Choked

Jeff and Helen had had what they liked to think of as an unconventional, uninhibited marriage. Unique, different. And they didn’t care who got in their way. It had been fun, but Helen had eventually tired of it. Then she had turned on Jeff, and that hadn’t been so much fun.

The lung cancer had hit at the worst possible time. He had just lost his job and with it their lifestyle. He had plans how to get it back, oh yes, plans that would make them a shitload of money. Because Jeff knew where the bodies were buried. And where bodies that should have been buried were still walking around. But the lung cancer stopped that and Helen got tired of waiting. Started flirting with other men again. Younger men. Fitter men. Men who didn’t cough up blood. Who knew how to treat a woman. In front of her crippled husband, if necessary. And Jeff stopped finding it all so funny.

‘I don’t know what’ll hurt you more,’ Helen had said one morning after the latest pick-up had been dispatched. ‘Me leaving or me staying.’

So she had moved in with the latest one, leaving Jeff alone to die.

And all those dirty, filthy secrets that were going to make him rich, he could do nothing with. They would benefit someone, though. His co-conspirators, ex-partners. And Jeff hated that. Hated it. In fact, it was the hate that would kill him. But not yet. Because for now, it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Still, he thought, at least they won’t benefit Helen. That’s something.

What a waste. All that planning, the hours he’d put into it. A waste. He reached out his hand, felt the edge of his laptop under the bed. It was all on there. What had been done, the cover-ups, the plans he had made to get even, to make him rich, everything. All there. Safe.

And all fucking useless to him now.

He pulled his hand back up, stared again at the ceiling. Chest wheezing as he breathed in and out, lungs like needle-laced bagpipes. That policewoman.

Stuart Milton. Very fucking clever. Or so they thought. But dangerous. Almost giving themselves away.

He knew why that name had been given. And his address. It was a warning. We know where you live. Couldn’t have been clearer if they’d trailed the message from the back end of a plane in the air along the seafront. And we can get you any time.

Yeah, yeah. Whatever. If the cancer doesn’t get me first.

He tried to sleep. His eyes had barely closed when he heard the noise from downstairs.

His eyes snapped open.

He heard the noise again. Someone was entering the house.

Jeff Hibbert’s heart began to pound, adding to the pain in his chest.

They’ve come for me, he thought. That’s it. They’ve come for me.

As he struggled painfully to rise and leave his bed, common sense kicked in. Helen. That was who it was. Brought some bloke back to gloat. Bitch. He relaxed back against the built-up pillows. He would ignore her. Pretend to be asleep. Not care what she did. That would show her.

Something smashed. Then something else.

That wasn’t Helen.

Hibbert sat up again, ignoring the pain this time. He swung his legs out of bed as quickly as he could. His heart was pounding once more, fear driving adrenalin round his system. Numbing him slightly, temporarily, giving him the strength he needed to move. He reached out, made a grab for his dressing gown from the back of the door. Couldn’t hold it, dropped it.

Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, trying to be quiet. Definitely not Helen.

He knelt down to pick up the dressing gown, but couldn’t get his fingers to work. They brushed the edge of the laptop. Pushed it further in. No one was getting that. No one.

The footsteps stopped outside his door. Hibbert held his breath. The door opened.

Hibbert’s eyes travelled up the huge legs of the visitor, took in the muscled torso, the thick arms. The head, hair cropped, angled down at him. Eyes blank.

It was like Frankenstein’s monster had arrived.

‘Get out … ’ Hibbert didn’t have the breath to make the words carry, the strength to make them mean anything.

The intruder looked at him.

‘I know … who you are,’ Hibbert said. ‘I know … what you want … ’

The intruder reached out an arm, picked Hibbert up off the bedroom floor. The pain was excruciating. Hibbert cried out, tried to grab the arm, get it to put him down. It was like arguing with a concrete post. And the same colour. He looked at the skin of the intruder. Grey. Like concrete. Like a dead man.

Hibbert knew who this was. And with that realisation came another: I’m going to die.

Now.

He laughed. It sounded as broken as the rest of him. ‘You … you can’t kill me. I’m … already dead … ’

‘Yes. But a dead man with something to tell me. To give me.’ The voice matched his skin. Hard. Dead.

‘I don’t … don’t … ’

The Golem cut him off. ‘Where is it?’

Hibbert tried to laugh, to stonewall, but his eyes betrayed him. They glanced down to the side of the bed. The Golem caught the look.

‘Get it.’

He relaxed his grip, and Hibbert slid down on to the bed. With his shrunken frame in his filthy, sweaty pyjamas, he looked like a collection of old rags. He stared up at the Golem once more, eyes burning. A last act of defiance.

‘Get it yourself.’

The Golem leant down, slid the laptop from under the bed. Looked at Hibbert once more. ‘Password?’

Hibbert gave another broken laugh in reply.

Then the pain in his body went off the scale. The Golem had grabbed him, was pushing his fingers under his ribcage, trying to squeeze his infected lungs. He felt one rib snap. Two. The pressure increased.

Hibbert screamed like he had never screamed before.

‘Password.’ The dead voice once more.

‘Helen … ’ Gasped out. The pain subsided to manageable levels.

Hibbert kept his head down. He had soiled his pyjamas. He knew this was the end. Anger welled up within him. For himself. For Helen. For his whole stinking, rotten, fucking awful life. He felt tears on his face.

‘This … It wasn’t supposed to … to … end like this … wasn’t supposed to end … at all … ’ More sobbing. ‘Helen … Helen, I’m … I’m sorry … ’

The Golem, laptop under one arm, reached out his other hand. Hibbert looked up.

‘You don’t need to … I’m … I’m a dead … a dead man … ’

The snap was small, almost delicate. Hibbert slumped to the bed. The Golem looked down at him.

‘Now you are dead man.’

He turned and left.

The house was still. Dark. As though no one had ever been there.

24

Midnight. And Good Friday became Easter Saturday. And DC Anni Hepburn was still in the hospital.

‘You should go home, Anni,’ Franks had said to her. ‘Get some rest. There’s others can take over here.’

She had given a weak smile in response. ‘I know, boss, but I’ll only be back here tomorrow. And it’ll save me coming up and down the A14 again.’

‘The road to hell,’ Franks said, smiling. ‘Well, OK. Just remember we’re not supposed to be working this case. If something comes up and I need you, you’ve to come down straight away. Leave it to Suffolk.’

She had agreed with him and he had left.