Tania Carver - Choked

They had walked round the side of the house and stopped before the caravan. And that was when he was told it was his new home.

He stared at the caravan. The rusting sides, the flat tyres. Filthy windows with horrible, holey curtains that looked they had been chewed. It didn’t look like freedom. It looked like another cell. Like he was still trapped, even under the huge, blue sky.

‘I don’t want to stay here,’ he said, suppressed panic starting to bubble inside him. ‘I need to go.’

He turned, started to walk away. A restraining hand was placed on his arm. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ A laugh, an American accent, trying to lighten the weight of the words. ‘I need ya, Decks. I need the old blade runner. I need your magic.’

He didn’t know what he was talking about, tried to walk away. ‘Please. I don’t want … to stay here. I want to go.’

The American accent dropped but the hand remained. ‘To where? Some hostel or B and B? Spied on? Made to sign a form every two weeks? That’s what you want, is it?’

He didn’t answer.

‘A hostel. With the paedos, and the murderers. Real murderers, mind, not like you. And the nutters and the psychos.’

‘But … prison was like that.’

‘Yes, it was. But there was a big metal door keeping them out. You think you’ll have that at the hostel?’

He said nothing.

His companion took that for assent. ‘Thought not. No, you’re better off here. And besides, we had a deal.’

‘What?’

‘Remember? All those years ago?’ His companion’s smile widened. Teeth sharp and shark-like. ‘I said that if you played things my way, then you would end up on top. I said that, didn’t I?’

He couldn’t remember. He might have done.

‘I had a plan, didn’t I? Well, it’s just taken a while to put into practice, that’s all. We’ve been playing the long game.’

‘And what … what is this plan? What do I get?’

‘A new life. And revenge. On the people who put you inside. The ones who took your life away. Got your attention now, haven’t I?’

‘But … but how?’

‘You’ll see.’ He gestured to the caravan. ‘Until then, just make yourself at home. Put your feet up.’

He blinked several times in quick succession. Something niggled.

‘But … Probation. I have to sign on. They give me money to live on.’

‘You’ll have money soon. You’ll have everything you need. And more. Millions.’

‘But I … my name. I’ll be … they’ll be looking for me.’

‘You’ve got a new one.’

He stopped blinking.

‘Yes, a new name. You’re going to be a new person. Completely different. A fresh start. How d’you like that?’

He thought. And in that thought, a smile started. He liked that. He liked that very much.

His companion laughed. ‘Thought you would.’

‘Who am I?’

‘Tyrell. Malcolm Tyrell.’

‘Tyrell … ’ Rolling the word round his mouth, seeing if it fitted. ‘Malcolm Tyrell … ’

Jiminy Cricket laughed again and gestured to the caravan. ‘So, Mr Tyrell. Would you like to make yourself at home?’

The dogs kept barking. He could no longer hear the crying child.

He would like that very much.

Everyone stared when Marina entered the bar.

She looked round, eyes adapting to the sudden gloom after the brightness outside. The pub was rough and unadorned. It hadn’t fallen on hard times; it had never seen good times. As shadows took substance, she realised that clientele and surroundings were perfectly matched. A handful of men, all watching her. Eyes hard, wary. Items were swiftly swiped from tabletops, hands quickly disappearing underneath. She had been sized up and immediately identified as an outsider. Someone official and unwelcome. Social services. Probation. Police. Or just some wild-haired madwoman wandered in.

She felt like a lone gunslinger entering a Western saloon. If there had been a piano, it would have stopped playing.

Swallowing down nervousness, hoping it wouldn’t crystallise into fear, she walked up to the bar. Placed her hands on the counter. Found it sticky and took them away again.

The barman was big, middle-aged, like an ex-boxer turned to fat. His face was red and badly repaired, his head bald and sweating. He wore a faded Hawaiian shirt over supermarket jeans, and leaned against the till, arms crossed and unmoving. Waiting to see what she wanted and what his customers would do about it. His eyes were hard and flint-like, two sharp stones in a face of red mud. They never left her.

I have to front this, she thought. I have to do it. A mental image of Josephina’s face flashed before her. I can do it. She looked directly at him.

‘I’m looking for Tyrell.’ Her voice came out stronger than expected. She wished the rest of her could match it, and forced her eyes to lock on to his.

The pub had been silent to start with. Now, if anything, it became even quieter. The only sound was the babbling of the Sky Sports presenter on an old, heavy black TV set, tucked away in the corner.

No one paid him any attention. All eyes were on Marina.

She tried again. ‘Tyrell. Is he here?’

The barman’s eyes focused away from her, on someone or something behind her. She turned. Had he been looking at one of the drinkers in the bar? If so, which one? All of them were affecting not to look at her.

She turned back to the barman. ‘Tyrell.’

He found his voice. ‘No one here by that name.’ His voice matched his frame, big and ugly.

Marina felt desperation well within her. ‘Please.’ Her voice caught. ‘Tyrell. Is Tyrell here? I must— please … ’

He leaned on the bar and looked at her. She could see the sweat, feel the heat coming off him. ‘And I said there’s no one here by that name.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, the words out before she could stop them. The barman’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘You’re lying to me.’

He stared at her, lost for words. Then a smile spread over his features. ‘Am I, now?’

Marina felt suddenly embarrassed by her outburst. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I was … I was sent to meet someone called Tyrell. He’s supposed to be here. He … ’ She sighed. ‘He must be here.’

‘Listen, love. I know everyone in this bar, and there’s no one called Tyrell here.’

She looked round the bar, scanned every face she saw, looking for truth, a human lie detector. No one was giving anything away. They were either watching the TV or finding their drinks fascinating. One, small and middle-aged, poorly dressed, was staring at Canvey Island through the bar’s tiny, cell-like window like he had never seen it before. They were stuck between wanting to be seen to help a damsel in distress and not wanting to get involved with the madwoman having a meltdown in front of them. She turned back to the barman. ‘Please, there must be … ’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, love, can’t help you.’

Marina looked round the bar once more. She had never felt so helpless. All her training, her professionalism had gone out of the window. She had squandered whatever advantage she had by her outburst. She ran a hand through her hair and wished Phil was with her. They wouldn’t have lied, wouldn’t have held out on him. They wouldn’t have dared. She decided to give it one last shot. She had nothing to lose.

Her voice dropped so only the barman could hear. She swung her gaze back on him once more. ‘Look. Tyrell is here. He must be here because I was told he was. I have to meet him. It’s very important that I speak to him. Very important. So please let me know which one he is so I can talk to him. Then I’ll not bother you any more. Please.’