Tania Carver: Choked

‘Anyway, there’s this scene in the film. This farmer’s done something to upset the kids. And they make him kill himself. Point his own shotgun at himself. He does it that way.’ The intruder pointed at his hands. ‘The way you’re holding it.’

He looked down again. Took his fingers away, suddenly self-conscious.

‘I mean, it’s all right, as ways go. But there’s too much margin for error. Too many things that can go wrong. Your finger could slip. You could miss. The shot could just take your jaw off, miss your brain completely. You’d still be alive, but you’d be a hell of a mess. Is that what you want?’

The intruder stared at him. Scrutinised him. He felt embarrassed, looked away.

Still saying nothing.

He looked down at the gun once more. He could pick it up, point it, pull the triggers … the intruder would be gone. Simple. Easy. One little finger twitch. One loud noise. One dead intruder.

And one hero.

The intruder turned back to him and smiled. He looked away, couldn’t hold the gaze. It was like the other man could tell what he had been thinking.

‘If you’re going to do it, turn it round, stick it in your mouth. Right the way back and up. So you’re choking on it, gagging. Then pull. That’s the way.’ Doing the actions all the while. ‘Or didn’t you really want to do it?’

He realised he was being asked a direct question. Felt it demanded an answer. An honest one.

‘I … I don’t … don’t know … ’

The intruder smiled, like that was the expected answer. ‘Thought so. Never mind.’ A sigh. ‘ Village of the Damned . Interesting. Based on the John Wyndham novel, The Midwich Cuckoos . Ever read it?’

He said nothing.

‘No. Didn’t take you for much of a reader. Should give it a go. Very interesting.’ The intruder laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. ‘Especially for you. Cuckoos are a bit of a thing with you, aren’t they?’

Again he said nothing.

The intruder looked away from him, surveying the damage. ‘What a mess. What a real … blooming … mess.’ He turned back. ‘And no questions. You haven’t even asked who I am or what I’m doing here. Not curious?’

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His head, his heart had stopped functioning. He no longer knew what to think or feel.

The intruder laughed. ‘I’m your Jiminy Cricket, of course.’ Another laugh. ‘The voice of your conscience. Your imaginary little friend. Like Pinocchio had. Remember him? Surely you can remember him. The little wooden boy who wanted to be real. Wanted to fit in. Sound familiar?’

He looked round the room. Saw bodies that were now just lumps in the darkness. Indistinguishable from the overturned, destroyed furniture.

‘Thought so.’

The intruder sat down on the floor next to him.

‘You can put the gun down now. You’re not going to use it. Either on me or yourself.’

He did as he was told. Placed it carefully on the wooden floor.

‘Good.’ The intruder looked at it. Made no attempt to pick it up. Nodded. ‘Good. So, what we going to do with you, eh?’

‘What … what d’you mean?’

‘Well, we can’t just leave you sitting here like this, can we? Or can we?’

‘I … I don’t know. I … hadn’t thought about it … ’

‘Of course you hadn’t thought about it. That would call for forward planning. Thinking ahead. But that’s not Pinocchio’s job, that’s Jiminy Cricket’s, isn’t it?’

He said nothing. Instead he saw a brief mental image of the two characters in the Disney film, walking down a road, singing and dancing. It was false, untrue, but they both looked happy. In fact it looked so false it seemed attainable. He smiled.

‘That’s it … you know what I’m talking about. Smart boy. Now this … ’ another expansive gesture, ‘is a mess. A mess that needs sorting. And with me beside you, it will be sorted. If you want me to, that is.’

His head was still all over the place. He couldn’t process, couldn’t compute what had happened, what was there in front of him. He couldn’t work out how from him walking in the door of the house — of his home — feeling angry and bullied, self-pitying and wronged, feeling like he wanted to say his piece, get things straightened out, get everything sorted … how everything had gone from that to … He looked round the room again. To … this.

‘All right,’ he said, turning once more to the intruder. ‘Help me.’

‘I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Know where that’s from?’ The intruder laughed.

It left a cold, ringing echo round the blood-black walls.

It should have been the happiest time of her life. But it had turned into the worst.

Marina Esposito opened her eyes slowly. Shock flooded her system. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She gradually pushed herself up on to her elbows, trying to blink away the images before her. Failing.

It was as if she had gone to sleep and woken up in some hellish post-apocalyptic landscape. The cottage, the garden behind it, the stretch of Suffolk coastline before it, had all gone. The comforting, safe rural environment replaced by ruins, flames.

She tried to pull herself into a sitting position, willed her mind to catch up with her body’s movements, but felt nothing but blankness in her head. It was too much to process, like she had just woken up and dragged a nightmare with her into the day. But she felt the heat on her face, her skin, the dust in her eyes. The gravel of the pathway she was lying on painfully imprinted on her hands and arms, her face. And she knew, subconsciously, that it must be real.

She blinked again, trying to corral her mind into some kind of rational order, to remember what had happened, why she was there.

The cottage where they had all been staying. The …

She looked at the blazing ruin before her and realised that that was the cottage.

‘Oh God … ’

She dragged herself slowly to her feet, ignoring the painful gravel rash, the grazed skin, her head spinning. Adrenalin began to pump round her system. She felt her heart speeding up, tripping along faster than her chest could contain it. She stood on unsteady legs, swaying, looking at the burning cottage before her. Slowly, as though her legs were made from concrete, she made her way towards it, crunching on gravel and shingle, breathing heavily through her mouth, her mind racing to catch up with her body.

A few days away before returning to work. That was all it had been. After the wedding and the honeymoon. Just herself, Phil and his parents.

And their three-year-old daughter.

‘No … oh no, oh fuck, no … ’

She looked again at the burning ruin before her, walked quicker.

Spending Easter in Suffolk. Aldeburgh, on the coast. Snape Maltings music festival nearby, a large stretch of beach, pubs and restaurants. A way of saying thank you to Don and Eileen for looking after Josephina.

And now this.

Marina was almost running in her haste to get there. She looked at the cottage, tried to make out shapes, called for her family.

‘Phil … Phil … oh God … Eileen, Don … ’

Nothing. Her only reply the sound of the flames, intensifying as she got nearer.

Her heart was ready to break through her ribcage.

There was a blazing car in front of the cottage. Marina didn’t recognise it. Not theirs. Not Don and Eileen’s. She dismissed it from her mind, kept going, moving towards the cottage. She hadn’t realised how far away she had been.

Part of her mind was asking the question: why was she not in the cottage? Why wasn’t she with the rest of them? Another part of her mind dismissed it. More important things to do. More important questions to answer.