Tania Carver - Choked

If the captain was angry at Sloane’s words, he didn’t show it. His employer could be difficult at times, but there were compensations. ‘When we get out to sea, jettison one of the containers.’

‘The one that doesn’t appear in the ship’s manifest. The one that isn’t here.’

The captain nodded.

‘Good.’ Sloane looked round once more. Listened. Nothing. ‘One more thing. You’ve got an extra passenger.’

The captain frowned. This was a deviation from the script. ‘Who?’

Sloane smiled. ‘Me.’

The captain’s eyes widened. ‘But … this is unexpected. I’ll have to—’

‘You don’t have to do anything. I’m not here officially. I’m not crew, I’m not a passenger. I’m a paying stowaway. And there’s only you and me to know about it, OK?’

The captain nodded, knowing how much another blind eye would pay.

‘Good. How soon before we set sail?’

The captain checked his watch. ‘Couple of hours. First light. Wait for the tide.’

Sloane nodded. Smiled. ‘Plenty of time for you to find me a cabin, make myself comfortable.’

‘Will there be just you on the voyage, Mr Sloane? Or will anyone else be joining us?’

Sloane thought for a moment.

‘Just me,’ he said.

‘Dee Sloane? Pretending to be your sister?’ Franks was confused.

Stuart just nodded as if it was perfectly obvious.

‘Yes,’ said Marina. ‘Yes.’ Understanding hit her like a sudden flash of electricity through her synapses. ‘The woman on the phone. To me. Is that who you mean?’

Stuart nodded patiently, as if he was the only intelligent person in the room, explaining a simple point to a couple of thickos.

‘She’s Dee Sloane.’

He nodded again.

‘The real Dee Sloane, is that what you mean?’

Franks looked between the two of them, not understanding what was going on.

‘What gave her away, Stuart? How did you know?’

‘The eyes,’ he said. ‘She looked different. Less … nice. Than before. But she couldn’t hide her eyes … ’

Franks turned to Marina. ‘What’s he talking about?’

‘The woman who’s been phoning me, the woman who’s got my daughter, is Dee Sloane.’

‘But … who’s the woman with Michael Sloane? The one who’s claiming to be his sister?’

‘No idea,’ said Marina. ‘But she’s not Dee Sloane.’

‘Why not?’

Marina turned to Stuart. ‘Why not, Stuart?’

He looked confused.

‘You said she looked less nice. What did you mean?’

‘Less nice. Less … pretty. Not like before. She was pretty before. She’s not now.’

He shivered.

Marina turned to Franks once more. ‘Dee Sloane was hit with a shotgun blast. When her father and Stuart’s mother were killed. She almost died, but she and her brother survived. She took a lot of patching up, though. Maybe it was … I don’t know. Too much work?’

‘You mean replace her with another model?’ asked Franks.

‘Stuart says he didn’t kill his mother and stepfather and attempt to kill his stepsister and brother. He says Michael Sloane did. Now if Sloane is the kind of person who would engineer a shooting like that, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that he would replace his sister, wouldn’t you say?’

‘But … shoot his own sister?’

‘Why not? He shot his own father and stepmother. If this hypothesis is right.’

‘Still … ’

‘Gary.’ Marina lowered her voice, tried to keep the conversation as private as possible in front of Stuart. Stuart showed no signs of listening. ‘Someone shot that family. I worked the original case and I never for one minute believed it was this gentleman here.’

Franks said nothing.

Marina leaned forward once more, trying to engage Stuart before he drifted off to sleep again. ‘You said she’d gone home, Stuart.’

Stuart looked confused. ‘What?’

‘The real Dee,’ said Marina, as patiently as she could manage. ‘Your pretend sister. You said she’d gone home.’

Stuart thought for a few seconds, eyelids drooping.

‘Stuart … ’

He jumped. ‘Yes. Home. Yes.’

‘Good.’ Marina nodded. ‘Good. Where is home, Stuart?’

Stuart looked puzzled once more.

‘Home,’ she persisted. ‘Where is it?’

‘Home?’ he said. ‘Well it’s … home.’ His eyelids closed once more.

Franks sighed. Marina kept staring at Stuart.

‘We could look it up,’ said Franks. ‘Check some records.’

Marina stood up. ‘No need. I know where she is.’

Dee stepped backwards, tried to stay out of the woman’s reach. ‘Don’t.’ Her voice was small, trembling.

Amy stopped moving. Put her head on one side, like a dog listening. The torch lit up her eyes. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘Why not? Afraid it’ll rub off on you? Afraid if I touch you, you’ll end up like me?’

‘I … ’ Backing away. ‘I … ’

‘I just want to touch you. Where’s the harm in that? Feel what I used to feel like … ’

Amy advanced once more. This time Dee stayed where she was. It was better, her mind quickly and reluctantly rationalised, to let a madwoman with a gun touch you rather than shoot you. The Golem must be around somewhere, she thought, but even he wouldn’t be quick enough to stop a bullet from close range.

Amy moved in close to her. Her breath smelled like the rotting house around them. She reached out a hand, stroked Dee’s cheek. Her fingers were rough, callused. Like being touched by tree bark. Dee tried not to move.

‘It’s … it’s like looking in a mirror, one that takes you back in time … ’ Her voice was low, calm. Almost a whisper. ‘How much?’

‘What?’

‘How much did it cost? To make … whoever you were … look like me?’

‘I … I don’t know. Lots.’

‘Lots.’ Amy nodded as if she had given the correct answer. ‘Lots.’

‘He … he said he wanted me to, to look more beautiful. Said I would, I could, if I would let him do it.’

‘And you did.’ Still stroking her cheek. Eyes travelling all over her features, appraising her. Her expression changeable; sometimes like she was looking at old love letters, sometimes like a farmer at a livestock market. ‘You did … ’

Encouraged by Amy’s tone, Dee continued to talk. ‘I didn’t mind,’ she said. ‘What he wanted to do. It hurt, but … ’

‘Yes.’ Still stroking. Still the same quiet voice. ‘My operations hurt too.’

‘More beautiful. That’s what he said. And that’s what I am. Beautiful.’ Dee looked at Amy. Found strength in her words. Her position. Because she was the winner. She was young, beautiful. And she had Michael. This mad old woman had nothing. She smiled. ‘He recognised something in me. We connected. Like no one I’ve ever met before. We’re soulmates.’

Amy drew back, her hand falling to her side. She stared Dee in the eye. ‘Pathetic. Soulmates. You know nothing.’

‘I know everything.’

‘You know nothing.’ Her voice rising, starting to shake once more. ‘About him. About me. Nothing.’ She stood where she was, still staring at Dee. ‘Soulmates. That’s what we were. He wanted me. And I wanted him. We had each other. All that we needed. We were our world.’ Her face twisted. ‘And then the boy arrived … ’

‘I know all this,’ said Dee. ‘He’s told me. How the two of you hated Stuart. How your father wanted to make him part of the family, marry his mother. How he wrote a new will with him in it, threatened to write you out if you complained.’

‘He told you all this, did he?’

‘He did. How he faked the shotgun attack, made it look like Stuart had done it. And he told me how sad he was about what happened to you.’