Tania Carver - Choked

‘Thank you.’

They both looked once again at Tyrell. Marina took a deep breath. Another. She turned to Franks. ‘Ready?’

He stood up. ‘Let’s go.’

A my’s head was pounding. The pain sharp, intense, almost blinding. But she wasn’t going to stop. She couldn’t stop. Not yet.

The child was screaming. Screaming … screaming … screaming …

‘Shut up! Shut up, you little brat.’

Amy pulled the child along by her hair, legs kicking and flailing trying to keep up, trying to walk. Failing.

She looked round, wanting somewhere to put the kid, keep her quiet, shut her up for a while. Because there was still a chance for all this to work out. She just had to think bigger, be bolder, that was all.

The kid kept screaming, wanting its mother, trying to pull away.

Amy turned, twisted the kid by her hair. The kid screamed all the more.

‘Oh God, I’ve had enough of you … ’

She backhanded her across the face.

The kid’s eyes widened in pain and surprise. Then the screaming started again, louder even than before.

This was no good. This had to stop. She needed peace and quiet. She needed to be able to think.

She looked round the house once more. It was falling apart, almost before her eyes. Just how they’d wanted it, just how they had left it. But it had taken longer than they thought it would. She didn’t know how it made her feel being back inside. She had thought it would be strange, with ghosts haunting every room, behind every door. Triggers for memories everywhere.

But it wasn’t like that. Probably because the house was so dilapidated, so ruined, she found it hard to associate it with the home she used to know. This could be any crumbling old mansion. Any falling-apart Scooby-Doo haunted house.

But still she walked through it, room by room, familiarising herself with the layout, checking everything was still the same, as she had done when she had last been there.

The house’s footprint was the same. But things had started to rot, collapse. Curtain rails had fallen, the curtains on them now rotted away to near-cobwebs. Here and there the floorboards had given way. The green and black of damp and mildew clung to the walls, growing, consuming. She touched things that came away in her hand.

Other people had been living there. Tramps, judging by the old newspapers, empty bottles. And the smell. Like someone had died there. Or had lived there on their way to dying. And rats. She could hear them, scurrying about everywhere. Unhappy at having their habitat invaded.

And still the kid screamed.

Then Amy had an idea. She smiled. Perfect.

She dragged the screaming kid towards the back of the house. Found the right room. It was still there. The trapdoor. Not letting go of the kid’s hair, she knelt down, pulled. The wood was warped and didn’t want to give, but she kept at it. Eventually, with a huge cry and a pain that went all the way up her arm, the trapdoor opened. Still kneeling, she bent down, stared inside. The stairs looked rotten, about to give way. And she couldn’t see the floor for water. She leaned further in. The wall was still there, only just holding. And the water was only ankle deep. Perfect.

‘You want to play hide and seek?’ she said to the kid, a cruel smile on her face. ‘Do you?’

The kid didn’t answer. Amy doubted she would know what answer to give.

‘Doesn’t really matter,’ Amy said, and hauled the kid over the side into the cellar.

She kept screaming until the trapdoor came down.

Amy stood up. Turned, walked away.

The kid’s screams had disappeared. Become just another one of the house’s noises. Creaking and groaning and scuttling and scurrying.

The silent screaming from the past.

And the present.

Jessie opened her eyes, but it was still dark. She was on her back, a cold, hard floor beneath her. She tried to roll over, get up. Pain shot through her arm, stopping her. She flopped back, gasping for breath.

She remembered going to the aid of Helen Hibbert. Being attacked by … God knew who. Some huge grey mountain. He had hurt her arm. She was sure it was broken. And then … nothing. Blackness. Then here.

She felt around with her good arm. The floor was metallic. Heavy. She shivered. And became aware of movement. Someone — or something — on the floor also. Right next to her.

‘Huh-hello … who’s there?’

‘Me, ma’am,’ came a faint voice.

She let out the breath she had been unconsciously holding. ‘Deepak … you OK?’

‘I … I think so, ma’am. Just … headache. Nothing seems to be broken.’

‘Lucky you … ’

‘What?’

‘My arm … ’

‘Hello?’ Another voice. Female. Scared.

‘Helen Hibbert,’ said Deepak. ‘Is that you? Are you in here with us?’

‘Yes … yes, it’s me.’ Her voice small, hesitant. Terrified.

‘You OK?’ asked Jessie.

‘I … I think so … ’

‘Good.’ Jessie tried to get up once more. Failed. Flopped back again, gasping in pain. She looked round, trying to get her eyes accustomed to the dark. See if she could differentiate, grade the greys. She couldn’t.

‘Either of you got any idea where we are?’ asked Jessie.

‘None, ma’am,’ said Deepak. ‘We were there, then … here. I remember the attack, then … nothing.’

‘Right.’ Silence. Jessie listened, tried to make out any sounds that could help. Nothing. They were sealed inside something, that much she knew. Something cold and metallic.

‘Helen,’ she said. ‘Why have they done this? Where are we?’

‘I … I don’t know … ’ Helen Hibbert’s voice was on the knife-edge of hysteria. Jessie could sense she was about to panic, to start screaming. She had to keep talking to her, calm her.

‘Why did you want to see the Sloanes? I’m assuming they’re behind this.’

‘I … I knew they were responsible for Jeff ’s death. As soon as you told me.’

‘How?’

‘Because … ’ She sighed. ‘That’s what happens when thieves fall out.’

‘How did they fall out, Helen?’

‘They … It was Graham and Amy, as she’s calling herself now. They were waiting for Stuart Sloane to be released from prison. Have him assessed, get him declared sane. Contest the will.’

‘Will?’ asked Deepak. ‘Whose will?’

‘Michael and Dee Sloane’s father, Jack. He made another will when he married Stuart Sloane’s mother, making Stuart a full heir. Michael and Dee weren’t happy about that. Didn’t want him taking their money.’

Jessie tried to ignore the pain, thought. ‘So … what? They were angry?’

‘Oh, very angry. Very, very angry.’

‘Are you saying they killed their father?’

‘And their stepmother.’

‘And … what? Blamed Stuart Sloane? How could they have done that?’

Jessie heard a laugh in the darkness. ‘They had help. Help that turned on them.’

‘Why?’

‘That was later … ’ Her voice was drifting.

Jessie was worried the woman would become hysterical. She tried to keep her talking, keep her focused. ‘Who helped them, Helen?’

‘Graham.’

‘Graham Watts?’

‘And Jeff. Because Jeff did anything Graham said. But Graham was the one. He arranged it with Michael. He was on hand after the shooting. His job was to give the shotgun to Stuart. Let the retard take the blame, that’s what Michael said. Stuart wasn’t all there. Suggestible. Graham won Stuart’s trust, told Stuart he would help him. Then hung him out to dry.’ She gave out a noise that could have been anything between a laugh and a sob in the darkness. ‘But really Graham was making sure Stuart had the gun when the police arrived. And that was that. Or it should have been.’