Choked dipb-4

by Tania Carver

  Fight or flight. The Golem knew that feeling well. He had lost count of the times he had come up against someone, had to anticipate which way they would go. Had to be ready if they did either.

  The Golem said nothing. Usually his silence unnerved opponents; this time it was out of necessity. He didn’t have the energy to speak as well as move. Didn’t trust his mouth not to scream if he opened it.

  ‘I’m going to have money soon. Lots of money … ’ the man continued. ‘I can give you … half. You want half?’

  No response.

  ‘Whatever, then. Whatever you want. As much as you want. Please … please don’t … ’ The man edged forward slightly, eyes pleading. ‘Don’t kill me … ’

  The Golem stood his ground. The man, shoulders hunched, body imploring, moved towards him.

  ‘Please … ’

  The Golem let him come. Made his job easier.

  The man drew near. When he reached arm’s length, his left hand appeared from behind his back. He was holding a huge kitchen knife. His eyes glittered and he brought it forward, straight towards the Golem’s chest. He screamed as he lunged.

  Last reserves of adrenalin kicking in, the Golem pivoted, moving his torso away from the blade. It struck him in the arm — his right arm — slicing along his bicep, sticking in. More pain.

  His assailant quickly pulled it out, jabbed and slashed again. The Golem felt his arm being cut, sliced. His head swirled as the pain increased. He was staggering, about to black out.

  His attacker sensed victory. The Golem could see it in his eyes. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Wouldn’t allow it to happen.

  The man took another swing with the blade. It connected with the Golem’s right side. He stuck the blade in hard. His eyes blazed. He couldn’t believe he was winning.

  The Golem had to do something. He had to turn the situation into an opportunity. He moved in close to his assailant, trying to ignore the feel of razor-sharp metal being pushed further into his body as he did so.

  He reached out his right hand. Took his attacker by the throat.

  His opponent knew immediately what was happening. What the Golem was doing to him. He tried to wriggle out of the grip, push his body away from the attack. Couldn’t. Even though the Golem’s grip was weaker than usual, it was still stronger than most people’s.

  Stronger than his assailant could break.

  The knife dropped from the man’s fingers. The laptop from his other hand. He brought both hands up to his throat, clawed at the Golem’s fingers, tried desperately to prise them off.

  The Golem felt pain running all over his body. Like he had been trussed up in electrified barbed wire. He tried to ignore it, concentrate on this one task, the job he had been paid for.

  His assailant struggled. The Golem locked his fingers. Squeezed harder.

  ‘I want more life, fucker … ’

  Attacker became victim. His face reddened, turned purple. His eyes bulged, looked ready to pop. His constricted throat made a rattling, gurgling sound. He stopped struggling.

  The Golem felt the man’s body begin to weaken, start to go limp. He gripped even harder, summoning his remaining strength to do so.

  Eventually his victim’s body lost the will to fight. The Golem’s will was stronger.

  He released his grip, watched as the body slumped to the ground, looked down at it.

  ‘Time to die … ’

  His head felt light, his legs, arms trembled. His own body was going to give up soon. He knew that.

  He heard a noise. Turned.

  Saw his Prius rocking, moving, coming to a halt. The front left side crumpled, the light hanging out through smashed glass like a distended eyeball.

  He saw the car that had knocked his out of the way driving off. Guessed that the occupants of the caravan had been in there.

  Bending down and almost keeling over, he picked up the laptop and turned. Made his way slowly down the drive, past the corpses of the dogs, back to his car. His self-preservation instinct overrode everything else.

  He got behind the wheel, put the car in gear, drove off.

  He made it about half a mile down the road before pulling in to the entrance of a forest and passing out.

  46

  The day was winding down. The sun giving up the fight, falling out of the sky. Marina felt the same. She was tired and hungry, running only on adrenalin and hope.

  She followed her sat nav. It told her she had reached her destination. She saw a house before her. Old, dilapidated. A caravan next to it in a similar state. A parked car.

  No one about.

  She got out of the car, locked it behind her. Walked slowly up the drive towards the house.

  She couldn’t help but notice that on her right were two black and brown lumps, the ground dark and glistening around them. Feeling a thud of trepidation in her heart, she crossed over to look at them. Her heart flipped at what she found there.

  ‘Oh God … oh God … ’

  The two Rottweilers were dead. One was bloodied and torn; the other just looked broken.

  Hurrying yet hesitant at the same time, she made her way up to the house.

  Where she found the body of a man by the back door.

  Marina turned, doubled over, retched.

  Straightening up, she found her head spinning. She looked round, feeling like she was losing whatever tenuous control she had recently gained over her situation. She ran to the caravan, pulled open the door. No one there. But someone had been here, and quite recently.

