by Tania Carver
He knew why that name had been given. And his address. It was a warning. We know where you live. Couldn’t have been clearer if they’d trailed the message from the back end of a plane in the air along the seafront. And we can get you any time.
Yeah, yeah. Whatever. If the cancer doesn’t get me first.
He tried to sleep. His eyes had barely closed when he heard the noise from downstairs.
His eyes snapped open.
He heard the noise again. Someone was entering the house.
Jeff Hibbert’s heart began to pound, adding to the pain in his chest.
They’ve come for me, he thought. That’s it. They’ve come for me.
As he struggled painfully to rise and leave his bed, common sense kicked in. Helen. That was who it was. Brought some bloke back to gloat. Bitch. He relaxed back against the built-up pillows. He would ignore her. Pretend to be asleep. Not care what she did. That would show her.
Something smashed. Then something else.
That wasn’t Helen.
Hibbert sat up again, ignoring the pain this time. He swung his legs out of bed as quickly as he could. His heart was pounding once more, fear driving adrenalin round his system. Numbing him slightly, temporarily, giving him the strength he needed to move. He reached out, made a grab for his dressing gown from the back of the door. Couldn’t hold it, dropped it.
Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, trying to be quiet. Definitely not Helen.
He knelt down to pick up the dressing gown, but couldn’t get his fingers to work. They brushed the edge of the laptop. Pushed it further in. No one was getting that. No one.
The footsteps stopped outside his door. Hibbert held his breath. The door opened.
Hibbert’s eyes travelled up the huge legs of the visitor, took in the muscled torso, the thick arms. The head, hair cropped, angled down at him. Eyes blank.
It was like Frankenstein’s monster had arrived.
‘Get out … ’ Hibbert didn’t have the breath to make the words carry, the strength to make them mean anything.
The intruder looked at him.
‘I know … who you are,’ Hibbert said. ‘I know … what you want … ’
The intruder reached out an arm, picked Hibbert up off the bedroom floor. The pain was excruciating. Hibbert cried out, tried to grab the arm, get it to put him down. It was like arguing with a concrete post. And the same colour. He looked at the skin of the intruder. Grey. Like concrete. Like a dead man.
Hibbert knew who this was. And with that realisation came another: I’m going to die.
Now.
He laughed. It sounded as broken as the rest of him. ‘You … you can’t kill me. I’m … already dead … ’
‘Yes. But a dead man with something to tell me. To give me.’ The voice matched his skin. Hard. Dead.
‘I don’t … don’t … ’
The Golem cut him off. ‘Where is it?’
Hibbert tried to laugh, to stonewall, but his eyes betrayed him. They glanced down to the side of the bed. The Golem caught the look.
‘Get it.’
He relaxed his grip, and Hibbert slid down on to the bed. With his shrunken frame in his filthy, sweaty pyjamas, he looked like a collection of old rags. He stared up at the Golem once more, eyes burning. A last act of defiance.
‘Get it yourself.’
The Golem leant down, slid the laptop from under the bed. Looked at Hibbert once more. ‘Password?’
Hibbert gave another broken laugh in reply.
Then the pain in his body went off the scale. The Golem had grabbed him, was pushing his fingers under his ribcage, trying to squeeze his infected lungs. He felt one rib snap. Two. The pressure increased.
Hibbert screamed like he had never screamed before.
‘Password.’ The dead voice once more.
‘Helen … ’ Gasped out. The pain subsided to manageable levels.
Hibbert kept his head down. He had soiled his pyjamas. He knew this was the end. Anger welled up within him. For himself. For Helen. For his whole stinking, rotten, fucking awful life. He felt tears on his face.
‘This … It wasn’t supposed to … to … end like this … wasn’t supposed to end … at all … ’ More sobbing. ‘Helen … Helen, I’m … I’m sorry … ’
The Golem, laptop under one arm, reached out his other hand. Hibbert looked up.
