by Tania Carver
He gripped the handle.
He could feel the blood pumping in his head. Hear it in his ears. It nearly blocked out the child. Nearly, but not quite.
He tightened his grip. Took a deep breath. Another.
Turned the handle.
And stepped outside.
21
Marina couldn’t sleep. Out of all the things that had happened to her that day, this was the least surprising.
The hotel was recently built and virtually deserted. No Good Friday business overnights. Muzak echoed round beige hallways. Marina wondered how somewhere so new could feel so haunted.
She sat on the edge of the bed, perched, ready to jump, unable to relax. She pointed the TV remote, flicked round the channels, looking for news of her daughter, her husband. A comedy panel show she had previously found funny was now just irritating and arch. Flick. A big-budget Hollywood blockbuster with last-second stunt escapes from explosions. Flick. A contemporary musical retelling of Jesus’s crucifixion with stage-school kids pretending to be urban. Flick. The news. She watched, flinching, like she was expecting a punch. Nothing.
She dropped the remote on the bed. Lay back and stared at the ceiling, despair eating her up from inside, and thought about her family.
Until she met Phil, until they had Josephina, she had believed family to be something to escape rather than embrace. The nuns who taught her at school had told her that it was the most important thing a person could have in their life. Marina had sat there, not daring to speak up for fear of being hit again, but thinking: Really? You haven’t met mine, then.
Her father, a lying, bullying, cheating, alcoholic wife-beater who had walked out on the family when she was seven, returning occasionally to spread his particular brand of anguish and upset. Her mother, more punchbag than person. And her two brothers, who, when she had last seen them, seemed to be doing their best to emulate their father’s life and work.
But the nuns, for all their fierce attempts to impart to her a love of Jesus Christ with whatever instrument of punishment the law would allow, physical or otherwise, had at least done one thing right. Spotted her intelligence.
A scholarship had taken her from secondary school in Balsall Heath, Birmingham, to Cambridge, where she studied psychology. Revenge on her father was how she regarded it at the time. Trying to understand why he was the way he was and did what he did. Marina had inherited his dark Italian looks and sometimes, she feared, his temper. At the back of her mind the course might have been a way for her to understand herself. Or how to not turn out like him.
Her mother had died of cancer before she could see her daughter graduate, something Marina always regretted. But she knew in her heart that her mother had been proud of her.
Her brothers less so. The last she had heard of the elder, Lanzo, he was doing time for a string of robberies on petrol stations in Walsall, with no imminent release date.
Her other brother, Alessandro, had contacted her recently. Now living in Jaywick, Essex, he had suggested they go out to dinner. She hadn’t wanted to respond, but Phil, having no siblings of his own, insisted she make the effort.
They met for dinner in the Warehouse, a brasserie in Colchester. As soon as Alessandro entered, Marina knew it was a mistake. He had brought with him a woman who was dressed as if for the late shift in a seedier copy of Spearmint Rhino, and as soon as he found out what Phil did for a living, he cursed him fluently in two languages.
The meal never reached dessert.
Alessandro had phoned a couple of days later and apologised. Said he was under a lot of stress, shouldn’t have said what he did. Wanted her to know he was there for her, his little sister, whatever she needed. Wanted to try again.
Marina had never phoned him back.
Phil and Josephina. That was her family. And she had never felt a stronger need to see them than the one inside her now.
She got up off the bed, fighting back tears, screams. She could see them both in her mind’s eye. Phil, tall, blond and good-looking; Josephina, with her dark curls and wide eyes, taking after her. She wished they were together, wished she could touch them, hold them, tell them what they meant to her. She felt her body start to slip into emotional meltdown once more, knew that wouldn’t help. She fought it. Tried to do something positive, something that would help.
She looked down at her bag. The alien phone stared up at her. She picked it up. Gazed at it. It would be so easy …
No. They might be monitoring it. She looked round the room again. The phone on the bedside table. A beige plastic box. She saw the faces of Phil, of Josephina, and felt how her whole being was aching to see them again. She had to risk it.
She picked up the receiver, punched the button for an outside line. Directory Enquiries.
‘Ipswich General, please.’
She was connected. It rang. Was answered.
‘Yes,’ said Marina, voice small and croaking, trembling. ‘You’ve … Phil Brennan. You’ve got a patient called Phil Brennan. I’d … I’d like … How is he, please?’
She was asked for her name and relationship.
‘I’m … I’m his wife.’ No going back now.
She was asked to wait. Plunged into silence. Her heart hammered louder than the hold music. The nurse came back on.
‘He’s stable,’ she said. ‘Out of surgery and resting.’
‘Oh, thank God … ’
The nurse was about to say something more but seemed distracted by someone else on the end of the phone. ‘Can I … can I just ask you to stay on the line, please?’
Marina slammed the phone down.
No one was going to trace that call.
She tried to sit back on the bed but was humming from the conversation, the contact. She replayed the words in her head. Stable. Out of surgery.
She felt that ache in her heart, that yearning. She desperately wanted to be with him. Needed to. She looked round the room. Crossed the floor, looked out of the window. It was dark outside. The car park was in shadowed pools from the orange sodium lights. Beyond that was the A120.
