Tania Carver - Choked

‘I do.’ Marina was almost hyperventilating. All the words that had spun through her head during the night came spewing out. ‘I do. You’ve got two choices. Let me speak to her, let me know she’s alive and well, and I’ll do what you want. Otherwise … ’

‘What?’

‘I call the police. Right now. Tell them everything.’

A sharp intake of breath. ‘I don’t think so.’ The voice was trying to be calm, but she clearly had it rattled.

‘I do.’ She wished her heart held the conviction her voice spoke with. ‘And so do you. You know you have no choice. So put her on. Please.’ Her voice caught on the final word. She hoped it hadn’t been noticed.

Silence. No … they’ve gone, she thought. I’ll never hear from them again. Josephina’s dead for sure now. And it’s all my fault. I was trying to be clever. It’s all my—

‘Mummy?’

‘Jo? Josie darling, I’m here … ’

‘Mummy! Mummy! There’s … ’ Her voice stopped, replaced by muffled sounds.

‘Josie! Josie! Listen, I’m coming for you, I’m … ’

The first voice was back on. She could hear her daughter’s muffled cries in the background. ‘There. Told you we’ve got her. Told you she’s OK.’

‘What have you done with her? What have you fucking done with her?’ Screaming, not caring who heard.

‘Nothing.’ The voice shouted, struggling to be heard over Marina and her daughter’s screaming. ‘Nothing. She’s well and unharmed. And she’ll stay that way if you do as you’re told.’

Marina tried to regain composure. ‘And if I do that, I get her back and … and that’s that?’

‘That’s that.’

Marina was breathing heavily. Adrenalin was pumping round her system. ‘It had better be. Because if you’re lying, or if you hurt her, if you so much as touch her, I will find you. And I will kill you.’ As she spoke those words, Marina realised she had never in her life believed anything with as much conviction. She could feel her father’s rage within her.

‘Fine. OK. Whatever.’ The voice was struggling to appear to be in control. ‘Here’s your postcode for the sat nav. Get on with it.’

The line went dead. A few seconds later, a text came through.

She left the room.

Dee Sloane watched as Michael Sloane lined Jeff Hibbert’s laptop up with the corners of the desk.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Here we go … ’

He typed in a password and sat back. The screen before them changed, the system allowing them entrance. He turned his face up to her, beamed. She smiled back in return. Winced as she did so.

Her face was still sore from where he had hit her. As was her whole body. But good sore. Sexy, tingly sore. She ran her tongue round the inside of her mouth. Found a loose tooth. Waggled it. Enjoyed the little charges of pain that shot through her jaw.

He was still looking at her. At first she thought he must be thinking the same thoughts she was. How good it had been yesterday. How he had almost broken her. How she couldn’t wait for him to do it again. Then she caught the look in his eye. She knew that look. Knew what he was thinking. What it meant. Concentrate on what he was doing.

Her first instinct was to play up. A little thrill of defiance ran through her. She smiled, sending back her own message. He usually liked it when she did this. It was all part of the game they played together, how they had fun. But she had caught something else in that look. There was no trace of his assumed identity, kindly, Guardian -reading Stuart Milton.

Don’t fuck me around , the look said. This is serious.

Do what he wants, she thought, or face the consequences later. Where a whole different kind of pain will be involved. She bowed her head submissively. Looked down at the laptop. ‘Well done,’ she said.

The correct response. He nodded. She smiled in return. They could always play their game later.

‘It’s on here,’ he said. ‘Everything we need. Somewhere. I’ve just got to … ’

He began to hit buttons, scroll down menus. She watched over his shoulder. Trying to keep her mind on what he was saying. Interested but not excited. It was important, a matter of life and death, even. But the actual process was boring.

He became engrossed in columns of words and numbers. She looked round. Their living room had become a war room. Dee was used to it by now. Their business often demanded it. And she had always tolerated it, because business was important. It was their lives. She had allowed the expensive furniture to be moved, the table and chairs placed in the centre of the room. But she was always relieved when they went back to their proper places afterwards. When order was restored.

The house slave had been locked in her room. Not allowed to bear witness. There was just the two of them.

And the Golem.

He stood in the corner by the door. Still, silent. His body motionless, his face blank, his eyes hidden by shadow. Like an automaton waiting for a new instruction. Her eyes trailed over him. A very handsome, well-sculpted automaton. Even with the grey skin. In fact the grey skin made him even more interesting.

Michael was engrossed in the laptop. Dee moved away and left him to it. She walked slowly round the room, supposedly without purpose, eventually fetching up next to the Golem. She looked at him closely. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, the fabric pulled tight over his honed torso. She felt that familiar ache, that tingling in her groin. The Golem didn’t look at her, gave no acknowledgement that she was even there. That just intensified the ache.

When she felt this way — which was often — she had to be satisfied. There was nothing sophisticated about it, nothing civilised. It was just a physical craving, an animal lust that needed sating. Like a basic need, food to stave off hunger. Her mind would absent itself, her body would take over and she wouldn’t stop until she had had enough. Usually Michael could satisfy it, but if he wasn’t there, she had to find other methods. Other people.

And a grey-skinned killer would do just fine.

She licked her lips. Reached out a hand. Traced the line of his bicep with her finger. He turned to her as she did so. His eyes looking straight into hers. She felt her heart stepping up in her chest as she smiled in what she hoped was an inviting way. Anticipating what was to come.

She kept stroking, pressing harder.

He kept looking at her.

‘Nice … ’ she said, her finger still moving. ‘Strong … ’

Eyes still locked, she bit her bruised lip hard, enjoying the pain. She worked her teeth round, drew blood. Bit down harder. Felt the taste of hot pennies in her mouth. Hot, wet pennies. She ran her tongue round her teeth, opened her lips, smiled, her red-stained teeth glistening.

He stared at her eyes, her teeth. Then, impassively, looked away.

His response was emotionless, but that made it all the more dismissive. She should have felt shamed, humiliated by it. She did. And that just made the tingling, the ache, stronger.

‘You’re a robot,’ she said, her voice low, slushy with blood, ‘a big human robot.’ She giggled. ‘You’re all power. Scary.’ Her breathing grew faster. ‘Would you make me fear you? If I let you?’ She moved in closer. ‘Would you?’

He said nothing. Her fingers traced down the side of his body, down his hard torso.

‘What if I begged—’

‘Dee.’

She looked up. Michael had stopped work on the laptop and was staring at her. He didn’t look happy. This wasn’t part of the game.

Head down, she crossed the floor, stood beside him.

‘What d’you say?’

‘Sorry.’ Her voice a small, breathy whisper.