She walked away.
The evening was gathering, the sky darkening. She should be getting ready to hit the town with her girlfriends for their regular Friday night out. Easter or no Easter. But she didn’t want to.
Stuart Milton, who doesn’t exist. Jeff Hibbert, who says he doesn’t know him but probably does.
This is getting interesting, she thought.
20
Tyrell couldn’t relax.
He had tried sitting down. He had tried standing up. Then walking round. First one way, then the other. But nothing worked. Nothing made him feel at ease.
He thought the caravan might have helped. It reminded him of his cell. Small and cramped, it smelled bad, even with the windows open, like the ghosts of previous tenants were still lingering. Everything was worn, overused, and nothing was truly his; he was just using it until the next occupant replaced him.
But he couldn’t settle, and he thought the caravan, far from helping, was actually working against him, sending his emotions in the opposite direction.
He had spent the hours alone since Jiminy Cricket had left him there. No one had talked to him or looked in on him. That was OK. He was used to spending time in his own head. He had spent years there. But this felt different. He had decided to try and work out why.
It wasn’t the space. That much he knew. It wasn’t the view. He had been able to look out of his cell window. And now it was dark, anyway. The lack of noise? Perhaps. There had been plenty of noise in prison. Men locked up behind thick, soundproofed metal doors should have been silent. But prisons weren’t silent places. He had lost count of the nights he had lain awake on his bunk trying not to listen to men screaming and crying. Blubbering and bargaining. Then the other voices, weak but trying to be strong. Shouting at the screamers. Sing us a song. Tell us a joke. Give us a poem. A life story. Laughing, promising what would happen if they did. And what would happen if they didn’t.
At first he had tried to match the voices with the faces the next morning. Pick them out. But he soon gave up on that. Because while he was doing it to them, they were doing it to him. And he didn’t want anyone working out his daytime talking voice from his night-time crying one.
Sometimes he doubted he would be able to sleep without the noise. And there was hardly any noise here.
Apart from the child.
He had heard it when he arrived. Asked about it. Where was the child, why was it crying? No reply. And then it had stopped and he had stopped thinking about it. Began to doubt he had even heard it. Not outside, anyway. For real. Just inside his head. He could always hear things inside his head. And was always being told they weren’t real.
So he had ignored it. Let it go. Kept his mind blank, which wasn’t hard. They had given him medication to help in prison. Tablets that took his headaches away and made him forget. Traded a head full of needles for a head full of fog. But it wasn’t always his head that hurt, he told them. Sometimes it was his heart. But he couldn’t remember why. And that made it worse. Forgetting was better.
Prison. Even that was starting to slip away. How long had he been out? One day? More? Less? No. One day. He was sure. Because he hadn’t slept in the caravan yet. He would have remembered waking up there.
Prison was a room like this. Prison was someone feeding him three meals a day. Prison was walking in a square. Prison was classrooms and workshops. Prison was books. Prison was living inside his own head. Prison wasn’t this. Prison didn’t have a door he could open.
And that was what unsettled him.
He could get up, cross the floor of the caravan and
open the door. Step out any time he wanted. No one had to do it for him. He didn’t have to wait for special times. He could just get up and do it himself.
But he didn’t. Couldn’t.
Hadn’t.
He looked again at the door. The handle. Both thin metal. Easy to open. One turn. A push. And out.
He kept staring at the door. And felt himself rise to his feet. Like an unseen force was pulling him upright and moving him towards it. Like a horror film zombie in a voodoo trance.
He crossed the floor of the caravan. Reached the door. Put his hand out. Held it over the door handle. Not touching, but he could feel it, sense it. Waves of energy came off it towards his hand. Willed him to grasp it, turn it …
He took his hand away. Let it drop by his side. He couldn’t do it. Not after all this time. Not after …
His hand reached out again. Again he felt that force around his fingers. And again he let his hand drop by his side.
He sighed. Turned. Crossed the caravan again. Was about to sit down when he heard something.
The child crying once more.
Tyrell stopped. Looked round. It was coming from outside. From the house beside the caravan. He hadn’t imagined it. The crying was real.
He turned back towards the door. Held out his hand. Let it drop.
The child kept crying.
He felt something in his mind. Some trigger. Long ago and out of reach of his memory. Something in the fog. It was about a child. A small child. A night-time crying voice. In his head. His heart. Buried deep. Way deep. And every time he wanted to make it stop. Had to find a way to make it stop. To give it rest.
The child kept crying.
He reached out for the handle. His heart was hammering, his legs shaking.