‘You don’t need to … I’m … I’m a dead … a dead man … ’
The snap was small, almost delicate. Hibbert slumped to the bed. The Golem looked down at him.
‘Now you are dead man.’
He turned and left.
The house was still. Dark. As though no one had ever been there.
24
Midnight. And Good Friday became Easter Saturday. And DC Anni Hepburn was still in the hospital.
‘You should go home, Anni,’ Franks had said to her. ‘Get some rest. There’s others can take over here.’
She had given a weak smile in response. ‘I know, boss, but I’ll only be back here tomorrow. And it’ll save me coming up and down the A14 again.’
‘The road to hell,’ Franks said, smiling. ‘Well, OK. Just remember we’re not supposed to be working this case. If something comes up and I need you, you’ve to come down straight away. Leave it to Suffolk.’
She had agreed with him and he had left.
Phil Brennan was out of surgery and resting in a private room. He still hadn’t regained consciousness and Anni hadn’t been allowed in to see him. No need, the doctor had said. He won’t be saying anything for a while.
‘What’re his chances of a full recovery?’
The doctor had shrugged. ‘Depends what you mean. He’s been burnt and may need some grafts, if it comes to that. But we’re hoping it won’t. His head injury wasn’t as serious as we first thought. We’ve relieved the swelling and we’ll keep him under observation in case there’s any sign of embolism or thrombosis. But on the whole, I’m optimistic. We’re keeping him sedated for now. We’ll look at him again in the morning.’
She thanked him and went back to the fold-out bed they had provided for her. But she didn’t get far. At the end of the corridor she heard the squeak of rubber tyres. A wheelchair came round the corner, the occupant pushing it slowly towards her.
It took a while, but Anni recognised who it was. Eileen Brennan.
The woman looked dreadful. All bandages and bruises. Pale skin and deep, dark eyes. She pushed the chair level with Anni.
‘Where is he?’ she said, looking round. ‘They said he was down here.’
‘Eileen? Eileen Brennan?’
Eileen looked up. Anni caught the wildness in her eyes. She wondered what was holding the woman together, what kind of spirit she had.
‘Who are you?’
‘Anni Hepburn. I work with Phil.’
‘Oh.’ Her head dropped as she processed the information. Then back up at her. ‘Is he here?’
Anni gestured to the room, the closed door. ‘He’s in there. But we’re not allowed to go in.’
‘Why not?’
‘They say he needs rest. That he’ll get better without interruptions.’
‘Interruptions.’ Eileen nodded to herself, then looked up and down the corridor, disorientated, as if she had suddenly come round and was surprised to find herself in this place. Didn’t know where she was.
Anni was used to dealing with people. She found a smile. ‘Did they tell you to come down here? Did they give you the chair?’
Eileen looked at her.
‘Bet they didn’t.’ Another smile. ‘But good for you.’
Eileen made a noise that started out as a laugh but mutated into a strangled gasp. ‘They said I could see him tomorrow. That I should get some rest. But he’s my son … ’ Her voice became a shallow, brittle thing. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair, trembling. ‘I had to see him. He’s … all … ’ Her body began to shake as the tears welled up and out. Her head dropped as if she couldn’t bear to be seen
.
Anni knelt down next to her. ‘Come on, Eileen, let’s get you back to the ward.’ She repeated what the doctor had told her. Eileen looked up, a desperate hope trying to shine through her wet and wounded eyes. ‘You can see him tomorrow.’
‘Really? They … they think he’ll be … ’
‘They’re hopeful. Come on, let’s get you back.’
Eileen allowed herself to be pushed. They talked on the way. Anni felt the measure of Eileen’s loss, her grief.
‘Don’s gone … gone … and I just … I don’t know. I can’t lose Phil as well … ’
‘I know. Well let’s hope we won’t. He’s my boss. One of the few I’ve liked.’
Eileen wasn’t listening. Her grief had overtaken her.
Anni left her at the ward, where a nurse took over, and went back to her own bed. Hoping she would sleep and that tomorrow would be better.