  Leaving the door swinging, she ran back to the house. Closing her eyes, she stepped over the corpse by the door, entered.

  The house, despite the brightness outside, was in darkness. Someone had been living there and it looked like they had left in a hurry. On the kitchen table were the remains of a meal and some electronic equipment. It looked like someone had started to dismantle it then decided to leave. The food had been similarly abandoned.

  Marina counted the dishes. Three. Two adult-size plates, one small one. Her heart lurched once more.

  ‘Oh God … Josephina … ’

  Marina found her voice. She went through the rest of the house screaming at the top of her lungs.

  ‘Josephina! Josie!’

  Her only reply was an echoing stillness.

  The house looked like it had been squatted in. Clothes, belongings, scattered all over the place. Sleeping bags lay on mattresses. There had been two people in one room. She spotted that.

  But in the front room she found something else. A rope tied to the door handle. It stretched down to another mattress on the floor. A thin sheet covered it. At the side of the mattress was a small stuffed animal.

  Marina felt her legs about to give way, her heart break. She fell to her knees. Picked up the toy.

  ‘Lady … ’

  Josephina’s toy dog. The one she thought was Lady from the Disney film. She never went anywhere without that. Slept with it clutched to her chest. Carried it round the house during the day. Talked to it at mealtimes.

  Tears came then. But Marina didn’t know whether she was crying from loss, helplessness or rage. Or all three.

  Head swirling, she stood up, the toy clutched in her hand.

  She made her way out of the house, back to the car. Got in. Drove away.

  No idea where she was going.

  Just as fast and as far away as she could.

  PART THREE

  CRUCIFIXION SUNDAY

  47

  Midnight. And Alessandro couldn’t sleep.

  He often felt like that before a fight. Tense. Agitated. Wired. His body just a machine of sinew and muscle, primed, fuelled and ready to be put to use. Coiled and unable to relax. His mind was focused on that one specific event, anticipating it, working towards it. Making and countering moves in his head, trying to out-think, outguess his opponent before the first punch had even been thrown. He planned and plotted. Tried to come up with an offensive strategy that would defeat his oppon
ent while minimising the pain to himself. He had jabbed and weaved his way round the room all evening. And now he lay staring at the ceiling, the walls, unable to think of anything else.

  Except Katrina. His girlfriend until two nights ago, when his anger, jealousy and fists had got the better of him. He knew that what he had done was wrong, but that still hadn’t stopped him. The others had all been interchangeable, forgettable. But not her. She had got into his head, this one. And she still hadn’t called. Not one word, one text. Nothing.

  He had texted her. Repeatedly. Apologising. Saying he knew that he had done wrong, that it was all his fault. Asking for her forgiveness. Then, when there still no reply, begging for her forgiveness. He had checked his phone regularly. Too regularly.

  And now he couldn’t sleep. So he might as well stop pretending.

  He sat up, threw the covers back. Swung himself over the edge of the bed, sat head in hands. He could feel the tension zinging round his body, his fingers static, his muscles humming like electric cabling. He stood up. Paced the room. Desperately, bouncing off the walls. It seemed smaller than usual, a zoo enclosure for a captured animal. He sat back down again. There was nothing he could do. He could find no outlet for his pent-up rage, his frustration. He had to wait until the fight. Let it all out then. Channel it. Make it count.

  He looked round the room once more. It was run-down, cheaply furnished. Everything either rented, second hand or stolen. Nothing cared for, looked after. No value to anything. A mess. The room was his life.

  He flexed and unflexed his fists. Tried to relax his jaw. He had been grinding his teeth unconsciously. Channel, he thought once more. Focus. Make it count.

  He had to win this one. Had to. He couldn’t keep living like this. Had to move on. That was why he had agreed to this fight. Make some money, let him and Katrina move somewhere else, somewhere decent. Have a good life together. A happy life.

  And pay off his gambling debts. That was how he had got into this in the first place. Drinking, gambling, fighting. The unholy trinity, the nuns at school used to say. What he used to see at home. And that was him. The father and the son. The father in the son. Both imbued with the same unholy ghost. When he had become indebted to several people that he should have known better than to be indebted to, namely Mr Picking, it was suggested that he put his fists to good use. Start paying off some of that interest, said Mr Picking with a smile that had different meanings for both of them. Knowing what was waiting for him if he said no, Sandro realised he had no choice.

