Tania Carver: Choked

She looked between Marina and Anni. ‘I’ll pop back soon as I can.’

She left, closing the curtain behind her.

Anni said nothing. Marina stared ahead of her, the pattern on the curtain dancing and swaying before her eyes.

Anni’s phone rang. She jumped. ‘That might be Mickey,’ she said. ‘Give me a minute.’ Looking relieved to have a break, she went outside the cubicle.

Marina didn’t move, just stared. Straight ahead, unmoving. Her daughter’s eyes, that was all she could see. Her eyes. Her smile. Her hair.

She felt a sudden urge to scream, to pound the walls, smash her head against them. Let it all out, try to express the inarticulate, raging emotions she was feeling. But she fought it. For now.

Anni stepped back inside and resumed her seat.

‘Any news? Josephina? What’s happening? What’s … ’

Anni shook her head. ‘Nothing yet. I’m sorry … ’

Marina sank back. ‘No. No. She has to be there. No. She must be.’

‘They’re still searching. They … ’ Anni sighed. ‘I know. But … ’

Marina said nothing.

‘Look, I’ve got to ask some questions, I’m afraid.’

‘No.’ Marina shook her head, closed her eyes.

‘Please, Marina. I know it’s difficult. But we’re here as a favour. Because it’s you and Phil and you’re in the job. The local force have turned a blind eye. Look, you have to help us. If there’s anything … ’

‘No. No.’ Marina looked at Anni. Saw the other woman was not just doing her job, but also trying to help. ‘Just … ’ She sighed. ‘Give me a minute. Five minutes.’

‘OK.’ Anni nodded and stood up. ‘D’you want anything? I’m going to get a drink. Bar of chocolate. Famished.’

Marina barely heard her.

‘OK, then.’ She left the cubicle.

Marina lay back and stared at the curtain once more. Heard music, recognised it. The old Joy Division song, ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’. Absently she wondered where it was coming from.

Then realised it was a phone.

She looked round. Anni’s bag was on the floor beside the chair. She bent over the side of the bed, feeling her head spin, her sides ache as she did so. No. The sound wasn’t coming from there.

She lay back down once more. The song kept playing. She looked round. Her own bag was on the other side of the bed. That was the source.

Frowning, she reached down, picked up her bag. Rummaged through it and brought out a phone. A cheap black smartphone that she had never seen before. Puzzled, she answered it, put it to her ear.

‘Hello …?’ Her voice small, quizzical.

‘Marina Esposito.’ A voice she didn’t recognise. Electronic, distorted. Neither male nor female. But audible.

‘Yes … ’ She looked round quickly, as if someone was standing nearby, could hear her.

The voice made a sound that wasn’t a word. Marina just knew the person was smiling. ‘I believe I have something of yours.’

A shiver convulsed the whole of Marina’s body. She couldn’t answer.

‘Something you’ve lost.’

‘Wuh — what?’

‘Something by the name of … Josephina.’ The voice relishing the pronunciation of the name.

She gasped. Began to tremble. ‘Where is she? I’ve got to … got to—’

‘Shut up and listen.’ The voice harsher now, colder. ‘If you want to see your daughter alive again, then just shut up and listen.’

The gate closed behind him. He had imagined the scraping of metal against metal as the key was turned and the bolts drawn back. The old hinges would squeal in protest as another one was let go. Then the door would slam shut, hitting its rightful place in the frame and staying there, seemingly immovable. The noise of its closing would be heavy and final, echoing slowly away to a deafening emptiness.

But it wasn’t like that at all.

The gate had just slid open, like in a garage or factory, and he had stepped through. Then it had slid closed behind him, the whirring electric motor stopping when it was in place.

Leaving him standing, staring at the street before him. Cars went past. Quicker than he remembered them, different shapes too, colours, all metallic. Futuristic but recognisable. People walked the pavements. Men, women, old, young. Some still wore suits, but some, mainly the women and the younger ones, wore things he found alien, different. Like clothes from a parallel dimension.

He stared as a couple of women went past pushing babies in chairs. No jackets, just light T-shirts, jeans. They were young, looking better than he remembered. Talking and laughing like the world was a joke.

He watched them go, saw the sway of their hips in their jeans, felt something stir within him. Deep and primal, long-suppressed. Something he had ignored for years. Something else he had told himself didn’t exist. But watching those two women walk up the street, something within him connected.

He kept looking at them. And noticed something odd about their skin …

Tattoos. On their bare shoulders, their arms. The sight of them killed whatever was rising inside him. Loads of prisoners had tattoos. Done to kill boredom. Crudely formed and badly spelled. But these women’s were different. Elaborate swirls. Pictures. Florid, curling writing. Deliberate marking. How much had the world changed that young women needed to mark themselves like that? They couldn’t be as bored as those on the inside. Not with the whole of life around them.

He watched them walk on. Stayed where he was, reluctant to step away from the prison. Not knowing where to go.

Before he left, he had been given an address. A halfway house, a hostel. Somewhere to stay while he got on his feet again, they said. He had the address in his pocket, together with his discharge grant and his travel warrant. He had told them he would go there. He was expected to.

But now, standing there, he didn’t know what to do. Where to go.

The world outside might not be silent and empty. But his head and his heart were. Time had slipped again, twisted. He could have stood there for a few seconds or a few years. He had no way of knowing.

He looked behind him once more. Sixteen years of his life that place had taken. That and others like it. The factory gate was back in position, like it had never moved. Someone else would take his cell, his books, his clothes and toiletries. And he would be gone. Forgotten about. Like the ripples in a pond after a stone hits it. Dying away to nothing.

He shivered, despite the morning’s warmth. The thought depressed him.

Dying away to nothing .

While he was trying to decide where to go, a car pulled up at the side of the road. Tooted its horn. The sudden noise made him jump, but he didn’t move. The horn tooted again, accompanied by a hand waving from inside the car.

Puzzled, he looked behind him, wondering who they were waving at.

The hand beckoned towards the car. He realised the person was gesturing to him.

He took one step forward. The driver nodded in encouragement, beckoned him further. While he was thinking, another car honked its horn. Was that for him too? He looked at the driver. No. He was just frustrated that the first car had parked and that oncoming traffic had stopped his journey from continuing. A line of cars began to appear behind the first one. The driver kept beckoning, insistent now.

Not wanting to be responsible for a traffic jam or for any anger, he walked towards the car.

The driver leaned across, opened the passenger door. He got inside.

‘Well close it, then.’

He did so. Looked at the driver. The driver laughed.

‘Remember me?’

He said nothing.

‘The recognition of friends is not always easy, Doctor … ’ Another laugh. Why had he spoken those words in a terrible Chinese accent?