Tania Carver: The Surrogate

He was starting to feel light-headed. Air was in short supply. He tried to keep calm, not panic, concentrate on moving forward. The only alternative he had was to stop. And that was no alternative at all.

And then it started. A panic attack. He felt his chest constrict, his breath come in ragged gasps.

‘No… not now…’

He screwed his eyes up tight. Willed it to pass quickly. It wouldn’t. He had to fight against it, keep going. But he had no strength in his arms, no power in his body. He couldn’t move.

He had to. He didn’t have the luxury of staying still. He had to fight it, work through it. Not give in to it. He pushed, pulling himself along with his arms, taking huge breaths in between. And again. And again. Good. He was doing it, he was fighting it, he was winning…

Then the tunnel began to narrow.

‘Oh God…’

And it was on him even more. He closed his eyes, kept going. Felt tears begin to run down his cheeks. Ignored them. Just kept going.

The air changed. Became slightly less stale. And he knew. He had done it. He had come through to the other side.

He pulled himself out of the tunnel and lay on the ground, on his back, panting like he had just run a marathon. His legs felt weak, his chest ablaze, but he didn’t care. He had made it.

Then there was another scream.

‘Bitch, sow…’

He had found her. Marina screamed as he grabbed her hair, pulled her out of the alcove.

‘Come ’ere… thought you would escape, eh? From me? I built this place, bitch, I know every corner of it…’

He dragged her free. The pain shot through her head and down her neck. She struggled, screamed, fought. No good. He was too strong for her.

‘You hurt me, bitch, you pissin’ well hurt me…’

‘Well don’t hurt me,’ said Marina, ‘because if you hurt me you’ll hurt the baby. And then I’ll be no good to you, will I?’

He paused, seemingly thinking about what she had said. Then resumed pulling her. ‘I can still have fun with you, though… don’t you worry ’bout that…’

He was breathing heavily, his grip not as strong as she had expected. She felt a small elation. She had hurt him. Good.

But it didn’t make things any better.

Without her realising, tears were running down her face as he dragged her back to the cage.

Phil shone the torch around quickly, trying to find where the scream had come from. He took in his surroundings. A workbench against one wall, an ancient collection of tools above it. Some kind of survivalist’s store room, he thought. Crossing to the workbench, he picked up a heavy claw hammer and moved in the direction he thought the sound had come from.

Marina was kicking her legs out behind her as he dragged her along the passageway. Her hands were on her head, trying to release his grip, or at least make it less painful for herself. He was walking slower, his wound affecting him now, but still strong. Too strong for her to deal with.

As he dragged her, Marina started to be able to see.

At first she thought it was just her eyes becoming accustomed to the dark, but after blinking a couple of times, she realised that there was a light coming towards her.

Her heart began to beat faster; hope rose inside her. This was it, she thought, this was the rescue. But then just as swiftly as it had arrived, that same hope plummeted within her. What if he had an accomplice? What if there was more than one of them?

She didn’t know what to do. But she had to do something.

She took a chance.

‘This way,’ she shouted. ‘I’m here…’

Her assailant grunted, turned. Saw what she was looking at.

Then paused for a few seconds, dropped her and ran.

Phil rounded the corner and stopped dead. At first he thought the light and lack of oxygen was playing tricks on him. He blinked. Again. No tricks. There was Marina. Lying on the ground ahead of him.

His face split into a grin as relief flooded his body. He ran to her, dropping down beside her, laying the hammer down, taking her in his arms.

‘Oh God, oh Marina…’ He held her tightly to him. ‘I told you I wouldn’t leave you…’

But he sensed that Marina didn’t share his relief.

‘He’s here, Phil, he’s around here somewhere…’

Phil sat back, looking at her. About to ask more questions, but they were stopped in his throat. Because Marina’s assailant was on him.

‘Phil!’

He felt hands round his throat, choking him. A feral roar accompanied the action. Phil felt himself go light-headed. He put his hands to his neck, tried to pull the hands away. No good. The grip was too strong.

He dropped the torch, tried to scrabble around for the hammer, couldn’t find it.

The beam of the torch etched the whole thing against the wall in a grotesque shadow play. He saw the man behind him, his shadow making him look seven or eight feet tall. He had to fight back.

He pushed his elbow back as hard and as fast as he could. The man grunted in pain, loosened his grip. Phil pressed the advantage, did it again. The grip round his throat loosened. He grabbed the man’s thumbs, twisted them away from the rest of his fingers as hard as he could.

The man shrieked in pain. Howled like a wild beast. Phil kept pulling until he heard them snap. Then he let go, wriggled away from him. Turned and faced him.

The man was older than Phil had expected, tall, well built and bald. He looked like an older, meaner version of Hester. Phil knew straight away who it was. Laurence Croft. Hester’s father. Hester’s husband.

Sophie had been wrong. Or she had lied to him.

Croft lunged at him. Phil tried to dodge out of the way, but Croft’s right hand came down as a fist, crashing into his face. Phil spun away, lost his footing, the blow was that strong.

He hit the ground on his back and was winded. He spat out blood, felt a tooth amongst it.

Then Croft was on him, aiming another punch at his face. Phil tried to move, but was too slow. He felt his nose break as the knuckles connected. Felt blood spurt out of his battered face.

Croft knelt over him. Phil tried to sit up, fight back, but his head was spinning.

Croft laughed, brought his fist back for a blow that would cause Phil serious, if not fatal, damage.

Then stopped.

His eyes went wide, his head jerked to the side. His arms fell to his sides.

Phil opened his eyes, confused.

Croft’s head jerked again, his eyes once more widening.

Then again.

Then his eyes rolled to the back of their sockets and he fell over sideways, hitting the ground with a huge, echoing thump.

Phil looked up. There, standing over the inert body of Laurence Croft, was Marina. Holding in her hand the hammer he hadn’t been able to find, the head coated with blood and other matter.

It dropped to the floor. Phil stood up, went to her.

Had her in his arms before the tears started.

Both hers and his.

November gave way to December, and with it Christmas. But there would be no celebrations for Phil.

He sat in his house, the only seasonal decorations a couple of Christmas cards from colleagues, one from Don and Eileen. And one from Marina. He opened it. There was a letter inside.

Phil sighed, decided not to read it, not just yet. He could-n’t face it without his props. He got up, went to the kitchen, fetched himself a beer, came back to the sofa. Flicked the remote at the stereo. He knew which album was in there.

He closed his eyes, rubbed his hands over his face. His nose was healing. He hoped the rest of him was too. He took a mouthful of beer. Thought back over what had happened since that night in Wrabness.

He had found the key to the door in the pocket of Croft’s overcoat, saving another crawl through the tunnel. But Marina was clearly in pain, clutching her stomach as soon as they made it out. He bundled her straight into an ambulance and off to the hospital.