Tania Carver: Choked

Josephina took it, hugged it to herself.

‘Ah, how sweet.’

Marina turned. Amy had entered the room. Still naked, face a bloodied mask.

And holding the gun.

Sandro’s blow connected. The Golem reeled backwards.

‘Gotcha,’ said Sandro, huffing out breaths.

The Golem quickly recovered, looked back at him. Smiled again.

‘You can’t hurt me,’ he said. ‘You can’t kill me.’

Sandro moved round the floor, fists at the ready. Trying to find the right next move, the right combination of blows, the best attack. ‘Is that so? You look like you’re in a bit of a state to me. Like some other fella’s already had a go at you.’

The Golem moved too. Not as light or nimble as Sandro, not a distance fighter like him, just used to relying on his size and the power that came with it for his advantage.

‘Not a state.’ Another laugh. ‘Invulnerable. Invincible. Unbeatable.’

‘Yeah, right, pal.’

Sandro had to admit that there was something behind those words. The dead woman on the floor was testament to that. And the size of him … Sandro had fought some big guys before. And they had been hard fights. The big fellas could throw a punch and get behind it. Make it hurt. He’d had to use every trick he knew just to avoid a beating. And they hadn’t been as big as this one.

He had to win this fight. Because if he didn’t, he would be dead.

The Golem made a move. Faster than Sandro would have expected. He just had time to duck out of the way as the big man’s fist came towards him.

He kept the momentum going, dodged round the side of his opponent, let loose a couple of punches to his ribs. His fingers hurt, it was like hitting a wall, but when he looked at where he had made contact, he noticed blood starting to seep through the other man’s T-shirt.

Result, thought Sandro. Like his arms, he’s got a wound there. A target. Something to aim for.

He swung again. But the Golem was waiting for him. He brought his arm backwards, smacked Sandro in the face, sent him flying. He stumbled backwards, tripped over the body lying on the floor, crashing into the rotted curtain hanging over a window. He tried to grab hold of it to stop his fall, but went down with it in his hands, the curtain pole following.

The Golem, again faster than Sandro would have expected, was on him.

Sandro was trying to wriggle free from the curtain as the Golem brought back his booted foot ready for a kick that would have shattered Sandro’s ribs and taken out at least one of his kidneys. Sandro thought fast. Grabbed the foot as it came towards him. Twisted. Hard.

He heard the terminal creak and snap as cartilage and bone were forced in directions never intended for them. The Golem dropped to one knee. But his features registered no pain. In fact it just seemed to make him angrier.

‘You think that would hurt me? I told you. You cannot hurt me.’

Sandro was momentarily shocked into inactivity. He had expected his move to work. Expected the big man to collapse in agony. Instead, the Golem was back on his feet, his leg twisted, pulling back his fist, readying it to fly.

Sandro turned, scrambled along the floor on his hands and knees to get out of the way. He grabbed the fallen curtain pole to help lever himself to his feet, but the pole snapped in two. He had just got to his feet when the Golem came up behind him, smashed him in the back.

The blow caught him between the shoulder blades, knocked the air from him. He went down again.

The Golem moved in. Turned him over. Knelt over him.

‘You put up a good fight. And I respect that. But now, you die.’

Sandro felt the Golem’s fingers tighten around his throat. Knew he had to do something. Thought fast. He knew the Golem didn’t respond to pain, so there was no point in trying to hurt him. Instead he had to do something physically incapacitating.

The Golem’s fingers were on his neck. Sandro grabbed a thumb with each hand. Bent them back as far as he could. The Golem released his grip slightly, tried to fight him off. Sandro kept on pulling. Felt them snap.

The Golem looked confused, wondering why his hands didn’t have the same grip, why he couldn’t squeeze hard any more. He tried. But it was no use. Without his thumbs, he couldn’t snap anyone’s neck.

Sandro knew he couldn’t rest, that his opponent was still dangerous. He felt around on the floor, found the broken curtain pole. Yes. That would do.

With the Golem still on top of him, he gripped the pole in his left hand, brought it into the Golem’s side, right into the bleeding wound he had discovered earlier.

The Golem didn’t flinch. So Sandro did it again. And again.

The third time he left it there and pushed. Hard as he could. Something changed in the Golem’s eyes. A light dimming.

Sandro stared into his opponent’s face. Saw not the Golem, but his own father. Bearing down on him, hurting him. Ruining him. He had never been able to fight back when he was younger. Used to lie awake at nights planning all the things he was going to do to get even. Never having the nerve to put any of them into practice. Just letting the rage build inside him. Taking it out on anyone else, finding surrogates for his anger.

And here he was again.

Sandro let go of the pole, flattened out both of his hands and smacked the Golem over the ears.

It was one of the most dangerous moves he could make. Not even allowed in the bare-knuckle ring. The mildest thing the blow could do was disorientate, hit an opponent’s centre of balance. It could also burst the eardrums. But the worst thing, if enough force was applied, was unconsciousness and even brain damage.

And Sandro hoped he had applied enough force.

He saw his father disappear, saw the Golem once more.

He looked into the Golem’s eyes again. The light was going out. Blood began to trickle out of his ears. His mouth went slack.

And he collapsed on top of Sandro.

‘Brilliant … ’ Sandro could barely breathe.

He managed to push himself out from under, let the Golem’s broken body slump to the floor. He climbed slowly to his feet. Legs unsteady, head and body sore. Breathing ragged.

But alive.

‘And it was all going so well … ’ Amy held the gun on Marina and Josephina. Her bloodied features filled with regret.

‘So well?’ said Marina, clutching her daughter tightly to her chest.

‘Yes. Everything was planned, everything was ready.’

‘Everything planned? You killed … killed someone I loved. You tried to kill everyone I love.’

‘No, not me. Michael Sloane. He did that. I’m not responsible for what happened to your family.’

‘Michael Sloane did that?’ Marina clearly didn’t believe her.

‘Graham and I were going to approach you. Ask you to help us with Stuart. We were going to do it properly, formally. But Michael found out. We didn’t plan it well enough. He found out we were going to approach you when you were in that cottage in Aldeburgh. So he got there before us. Firebombed the place. Only I managed to get you and your daughter out of there. And then … we had to improvise.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

Amy sighed. ‘I don’t care.’

‘You blame Michael Sloane for everything.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘And why do you think that is?’

‘You used me. You kidnapped my daughter.’

‘I panicked. After the blast. Had to do something. I’d come to speak to you, ask you nicely, but then there was the blast. And Michael was there. You were unconscious, I pulled you out of its range so he couldn’t grab you, throw you back in. Then the car went up. And the only thing I could do was take your daughter. And run.’