Tania Carver: Choked

‘But … you tortured us — me and my daughter … you enjoyed it.’

‘So melodramatic. We had to see that you weren’t being followed, hadn’t told anyone. So we set a test for you. In the bar in Southend. Told you which motel to sleep at. I even came into the hospital, put the book of maps and the phone in your bag.’

‘You were spying on me.’

‘We already had the equipment. The Sloanes knew what we were up to. Were trying to stop it. Even if it meant killing us. So we were monitoring their calls, checking that they weren’t getting too near us.’ She sighed. Readjusted the gun. ‘Still, it doesn’t matter. Not now. Not any more.’

Marina stared at her, unable to move.

Amy’s finger tightened on the trigger.

There was nowhere for Marina to run, nowhere she could hide that would take her out of range of the gun. And she couldn’t make a grab for it, not with Josephina in her arms. As she closed her eyes to accept was about to happen to her, Sandro stepped out of the shadows and came up silently behind Amy.

He reached round, grabbed the hand that was holding the gun, hooked his other arm round her neck.

Marina put Josephina down. The girl didn’t wanted to be parted from her mother, complained. ‘Just for a second, darling. Mummy’s got something to do.’

Josephina did as she was told.

Marina stepped forward. Sandro twisted Amy’s hand, making her drop the gun. His other arm gripped her even tighter round the neck.

‘What do we do with her?’ he asked.

‘Franks should be here soon. We’ll leave her for him.’

Amy squirmed and wriggled against Sandro’s grip. Marina stared at her.

‘I’m a mother. A very angry mother. You stole my daughter. You tried to kill me and my family. You killed someone I loved.’

‘Not me,’ said Amy, gasping and struggling. ‘Michael … ’

‘But you stole my daughter.’

Amy managed to get free of Sandro’s grip. She looked to the door, thinking of making a run for it, but Marina and Sandro were blocking her way. Instead she backed away from them, tripped and lost her footing.

Marina put out an arm to catch her but missed. Amy fell backwards through the trapdoor into the water below. She tried to reach the side, pull herself out, but Marina stood over her. Looked down at her.

Then slammed the trapdoor shut.

‘You can’t leave her like that,’ said Sandro.

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’ll die. You’ll kill her.’

Hammering came from the trapdoor behind them. Marina seemed to be ignoring it. Sandro couldn’t.

Marina shrugged, picked up Josephina once more. ‘So?’

Sandro looked from the trapdoor to his sister. ‘You’ll have the law down on you. You’ll be done for murder. Is that what you want for your daughter? A criminal for a mother? You’re not your father’s daughter, Marina. You’re better than that.’

Something changed in Marina’s features. The anger, the rage drained out of her. She sighed. ‘I’m too tired to open it. I’m taking my daughter home. You do it if you want to.’ She turned and left the room.

Sandro stared at the trapdoor.

Dawn was breaking. The room was getting lighter. Phil Brennan opened his eyes. It took him a few seconds to orientate himself, remember where he was. Hospital. Then he remembered what had happened. And his heart became heavy as lead.

He tried to move his arms, his legs. Flex them, test that they still worked. They did.

His door opened. Light from the corridor flooded in, making silhouettes of the figures in the doorway.

He squinted at them, wondered who it was.

Then realised.

Marina was walking towards the bed, their daughter in her arms. The lead in his heart began to dissipate. He smiled. Marina came nearer. She looked terrible. Hair all over the place, clothing dirtied and torn. Josephina the same.

But to Phil, they had never looked more beautiful.

Marina sat on the side of the bed. Leaned in, stroked his face. Josephina hugged him.

‘Hey,’ Marina said.

‘Hey yourself.’

Up close, Marina looked like she was on the verge of breaking down. He placed his wired and tubed hand on top of hers.

‘We’re here,’ she said. ‘Sorry it took so long … ’

Then the tears started.

From all three of them.

There was Don, in uniform. Alone. Young, unbending, standing stiffly for the camera, unsmiling for fear of not being taken seriously. A man on a mission, with something to prove.

Then out of uniform, with his mates. All wearing the same ensemble of wide-lapelled jackets in shades of brown or oversized checks, huge-collared shirts and kipper ties, sporting the same overlong hair and Elvis sideburns, showing the same cocky smiles and glinting eyes. Thief takers and dandies, gods among men. Plenty of laughter at that.

Then him and Eileen. In a garden, at a barbecue, eating chicken legs, drinking beer. Looking happy. With everything ahead of them.

Eileen choked at that one. Recovered quickly.

Then the two of them with Phil as a small child. Hard to decide which of them looked happiest.

Then others, all variations on the same theme, all showing different aspects of the same man. Admirable aspects, strong, lovable. Over and over in a continuous loop.

A celebration of Don Brennan. His life in pictures.

And words. All around the room, sitting at tables, standing at the bar, stories were being told and retold, anecdotes shared. People laughing together, fighting off the darkness.

Marina looked round. Her heart heavy with grief but lightened by the fact that she had known the man, that he had been an important part of her life.

The service had been at the crematorium. Humanist. The speaker had come to see them days ago, asked about Don, his character, his likes and dislikes, any stories they wanted her to tell, any they wanted to avoid. Marina and Phil had done most of the talking, Eileen still too emotional.

The speaker had been excellent. Others had been asked to contribute. One of Don’s old colleagues had got up to say something. A big ex-copper, broken-nosed and red-faced, heavier than when he was in the job but still carrying himself with authority, had made his way to the podium, started to tell an anecdote about Don, stumbled over his words, burst into tears. Had to be led away.

Then it was Phil’s turn.

Marina had told him he didn’t have to do it if he didn’t want to. If he didn’t feel up to it. Or if he needed help getting to the lectern and back, she would assist. He refused all offers. He felt it was something he had to do alone and unaided.

It was over a week since Easter, since she had walked into his hospital room and held him and held him and held him. And never wanted to let him go.

He had been discharged from the hospital and was at home convalescing, on sick leave from work. His injuries hadn’t been as severe as had first been thought. He would be up and about, walking more or less unaided, in a few days. He had turned down the offer of a wheelchair and only reluctantly accepted a crutch. He was determined to get better. And he had been determined to speak at Don’s funeral.

He had squeezed Marina’s hand before getting up and she had looked into his eyes. Haunted and damaged, almost mirrors of her own. But eyes she loved. Eyes she never tired of looking into, where she found everything she hoped for being returned to her.

He had smiled, got slowly to his feet and, the crutch in his left hand, made his way to the lectern.

He spoke without notes. From his heart, his soul. He told everyone there that, in case they didn’t know, he had been adopted by Don and Eileen. He wasn’t their biological son. And they weren’t his biological parents. They were more than that. So much more.