Tania Carver - Choked

She felt her stomach start to tighten. Her body temperature to rise. Especially in her groin. Like coiled electric eels, swimming and sparking, trying to find a way out. She kept her eyes on his, opened her mouth slightly. The bruise flowering. He looked down at her, smiled.

There was nothing of the Guardian -reading, middle class aesthete in his features now. The veneer of civility was falling away, leaving something feral, carnal in its place. A primal lust. He let her face drop roughly from his hand. Hurriedly took off his suede jacket. Pulled at the buttons of his shirt.

She lay back on the bed, propped up on her elbows, watching him, her legs slowly opening, breasts rising and falling with her breathing. Wanting him. Wanting what he could give her.

He was soon stripped off and joining her on the bed. She saw straight away how hard he was. She smiled. He moved right in next to her. Pushed against her. Towered over her. She could feel the heat coming off his body.

‘Do you love me?’ Her voice was low, urgent. ‘Do you love me?’

‘Yes … ’ The word was a hiss through clenched teeth.

Her eyes widened, voice dropped lower. ‘Do you hate me?’

He gave a reply that was almost a growl. He grabbed her. Hard.

She needed to hear it. ‘Do you hate me?’

‘Yes … ’ His voice a snarl now.

She smiled. Good. ‘Then show me. Show me. Show me what I mean to you … ’

He straddled her, his thick, muscled legs either side of her, balancing his weight. He drew his right hand back and, eyes locked on eyes, let it go.

The slap caught her firmly on the side of her cheek. Her head whiplashed sharply to the right. She quickly recovered, looked back at him. A face full of pain, eyes full of lust.

‘Again … hurt me … ’

He hit her again. Her cheek reddened, began to swell.

‘Again … ’

He did it again.

And again. Rage and lust driving him on.

She loved him. Like she had never loved anyone or anything before.

He kept at her. Both hands now. Her face, then her body.

She closed her eyes. Lost in pain.

Lost in rapture.

Lost in a special, private love.

Marina moved slowly towards the car. A dead woman walking. Her heart was heavier than it had been in a long time; heavier, even, than it might have ever been before.

She opened the door, sat down in the driver’s seat. Put her head against the rest. She heard herself sobbing before she felt the tears on her face. Like something coiled so tight within it could only leave her body in short, jagged bursts. Anger. Pain. Loss. Helplessness.

Josephina. Phil. Don and Eileen. Her life.

Coming in sharp, emotional sword thrusts, every blow a hit, stabbing and wounding.

She clenched her fists. Hammered them against the steering wheel, screaming. Pounding hard, pummelling. No words, just incoherent rage. On and on. On and on. Until there was nothing left within her to come out. Until she no longer had the energy to expel it. Until she was spent. Then she sat, head back, eyes closed, breathing like she had just run a marathon. Empty. Empty and down. Her emotions crashed, burnt out.

But she knew it wouldn’t last for long. The feeling would only be temporary. She would fill up again. The emotions inside her would need another outlet. They had to. What had happened to her was so huge, such a seismic shift in her life, that there would be no alternative.

She just hoped she would be able to cope.

Love Will Tear Us Apart .

She scrambled for her bag, thrown carelessly on the passenger seat. Began pulling things out, littering the cramped interior. She found the phone, held it to her ear, answered the call.

‘Hello … hello … ’ Her voice high, shrill. She swallowed hard, tried to cap the desperation rising inside her. ‘Hello?’

‘Good girl.’ The voice again. That same voice.

Marina said nothing. Waited.

The voice said nothing either.

Marina had to break the silence. ‘Where is she? Where’s Josephina?’

‘All in good time.’

‘I want to talk to her. Hear her voice … ’

‘Not yet. You’ve still got … there’s something you still have to do.’

Desperation welled. A wave of impotent rage swept her body, her legs and feet tingling, her toes curling. ‘But … please, let me talk to my daughter.’ Silence. ‘Please … ’

More silence. She heard a rustling in the background. Muted voices, hushed tones. Nothing she could make out. Then eventually: ‘Not yet. You still have something to do for us.’

Marina felt the tears threaten once more. She didn’t know if she had the energy to cope with them. ‘What … Tell me and I’ll do it.’ Her voice defeated.

‘Put this into your sat nav.’ It was a postcode. ‘Now go there. You’ll be given instructions.’

She tried to reassemble her thoughts. Regain her training. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked. ‘Look, let’s talk. What’s … what’s your name?’

The voice gave a bitter laugh. ‘Don’t try all that psychological profiler bullshit on me. You can forget that.’

‘But—’

‘Just go.’

She no longer had the strength to argue.

‘And the same rules apply. No police. No one else. No traces. You’ve done well so far. Don’t spoil it now.’

‘And then … and then can I see my daughter?’

‘If you’re a good girl and you do what we want.’

‘Please, don’t … don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her. Please … ’

The phone went silent.

Marina had never felt more alone in the world.

She placed the phone on the passenger seat, perched on the summit of the mountain of debris she had taken from her bag. Put the car in gear, left the car park.

Kept one eye on the phone all the time, just in case it rang. Willing it to ring while she drove.

It didn’t.

It was another characterless corridor in another hospital. Mickey Philips should have been used to them by now, but he wasn’t. And in a way he was quite thankful for that.

Over the years, from uniform to plain clothes, he had sat in countless plastic chairs drinking awful brown liquid, and staved off boredom by reading and rereading posters full of stern advice. Advice he forgot instantly in the relief of leaving the hospital. But now, sitting in another plastic chair, nursing another plastic cup of unspecified brown liquid, all those years came back to him.

Waiting for car crash victims to come round and see what parts of their anatomies, their minds, they had lost in the process. Having to tell them they were lucky to be alive. Seeing the look in their eyes saying they didn’t share his opinion.

Waiting for women whose husbands had turned their homes into war zones and used them as punchbags and target practice to come through surgery. Seeing if the latest tactical round of tough love had made them brave, given them the courage to press charges and break away to a new start, end the war and win the peace. Or left them wilting and broken, giving their nominated murderer one more chance, because he really did love them.

Waiting while injured children were opened up and operated on, watching every single solid belief the parents had built up about the world and their place in it shown up for the lie they were. Their life’s guarantee torn up and no one to complain to about it.

Mickey had sat there every time and hoped their heartache wouldn’t infect him. But this time was different. This time he was the grieving friend, the anxious relative. Looking up every time a nurse or doctor walked past. Asking them what was happening, knowing he would only get an answer when there was one to give. Knowing he had to wait like everyone else.