Marina looked at the phone lying on the bed. It hadn’t rung. She had been told they wouldn’t ring until the morning. She looked again at the window, the road.
They can’t be watching all the time, she thought. Not round the clock. Her heart beating faster, she made up her mind. She picked up her car keys. Left the room.
The lobby was deserted. No one on the desk, no one in the hall. She made her way to the front door, moving as fast as possible, then stepped outside. She stopped, looked round. Checked every angle, every corner of the car park for an observer. Looked up to the road, checked there too.
Saw no one anywhere.
Trying not attract attention by running, she hurried to the car, got in. Turned the engine over and, giving one last look round, made her way out of the car park. Up the slip road, on to the A120. Heading eastwards. Towards Phil. Scanning behind her all the time, checking for other cars following her.
Traffic was light. No one came up the slip road after her. No one joined the A120 at the same point. She breathed a huge sigh of relief. Felt a smile crawl on to the corners of her mouth. Gave a giddy laugh.
She hadn’t been followed. She knew she hadn’t. Felt she hadn’t. She approached the roundabout, ready to turn left and speed away.
Then she heard it.
Love Will Tear Us Apart.
Her heart turning to stone, she put the call on loudspeaker.
‘Who’s been a naughty girl, then?’
That voice again. That same fucking stupid voice.
‘I … I don’t know what you mean … ’
‘You were told to stay in the hotel. You’re not there now, are you?’
‘I … I … ’ Her hands began to shake on the steering wheel.
‘Turn the car round, go back to the hotel, wait for instructions in the morning.’
The roundabout was ahead of her. She signalled. Went right round it. Back the way she had c
ome.
‘Good girl,’ said the voice.
The hotel was in front of her once more. She signalled and turned off. Pulled up in the same slot in the car park.
‘Just do as you’re told, Marina. Then we’ll all be happy.’
The phone went dead.
Marina sat there, numb.
Eventually she got out of the car and went back to the room.
To stare at the ceiling all night.
22
The night air hit hard, making Tyrell gasp. It was unexpectedly cold, especially when the April day had been so warm. But then night was something he had only watched from his prison window for years, never actually experienced.
He shivered. The shirt he was wearing was long-sleeved, but he wished he had put a sweatshirt over it. A timid voice told him to go back inside, ignore the crying child and stay where it was safe, and he struggled not to let it win. He looked round, took a couple of deep breaths that fizzed coldly into his lungs and moved forward, away from the caravan.
He smelt salt on the air. It reminded him of the prison on the Isle of Sheppey. He could only make out street lights and house lights far away in the distance. The lights were on in the house next to the caravan. And that was where the noise of the crying child came from.
He stepped away from the caravan, shivering, and moved towards the house. It was old and big, although it may only have seemed that way to Tyrell after being in such a small space for so long. It reminded him of somewhere else. Another house. Another time. A time when …
No. He closed his eyes. Screwed them tight shut. No. Don’t think about that. Don’t go back there.
He slowly opened his eyes. The house was still in front of him. But the other one, the old one, was gone. Good.
He walked unsurely, the ground rutted, holed and uneven. The dogs outside the house remained quiet. There were lights on in the downstairs rooms. The car he had arrived in was parked out front next to the old boxy silver one.
The he heard it again.
He stopped moving, tuning out the wind in his ears, concentrating on the child. It was a child, definitely. A little girl, it sounded like. Crying. Not happy at all. He moved closer until he was right beside the window. He managed to make out some words.
‘Mummy … Daddy … Lady … please … ’
And then another voice cut in, one he didn’t recognise. An angry voice telling the child to shut up, which just provoked more crying.
A shiver ran through Tyrell from more than the cold. A memory swirled into his head of another child. Sad and lonely. Wanting reassurance and love. Getting only anger and pain. Pain that hurt right down inside.
He closed his eyes again, trying to force the memory to swim back down into the blackness. Force it, force it …
He opened his eyes. The memory was gone. But the child was still crying. Tyrell had to do something. Make the crying stop. Find a way to make the child happy.
He knelt down beneath the window, feeling something rise within him that he couldn’t name because he didn’t recognise it. Bravery?
He poked his head up very slowly, looked inside. A kitchen. On the table was a laptop and some other electronic equipment, a half-empty whisky bottle and a couple of glasses. A rough-looking woman sat at the table, looking at the laptop. On the floor beside her, a length of rope tying her wrist to the doorknob, was a little girl. Dark-haired and sad-eyed, her face red and wet. The woman at the table was trying to ignore her. Her face was red too, but Tyrell imagined that was probably from the whisky.
The woman turned to the girl, who pulled away from her, scooting back on the floor as far as the rope would let her. The crying stopped, replaced by fear. Another shiver ran through Tyrell. What had the woman done to the little girl to make her so scared?
‘Fucking shut up,’ she said. Her voice sounded weird. Like it wasn’t tuned in properly. ‘Told you before. You’ll go home when your mother does what she’s told.’ She shook her head, looking back at the screen. ‘Little twat. Should just feed you to the dogs … ’
The words shocked Tyrell. He moved away from the window as if he had been struck. As he did so, he lost his footing and stumbled backwards. The dogs heard the noise and began to bark. He got quickly to his feet, flattened himself against the wall. Slowly stuck his head round the back of the house. The dogs were caged up by the back door, snouts at the mesh, barking and slavering. He pulled his head back in. Fast.