Somehow she doubted either.
PART TWO
SILENT SATURDAY
25
Marina woke up feeling terrible. She could never normally sleep the first night away from home in a strange bed and would find herself waking up every hour at every unfamiliar noise, constantly wondering where she was and why her room had been changed round. And this situation was far from normal. This was extreme.
She had lain there, staring at the wall, the ceiling. Wondering if someone or something was hiding in the shadows, waiting to attack her. Watching the blade of light under the locked door for anyone trying to enter the room. Or even slipping a message underneath. Seeing the faces of her husband, her daughter, every time she closed her eyes.
At some point her body had been too exhausted to stay awake any longer and she had slept. But even then she couldn’t rest. Her dreams were shallow and anxious, her subconscious screaming at her not to relax or give in, and her body had responded, jolting itself awake throughout the night.
And the phone hadn’t rung.
She had picked it up from the bedside table whenever her eyes were open, checking without hope to see whether there was a missed call, as if somehow the noise wouldn’t have woken her up. A text, even. There were no missed calls. No texts.
Sometimes she had curled herself up foetally, given in and cried. Other times she had screamed and kicked, rage surging round her body like electricity, angry words spat from a spittle-flecked mouth. Or she had just lain there, trying not to think about herself or her family, not to feel anything. Willing herself to numbness.
In this way, the night had passed.
She dragged herself out of bed and hauled herself into the bathroom. The light was as harsh and unforgiving as a convention centre. She checked her body, found she was externalising what she felt internally. One side of her displayed bruises and gravel rash from the explosion and was sore to the touch. The face in the mirror belonged to a woman at least ten years older than the previous day’s. Eyes haunted and dark-rimmed.
She splashed water on her face, tried to bring herself back to life. Then decided to have a shower. Before she did that, she went back into the bedroom, fetched the phone, checking for calls. None. She got into the shower, and immediately began to worry whether steam or water would render the phone useless and she would miss the call.
She closed her eyes. Tried not to think of anything. Felt the warm water on her skin. Caressing her, relaxing her. And immediately felt guilty for almost enjoying it.
Out of the shower, she checked the phone again. It still worked, but there had been no call or text. The action of checking, although nothing in itself, was becoming physically wearying.
She walked back into the bedroom, towelling herself off. Her heart sank even further as she looked at the pile of clothes on the floor. She wanted to never see them again, to burn them, forget them. They were dirty, torn from the explosion, sweaty from her exertions. But she had no other clothes, so she had to wear them.
Once she was dressed, her tangled curly hair finger-combed, she sat on the bed and waited. With nothing to do, she flicked on the TV. The news was on, local. Not much happening. A car accident on the A12. Cuts to public services in Braintree. A convicted murderer released on licence had failed to show up at his hostel. Marina, preoccupied, not listening, barely took it in.
And then the phone rang.
Love Will Tear Us Apart.
She grabbed for it, held it to her ear. Heart pounding.
‘Yes …?’
The voice was singing. ‘This is the day-ay, your life will surely cha-ay-ange … ’ Then laughing. ‘Good morning. Sleep well?’
‘Where’s my daughter? Is she safe?’
‘All in good time. Today’s the day! Do what we want, do it properly, the way we want it, and you’ll get your daughter back. Unharmed. What a bargain.’
‘No.’ Marina swallowed down the rage, fear and panic in her voice. Trying to act professionally, she remained calm and reasonable. ‘I want to help you. And I will help you. But before I do that, I want to hear her. I need to hear her. Put her on. Now.’
‘Can’t do that.’
Marina’s heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear her own voice. Her hand was trembling. ‘Then I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to help you.’
A silence on the phone. ‘Sorry you feel that way.’
‘I do.’ Marina was almost hyperventilating. All the words that had spun through her head during the night came spewing out. ‘I do. You’ve got two choices. Let me speak to her, let me know she’s alive and well, and I’ll do what you want. Otherwise … ’
‘What?’