  Before the first fight, he was terrified. He had fought before, won most of them. But they were scraps, clashes. Arguments settled. This was something different. He had stood there at the back of the barn, watching the crowd. Hearing them baying and cheering at the sight of blood. Watching them get turned on by two men hitting each other until they were unrecognisable. This wasn’t the kind of fighting he was used to. This was gladiatorial combat.

  And then it had been his turn. And he was scared. He saw the man he was supposed to face. A big guy, tough-looking, a traveller carrying his hardships on his body. And angry. A total stranger, angry at Sandro for no reason. Ready to make him hurt.

  If Sandro didn’t make him hurt first.

  So Sandro went at him. Arms flailing, punching, jabbing. Wildly, desperately. No plan, no technique.

  The bout didn’t last long. Less than one round. Sandro took a smack to the ear, went down and stayed down. He was dragged out of the ring, face and body bruised and bleeding. His benefactor and debtor was waiting at the ringside.

  ‘You were shit,’ Mr Picking had said. Then, to his attendants, ‘Patch him up and send him home. He’ll get better.’

  And he had. Once Sandro had recovered, he had been put in to another fight. And another. He had improved, until eventually he was like his first opponent, big and angry and wearing the hardships of his life on his body.

  And yet he still hadn’t settled enough of Mr Picking’s debt to be free of him. But Sandro had been around long enough. He understood how it worked now. He knew what Mr Picking was like, how he operated. And he doubted he ever would be free.

  But he had to do something if he wanted to get out. He had to bet on himself. He would wait until he got there, see what the odds were and then put plenty on himself to win. It was risky; it could lead people to think the fight was rigged. No. He had to be secretive about the bet, then go out there and fight to win.

  No pressure, then.

  He stood up once more, pacing the room. Maybe he should go back to bed. Try to get some sleep. But he couldn’t. There was the fight, but there was Katrina too. He wondered where she was now. What she was doing.

  And who she was doing it with.

  Thinking that, his insides turned to acid.

  And then he heard a knock at the door.

  He stopped pacing, startled. Looked at it as if he could see through it, see who was calling. He checked his watch. Nearly half past midnight.

  Another knock.

  His heart jumped. He knew who it was.

  Katrina …

  The acid gone from his insides, he ran to the door, ready to pull it open. Ready for his lover to fall into his arms. Ready to do anything, say anything to start again.

  Hand on the lock, he stopped. What if it wasn’t Katrina? What if it was Mr Picking or one of his associates? Telling him to lose. Telling him what kind of punishment he had to take. It had happened before. If that was the case, his plans would all fall through.

  Another knock.

  His heart hammering, he knew he had no choice. He had to open the door.

  He flung it wide open. And stared. Stunned.

  Standing there was his sister, Marina.

  She looked at him. ‘Sandro … ’

  And collapsed on to the floor.

  48

  The needle was pushed into the Golem’s ruined flesh. Poked through, pulled out again, leaving a visceral red trail. He watched, his eyes flat, his expression detached. His mind somewhere else altogether.

  When he had woken up, the interior of his car looked like an abattoir. The thought was almost amusing. Because the only meat butchered in there had been his own.

  Before he passed out, he had phoned Michael Sloane. Told him it hadn’t gone to plan, that he was injured and needed picking up. He left the phone on so the GPS could track him down.

  Sloane, clearly not wanting to be seen to be involved, sent two of his lieutenants. They hauled the Golem from his car, laying him in the back of a Transit van, and torched his car. That didn’t upset him. He was never angry at the loss of possessions. Besides, he would invoice for the cost of a replacement.

  He had lost consciousness again then, but he knew where they would be taking him. Dr Bracken. The Golem didn’t know whether ‘Doctor’ was an honorary title or an actual one, or whether Bracken was currently a doctor or not, but it didn’t matter. He had been treated by the man before. And no doubt he would be again. And he wasn’t the only one.

  Bracken was well known as the go-to guy for patching up people who didn’t want to leave a paper trail or go through the system. He never asked questions.

  The Golem knew where he must be. Down a secluded path off a roundabout between Romford and Ongar in the badlands of Essex. The road was quite picturesque at first, with overhanging branches and muntjac deer skipping about. There was even a large old country house at what seemed like the end of the road, nestling in amongst the trees. But take the unmade road at the side of the country house and travel down there until the branches were no longer overhanging but closing in claustrophobically and the deer dared not go because they might not make it out alive again, and there was the house of Dr Bracken. A huge, heavy metal gate sat at the far end of the unmade road, the kind that survivalists or a far-right group might hole up behind. All around the house was a high fence, electrified, topped with razor wire. Several signs, hand-painted and not always accurately spelled, had been erected to deter anyone not put off by the g
ate: Keep Out, Private Propity, Strangers Not Wellcome.

  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.