Tyrell looked back in the window. The woman at the kitchen table was swearing at the dogs, telling them to shut up. They ignored her. The little girl cried all the more. The woman got up, made her way angrily to the back door.
Tyrell was breathing heavily, as if he had done something strenuous. He saw a pile of firewood stacked against the wall of the house, near the front. He scurried under the window, picked out a heavy log; small enough to grasp firmly, long enough to swing, heavy enough to hurt. He tested it out a couple of times, got a good action going. Then went under the window back to where he had been. He breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Ready to move for the back door.
‘Going somewhere, Malcolm?’
Tyrell jumped, nearly dropping his club. He turned. There was Jiminy Cricket, the happy, smiling voice of his conscience.
He wasn’t smiling now.
‘I said, are you going somewhere, Malcolm Tyrell?’ The name said with hard emphasis, like he was pushing it into stone with his fist.
Tyrell swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, his legs shaking. Despite the open air, the night, this was just like being back inside, facing down some bully on his spur.
‘I’m … I’m … There’s a girl in there. A little girl. Crying.’
‘She’s no business of yours.’
‘She’s … she’s crying … ’
‘She’s fine.’
‘The woman at the table, she said she would feed her to the dogs … ’
Jiminy Cricket tried to laugh, put on an American accent once more, screeched, ‘Now get back in there and don’t come back until you’ve got a toddler!’ The accent dropped. His eyes flared. ‘Go back to the caravan.’
Tyrell’s shaking increased. Not from fear this time, but anger. He felt the wood in his hand. This wasn’t like facing down a bully. His weapon made the difference.
‘You wanna piece o’ me? That it?’ The American accent returned, this time a ridiculous gangster parody. He spread his arms wide and smiled. ‘Give it your best shot.’
Tyrell pulled his arm back, ready to swing it forward.
‘But do that, and I’ll fuckin’ have you.’ His voice, down and dark, told Tyrell he would. And he would enjoy it too.
Tyrell looked between the window and his companion. Looked at the log in his hand. Saw how his arm was shaking. Looked back to Jiminy Cricket. Who smiled. ‘Drop it,’ he said, like he was speaking to one of the backyard dogs.
Realising he had no alternative, Tyrell complied.
‘Good. Now go back to your caravan. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’
As though he was following an order from a wing officer, he did as he was told.
The caravan was slightly warmer than the night outside. He sat down on the bed. He saw the door being shut, heard the key being turned.
His first night of freedom, and he was locked up again.
23
Jeff Hibbert sat up in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He kept replaying the visit from that policewoman over and over in his mind, but that wasn’t what was keeping him awake.
Sitting like this was the only way he could get any respite from the pain, the only position he could sleep in. Like the Elephant Man, his wife had said, shortly before she left him.
Helen Hibbert had been a bitch. He knew that. It was why he had married her. She would try to outdo all the other women they knew, flirt with their men, lead them on, even shag a couple. All with Jeff’s blessing. Because it had turned him on. She’d even let him watch sometimes. The other wives had hated it. Hated them. Or fea
red them. And that had been the real thrill.
Jeff and Helen had had what they liked to think of as an unconventional, uninhibited marriage. Unique, different. And they didn’t care who got in their way. It had been fun, but Helen had eventually tired of it. Then she had turned on Jeff, and that hadn’t been so much fun.
The lung cancer had hit at the worst possible time. He had just lost his job and with it their lifestyle. He had plans how to get it back, oh yes, plans that would make them a shitload of money. Because Jeff knew where the bodies were buried. And where bodies that should have been buried were still walking around. But the lung cancer stopped that and Helen got tired of waiting. Started flirting with other men again. Younger men. Fitter men. Men who didn’t cough up blood. Who knew how to treat a woman. In front of her crippled husband, if necessary. And Jeff stopped finding it all so funny.
‘I don’t know what’ll hurt you more,’ Helen had said one morning after the latest pick-up had been dispatched. ‘Me leaving or me staying.’
So she had moved in with the latest one, leaving Jeff alone to die.
And all those dirty, filthy secrets that were going to make him rich, he could do nothing with. They would benefit someone, though. His co-conspirators, ex-partners. And Jeff hated that. Hated it. In fact, it was the hate that would kill him. But not yet. Because for now, it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Still, he thought, at least they won’t benefit Helen. That’s something.
What a waste. All that planning, the hours he’d put into it. A waste. He reached out his hand, felt the edge of his laptop under the bed. It was all on there. What had been done, the cover-ups, the plans he had made to get even, to make him rich, everything. All there. Safe.
And all fucking useless to him now.
He pulled his hand back up, stared again at the ceiling. Chest wheezing as he breathed in and out, lungs like needle-laced bagpipes. That policewoman.
Stuart Milton. Very fucking clever. Or so they thought. But dangerous. Almost giving themselves away.
