Tania Carver - Choked

The roundabout was ahead of her. She signalled. Went right round it. Back the way she had come.

‘Good girl,’ said the voice.

The hotel was in front of her once more. She signalled and turned off. Pulled up in the same slot in the car park.

‘Just do as you’re told, Marina. Then we’ll all be happy.’

The phone went dead.

Marina sat there, numb.

Eventually she got out of the car and went back to the room.

To stare at the ceiling all night.

The night air hit hard, making Tyrell gasp. It was unexpectedly cold, especially when the April day had been so warm. But then night was something he had only watched from his prison window for years, never actually experienced.

He shivered. The shirt he was wearing was long-sleeved, but he wished he had put a sweatshirt over it. A timid voice told him to go back inside, ignore the crying child and stay where it was safe, and he struggled not to let it win. He looked round, took a couple of deep breaths that fizzed coldly into his lungs and moved forward, away from the caravan.

He smelt salt on the air. It reminded him of the prison on the Isle of Sheppey. He could only make out street lights and house lights far away in the distance. The lights were on in the house next to the caravan. And that was where the noise of the crying child came from.

He stepped away from the caravan, shivering, and moved towards the house. It was old and big, although it may only have seemed that way to Tyrell after being in such a small space for so long. It reminded him of somewhere else. Another house. Another time. A time when …

No. He closed his eyes. Screwed them tight shut. No. Don’t think about that. Don’t go back there.

He slowly opened his eyes. The house was still in front of him. But the other one, the old one, was gone. Good.

He walked unsurely, the ground rutted, holed and uneven. The dogs outside the house remained quiet. There were lights on in the downstairs rooms. The car he had arrived in was parked out front next to the old boxy silver one.

The he heard it again.

He stopped moving, tuning out the wind in his ears, concentrating on the child. It was a child, definitely. A little girl, it sounded like. Crying. Not happy at all. He moved closer until he was right beside the window. He managed to make out some words.

‘Mummy … Daddy … Lady … please … ’

And then another voice cut in, one he didn’t recognise. An angry voice telling the child to shut up, which just provoked more crying.

A shiver ran through Tyrell from more than the cold. A memory swirled into his head of another child. Sad and lonely. Wanting reassurance and love. Getting only anger and pain. Pain that hurt right down inside.

He closed his eyes again, trying to force the memory to swim back down into the blackness. Force it, force it …

He opened his eyes. The memory was gone. But the child was still crying. Tyrell had to do something. Make the crying stop. Find a way to make the child happy.

He knelt down beneath the window, feeling something rise within him that he couldn’t name because he didn’t recognise it. Bravery?

He poked his head up very slowly, looked inside. A kitchen. On the table was a laptop and some other electronic equipment, a half-empty whisky bottle and a couple of glasses. A rough-looking woman sat at the table, looking at the laptop. On the floor beside her, a length of rope tying her wrist to the doorknob, was a little girl. Dark-haired and sad-eyed, her face red and wet. The woman at the table was trying to ignore her. Her face was red too, but Tyrell imagined that was probably from the whisky.

The woman turned to the girl, who pulled away from her, scooting back on the floor as far as the rope would let her. The crying stopped, replaced by fear. Another shiver ran through Tyrell. What had the woman done to the little girl to make her so scared?

‘Fucking shut up,’ she said. Her voice sounded weird. Like it wasn’t tuned in properly. ‘Told you before. You’ll go home when your mother does what she’s told.’ She shook her head, looking back at the screen. ‘Little twat. Should just feed you to the dogs … ’

The words shocked Tyrell. He moved away from the window as if he had been struck. As he did so, he lost his footing and stumbled backwards. The dogs heard the noise and began to bark. He got quickly to his feet, flattened himself against the wall. Slowly stuck his head round the back of the house. The dogs were caged up by the back door, snouts at the mesh, barking and slavering. He pulled his head back in. Fast.

Tyrell looked back in the window. The woman at the kitchen table was swearing at the dogs, telling them to shut up. They ignored her. The little girl cried all the more. The woman got up, made her way angrily to the back door.

Tyrell was breathing heavily, as if he had done something strenuous. He saw a pile of firewood stacked against the wall of the house, near the front. He scurried under the window, picked out a heavy log; small enough to grasp firmly, long enough to swing, heavy enough to hurt. He tested it out a couple of times, got a good action going. Then went under the window back to where he had been. He breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Ready to move for the back door.

‘Going somewhere, Malcolm?’

Tyrell jumped, nearly dropping his club. He turned. There was Jiminy Cricket, the happy, smiling voice of his conscience.

He wasn’t smiling now.

‘I said, are you going somewhere, Malcolm Tyrell?’ The name said with hard emphasis, like he was pushing it into stone with his fist.

Tyrell swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, his legs shaking. Despite the open air, the night, this was just like being back inside, facing down some bully on his spur.

‘I’m … I’m … There’s a girl in there. A little girl. Crying.’

‘She’s no business of yours.’

‘She’s … she’s crying … ’

‘She’s fine.’

‘The woman at the table, she said she would feed her to the dogs … ’

Jiminy Cricket tried to laugh, put on an American accent once more, screeched, ‘Now get back in there and don’t come back until you’ve got a toddler!’ The accent dropped. His eyes flared. ‘Go back to the caravan.’

Tyrell’s shaking increased. Not from fear this time, but anger. He felt the wood in his hand. This wasn’t like facing down a bully. His weapon made the difference.

‘You wanna piece o’ me? That it?’ The American accent returned, this time a ridiculous gangster parody. He spread his arms wide and smiled. ‘Give it your best shot.’

Tyrell pulled his arm back, ready to swing it forward.

‘But do that, and I’ll fuckin’ have you.’ His voice, down and dark, told Tyrell he would. And he would enjoy it too.

Tyrell looked between the window and his companion. Looked at the log in his hand. Saw how his arm was shaking. Looked back to Jiminy Cricket. Who smiled. ‘Drop it,’ he said, like he was speaking to one of the backyard dogs.

Realising he had no alternative, Tyrell complied.

‘Good. Now go back to your caravan. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

As though he was following an order from a wing officer, he did as he was told.

The caravan was slightly warmer than the night outside. He sat down on the bed. He saw the door being shut, heard the key being turned.

His first night of freedom, and he was locked up again.

Jeff Hibbert sat up in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He kept replaying the visit from that policewoman over and over in his mind, but that wasn’t what was keeping him awake.

Sitting like this was the only way he could get any respite from the pain, the only position he could sleep in. Like the Elephant Man, his wife had said, shortly before she left him.