Choked

‘She’s safe. For now. As long as you do what I … ’ An intake of breath. A pause. ‘ … what we tell you to.’

Anger rose once more in Marina. Impotent. Hot. ‘What? What d’you want me to do? Tell me. I’ll do it.’

‘Get a good night’s sleep first. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

‘What?’

The voice sighed. Like it was explaining something really simple to someone even simpler. ‘Rest. Sleep. We want you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for tomorrow.’

‘How can I sleep? With all this going on, with what you’ve … you and my daughter … ’

The fire went out of her. She felt suddenly tired. So tired, it was an effort to even hold the phone to her ear.

‘Finished? Good. Go into the hotel, get a room. There’ll be plenty free, it’s Easter. People will be at home with their families, asking why everything has to close early and the telly’s such shit just because Jesus found himself on the business end of a bit of botched DIY. And wait for the call.’

She said nothing.

‘You still there?’

‘I’m still here,’ said Marina.

‘That’s the spirit. We’ll all get on so much quicker if you toe the line.’

Marina felt as though lead weights were holding her down.

‘Have dinner. Sleep. Breakfast. And a shower. I’d recommend a shower. Then tomorrow the work starts in earnest.’

Marina sighed. She could feel bars all round her. Everything was a cage.

‘And Marina … don’t think about escaping. Or phoning your cop friends for help. Or telling anyone in the hotel what’s going on. We’re watching you. All the time.’

The line went dead.

She threw the handset down on to the passenger seat. Not in anger, just resignation. Then picked it up again, put it in her bag.

She got out of the car, crossed to the hotel.

Ready for a sleepless night.

18

The gym was one of a dying breed. The men inside it too.

Its doorway was down an old, decaying street in Bethnal Green, east London. The surrounding streets had fallen to creeping gentrification, as moneyed next-generation trustafarian bohos and City workers alike made like urban explorers and bought up property. This street had staved off those advances, but crumbling brickwork and increasing rental costs meant that it too would soon be gone. And the gym, its bare brick walls running with condensation, its stripped wooden floors suffused with decades of sweat, would be gone too. An ad agency, perhaps. A marketing company. A coffee shop.

The boxing ring was still in use. Two lean-framed teenagers danced round each other in vests and shorts, heads and hands padded, concentration fixed. Their trainer shouting instructions from the sidelines. Along the side of the room, the free weights were being used, the bags being hit. Boys and men, their skins all shades from pasty white to rich dark brown, worked the room. No trouble. Just the camaraderie of contained aggression.

But not in the basement. The regulars, the punters, never got to go down there. Never had need to. Because there was a different kind of aggression going on below. Not contained, no rules. A room for hire. Soundproofed. Where payments could be made and scores settled. For a price.

Mike Dillman knew all about that. He’d known Lisa was a handful when he met her. That was why he had married her. She was fiery, loud. Quick to anger and ready to fight. He loved that about her. Because it also made her a fantastic fuck. But there was a down side. She got hugely jealous. He just had to look at another woman for her to kick off. And Mike had done more than just look. Often. Now, sitting on a chair in the centre of this room, he wished he’d kept his eyes and hands to himself.

He felt dead. His arms tied behind his back, his legs tied to the legs of the chair. His shirt open. He felt blood running down his face, pain all over, like his body had been wired into the mains.

And there was Lisa, standing in front of him, sweating hard. Bloodied heavy metal glistening on her fists. Chest heaving, eyes shining with a primal light. She looked beautiful. He would give her that.

Behind her, a bored man in a suit sitting on a chair with a porn magazine open on his lap looked at his watch.

‘That it, then?’ he said. ‘You done?’

Lisa shook her head, checked the clock on the wall. ‘Got another quarter of an hour yet. Paid for it. Got to use it.’

The bored man shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ Went back to studying his magazine.

Lisa looked down at Mike. The hatred in her eyes, the rage. Beautiful. When she got like this, the sex afterwards was always brilliant. He still wanted her, even after what she’d done to him.

‘Learned your lesson?’ she shouted. ‘Still want to go fucking around with other women? Have you, Mike? Need reminding who you’re married to?’

‘Yeah,’ he managed to gasp in a voice he didn’t recognise as his own. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve … you’ve made your point an’ I won’t do it again. Let’s … let’s go home … ’

Lisa nodded, pulled her fist back, brought it quickly forward, connecting with his chin. His head went back, blood and spit flew. Jesus Christ, that hurt. Not as much as the last time, though, he noticed. She was getting tired. Her aggression running out like her time.

She stepped back. Head to one side, she studied him.

‘That’s it,’ she said, not turning. ‘I’m done.’

Mike looked up. ‘I’m sorry … Let’s … Get me up an’ we’ll … we’ll say no more about it, yeah?’

Lisa walked away, ignoring him.

The suited man stood up, threw her a towel. ‘Go get yourself cleaned up. We’ll finish off in here.’

Mike Dillman watched her leave the room, puzzled. The man put his magazine on the chair, looked at the beaten man before him. ‘Shouldn’t mess around, should you?’ he said. Not judgementally, just as a matter of fact. ‘Look where it gets you.’

‘Yeah,’ said Mike. ‘Won’t do it again.’ He tried to move his arms. They hurt. He looked at the man, tried to focus through swollen eyelids. ‘You … you let me out now, yeah?

‘Just got the cleaning up to do,’ said the suited man, crossing into the shadows. He gestured. A shadow detached itself from the back wall, stepped forward. Mike’s ruined face managed to register surprise.

And fear.

The shadow moved forward. It was a huge man, hair cropped short, wearing a T-shirt and jeans tucked into boots. His size was impressive, but that wasn’t what had drawn Mike’s attention. It was his skin. He was the colour of smoke, of shadow. He was grey.

‘Who’s … who’s that?’

‘We call him the Golem,’ said the suited man, his voice businesslike. ‘You’ll call him the last person you’ll see on this earth.’

The man’s words registered. Mike began to shake, his earlier pain gone, the need to get away, to live now his only thought. He heard screaming, shouting. Realised it was him. Did it some more.

‘Sorry, mate,’ said the suited man. ‘Out of my hands. She paid for the works. She has a go at you first, then we get rid of you. No point screamin’ either. This place is soundproofed. Take it like a man, eh?’

The Golem advanced. Mike screamed.

The Golem reached out. Then stopped as a ringing sound filled the air.

Oh thank God, thought Mike. Thank God …

The suited man frowned. The Golem reached into his jeans pocket.

‘I have to take this,’ he said, pulling out a phone and looking at the display. He spoke heavily accented