Tania Carver - Choked

The fairground had expanded with Alton Towers-like dreams of empire but had contracted under council health-and-safety legislation. Now, out-of-town families trying to enjoy themselves found the local kids scarier than the rides.

The cosy cafés were long gone, but seafront food outlets thrived, serving anything as long as it was fast, fried and fattening.

The tentative appearance of the Good Friday sun had drawn an influx of people to the amusement arcades and bars. Marina passed old, scarred wooden benches outside rundown pubs occupied by tattooed men in vests rolling fags and drinking lager. Laughing with bared teeth and making passes at their friends’ women with a barely restrained undercurrent of violence like their barely restrained attack dogs lying under the tables.

Marina hurried on down the front. Walking fast, breathing heavily. On the surface, controlled.

After leaving the hospital, she had driven straight down the A12 then the A127, not stopping for anyone or anything. Speeding at first, but she had soon stopped that. If the police picked her up, she would be delayed at the very least. Stopped and returned at the worst.

And that would be the last she would see of Josephina.

So she had stayed just under the legal speed limit, heart racing faster than the car’s engine as she drove.

She didn’t know Southend well; had followed the signs for the seafront and parking spaces. She had been about to leap out of the car, but caught her reflection in the mirror. She was a mess. Dried blood and scratches on her face. Hair a dark, tangled mass of scribble. She had done what she could, quickly wiped her face, rearranged her hair; nowhere near what she ordinarily would have done to make herself presentable.

But that was the old her. Living her old life. She was someone new now. Someone different.

She got out of the car, walked along the front. Ignoring the people outside the bars, but feeling eyes on her all the time. Judging. Malicious. Unseen.

And she didn’t want to mess up while those unseen eyes were watching. For her sake.

For her daughter’s sake.

She walked round the corner, away from the front. She had memorised the route from the map she had been given. A grid reference that led to a street. And a name. Coasters.

She kept walking and soon found the street. Away from the front, but its sounds and smells still reached her. Snatches of arcade song and jingle, rollercoaster screaming, the smell of cheap, stale fat. All brought to her senses on the breeze, then just as quickly taken away as the wind veered off, changing direction, like the swooping, scavenging gulls in pursuit of scraps.

She ignored it all. Kept walking.

Coasters was in front of her.

Even among the dive-bar fraternity, she thought, Coasters would be way down the list. A row of single-storey breezeblock buildings faced a scrappy car park full of potholes, broken glass and cars left there purely so the owners could claim on the insurance when the inevitable vandalism happened. Most of the buildings were boarded up. The remaining ones all sported heavy metal bars and mesh on the paint-peeling, filthy windows and metal rollers over the doorways. They variously advertised themselves as a second-hand shop that Marina immediately knew was a fencing operation, a couple of bars, a beauty salon and a tattoo parlour where, if the sun-faded photos in the window were anything to go by, the tattooist had all the artistic skill and flair of a six-year-old child.

She reached the doorway of Coasters. The outside had been painted, none too expertly, a deep purple. White paint had been applied over the top of the rusting bars covering the window. The door was open. Inside, a poster took an inspired approach to spelling and grammar advertising an eighties night. A notice next to it explained that the pub was on two levels but that the seafront bar could only be accessed from the seafront. It was written in such a way that a veiled threat hung over the words for those who ignored the advice.

‘Abandon all hope,’ said Marina quietly to herself, trying to build up her courage to enter, and failing.

She looked at the threadbare, dirty carpet in the doorway. The unmistakable smell of stale alcohol and uncleaned rooms wafted out of the darkness. She could hear voices. Low, conspiratorial. Underneath them the bland, susurrating buzz of a TV announcer. She saw figures moving, shadows against shadows. She felt rather than saw heads turn towards her.

It was the last place on earth she wanted to enter. But Phil came into her mind, lying there unmoving, unreachable … The voice on the phone once more …

And Josephina’s face.

She took a deep breath.

And stepped inside.

‘Here we are, then. Home sweet home.’

He looked straight ahead to where a rusty caravan sat on a patch of weedy, barren grass next to a run-down house. There was nothing else around for miles. It didn’t look like home to him.

‘What d’you think?’ Jiminy Cricket said, laughing, as if anticipating applause.

He frowned. ‘I … I’m not supposed to be here. This isn’t where I’m supposed to come to.’

‘Yeah.’ Jiminy Cricket looked irritated. It wasn’t the response he had expected. ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s taken care of.’

‘I have to report. Probation, they said. Signing. Can’t disappear. Can’t just go off like this. On my own.’ He spoke the words like a learned speech.

‘I told you. Don’t worry about it. Now … ’ He turned, made a fanfare gesture towards the caravan. Tried again. ‘What d’you think of your new home?’

He had no idea where he was. The drive had been long. Or it had felt long, because he hadn’t known where he was going. He had looked out of the window but had recognised nothing. There had been a big road, lots of fast-moving, snarling cars. He hadn’t enjoyed that. It had scared him. Then the big road became a smaller one, round a town. He thought he recognised it but wasn’t sure. It had been a long time ago, and he had been a different person then. Something about Romans. An Avenue of Remembrance. He didn’t know what he was supposed to remember. Or forget. It all grew confused in his head.

They drove out of the town and the roads became smaller still. Tight, Jiminy Cricket described them. Closed in. He didn’t think so. They weren’t closed in compared to where he had just come from.

The buildings got further and further apart until they were mostly replaced by trees and fields. There were fewer cars, which should have made it more tranquil. But it didn’t. The open spaces with the huge sky above made him panic. He wanted noise again, more of it.

Eventually they pulled off the road and down a track that was all loose, sharp rocks and holes. The car threw him from side to side as it went down the hill. At the bottom was the stone house. A cottage, he supposed, since he was in the country. It had once been white but now it looked like it wasn’t sure what colour it was. The windows were dirty, paint peeling round them. The front door battered. There were no flowers. Nothing welcoming. An old silver car, long and boxy, was parked at the side.

‘Here we are, then. Out you get.’

He got out. Looked round. The air smelled different here. Salt. Like the sea. He closed his eyes, listened. Heard water. They were near the sea. Or at least a large river. He could hear dogs. The kind that were left outside to bark at anything and everything. And he could hear something else, over the top, a jagged, grating sound carrying on the wind.

‘What’s that? Is that a child crying?’

Jiminy Cricket acted as if he hadn’t heard him.

He tried again. ‘Where are we?’

This time, by way of an answer, his companion smiled.