‘I call the police. Right now. Tell them everything.’
A sharp intake of breath. ‘I don’t think so.’ The voice was trying to be calm, but she clearly had it rattled.
‘I do.’ She wished her heart held the conviction her voice spoke with. ‘And so do you. You know you have no choice. So put her on. Please.’ Her voice caught on the final word. She hoped it hadn’t been noticed.
Silence. No … they’ve gone, she thought. I’ll never hear from them again. Josephina’s dead for sure now. And it’s all my fault. I was trying to be clever. It’s all my—
‘Mummy?’
‘Jo? Josie darling, I’m here … ’
‘Mummy! Mummy! There’s … ’ Her voice stopped, replaced by muffled sounds.
‘Josie! Josie! Listen, I’m coming for you, I’m … ’
The first voice was back on. She could hear her daughter’s muffled cries in the background. ‘There. Told you we’ve got her. Told you she’s OK.’
‘What have you done with her? What have you fucking done with her?’ Screaming, not caring who heard.
‘Nothing.’ The voice shouted, struggling to be heard over Marina and her daughter’s screaming. ‘Nothing. She’s well and unharmed. And she’ll stay that way if you do as you’re told.’
Marina tried to regain composure. ‘And if I do that, I get her back and … and that’s that?’
‘That’s that.’
Marina was breathing heavily. Adrenalin was pumping round her system. ‘It had better be. Because if you’re lying, or if you hurt her, if you so much as touch her, I will find you. And I will kill you.’ As she spoke those words, Marina realised she had never in her life believed anything with as much conviction. She could feel her father’s rage within her.
‘Fine. OK. Whatever.’ The voice was struggling to appear to be in control. ‘Here’s your postcode for the sat nav. Get on with it.’
The line went dead. A few seconds later, a text came through.
She left the room.
26
Dee Sloane watched as Michael Sloane lined Jeff Hibbert’s laptop up with the corners of the desk.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Here we go … ’
He typed in a password and sat back. The screen before them changed, the system allowing them entrance. He turned his face up to her, beamed. She smiled back in return. Winced as she did so.
Her face was still sore from where he ha
d hit her. As was her whole body. But good sore. Sexy, tingly sore. She ran her tongue round the inside of her mouth. Found a loose tooth. Waggled it. Enjoyed the little charges of pain that shot through her jaw.
He was still looking at her. At first she thought he must be thinking the same thoughts she was. How good it had been yesterday. How he had almost broken her. How she couldn’t wait for him to do it again. Then she caught the look in his eye. She knew that look. Knew what he was thinking. What it meant. Concentrate on what he was doing.
Her first instinct was to play up. A little thrill of defiance ran through her. She smiled, sending back her own message. He usually liked it when she did this. It was all part of the game they played together, how they had fun. But she had caught something else in that look. There was no trace of his assumed identity, kindly, Guardian-reading Stuart Milton.
Don’t fuck me around, the look said. This is serious.
Do what he wants, she thought, or face the consequences later. Where a whole different kind of pain will be involved. She bowed her head submissively. Looked down at the laptop. ‘Well done,’ she said.
The correct response. He nodded. She smiled in return. They could always play their game later.
‘It’s on here,’ he said. ‘Everything we need. Somewhere. I’ve just got to … ’
He began to hit buttons, scroll down menus. She watched over his shoulder. Trying to keep her mind on what he was saying. Interested but not excited. It was important, a matter of life and death, even. But the actual process was boring.
He became engrossed in columns of words and numbers. She looked round. Their living room had become a war room. Dee was used to it by now. Their business often demanded it. And she had always tolerated it, because business was important. It was their lives. She had allowed the expensive furniture to be moved, the table and chairs placed in the centre of the room. But she was always relieved when they went back to their proper places afterwards. When order was restored.
The house slave had been locked in her room. Not allowed to bear witness. There was just the two of them.
