The Choice

by KERRY BARNES

  As soon as she reached the front door, she paused. She couldn’t hold the gun and keys with just one hand. And Torvic knew it. Instead, she hurried around to the rear of the house to the back door. As soon as she saw the broken window and smashed lock, she felt herself gasp and take a deep breath. She had to assume he’d either been here or was still here. Very cautiously, she pushed the door open, knowing that it didn’t squeak. She stepped over the broken glass and controlled her breathing. With her gun in front of her, her finger was on the trigger. Careful not to tread on any creaky floorboards, she made her way to her father’s office. Should Torvic be anywhere, he would be there, no doubt rifling through Izzy’s files. It was so eerily quiet, which was not necessarily a good thing. But once she’d ascertained that he wasn’t on the ground floor, her shoulders started to loosen up, and her breathing became steadily more relaxed, as her senses told her that for the moment she was safe enough. So where was he? Could it be that he was upstairs, lying in wait? Very slowly, she climbed the stairs, listening intently for any sound, however innocuous that would be, but there was nothing – nothing at all that signified danger. Her senses tuned in even to any whiff of cologne or sweat.

  It appeared that the main part of the house was empty after all.

  Zara was struck by something that drew her to the basement. Whether it was curiosity, or even intuition, she knew she had to go down those steps. As she crept down the stairs to the underground prison, she paused. Shit! What if he was there? She peered ahead, firmly gripping the gun. An appalling odour was drifting her way, and she instantly felt a sense of déjà vu from her time spent down here. As she stepped closer, the sight of vomit first caught her attention, followed by the chair that was no longer resting against the barred door but which instead had been cast onto its side some distance away. With her hand covering her mouth, she moved cautiously to the door itself, where she looked through the bars to see that Jackie was still sprawled out on the bed stone-dead. Now she understood. Torvic. So he had been here. And so was his last meal! He’d used the chair to stand on to get a proper sight of the body in the bedroom, hoping it wasn’t Jackie – which would indicate his precious Tiffany was still alive. Zara grinned wickedly. Now he knew the truth. The broken windowpane, the chair that was tipped over on its side, and the puke, were evidence of that.

  She remembered Mike saying that after he’d been to seek out his brother, he would come here to the house to check on Jackie. She rushed back up the stairs and out through the rear door and into the four-car garage where her other car was. An uneasy feeling swept through her. She was being underhanded, after promising Mike that she’d stay at the hotel, but there she was, jumping into her car. He would be here soon himself and would probably guess she’d been into the house, once he’d clocked that her vehicle was missing. Yet, Stephan’s car was also missing, another clear indication that Torvic had been here. Still, she wanted to put right the mistake she’d made when she’d left the remote device behind in the hangar, and the only way to do so was for her to track Torvic down. After consoling herself with that idea, she started the engine and left.

  As soon as she was on the main road, another thought entered her mind. When Mike reached the house and saw what had happened, he would almost certainly wonder why she hadn’t called him to say that Jackie was dead. From the break-in, she hoped he would assume it was Torvic. She pulled over into a lay-by and tried to call his number. Twice she rang it, but it was engaged. She decided to continue on, hoping to call him later.

  * * *

  Mike and Staffie arrived at Eric’s drum, both on high alert. Staffie was still reeling from the mess he’d found at his Uncle Mack’s place and the fact that it had all been to do with Liam. The drive over had been quiet, with both men lost in their own thoughts.

  Now, outside Eric’s house, it was Staffie who broke the silence. ‘If Eric is working with Torvic, will you kill him?’

  Gripping his gun, Mike gave his friend a grim look. ‘I just hope it won’t come to that.’ But he was shocked by Staffie’s response.

  ‘I fucking will!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me, Mike, loud and clear. I’m done with all this, mate. Here I am, hunting down fucking Torvic, when, really, I should be gunning for Colin. He’s the man behind Liam’s butchery.’

  Mike stared at him grimly, in silence: Staffie was right.

  ‘I know, Staff, I get it, but if we can take out fucking Torvic, we’ll be strong-handed then to sort out Colin. If we don’t, then Torvic will take us out, one by one. Er, please, Staffie, let me talk to me brother first, and, I swear, if he’s working for Torvic, I’ll shoot the bastard meself.’

  Staffie’s cold expression didn’t change at all. His look at Mike was equally grim as he replied, ‘You’d better, Mike, ’cos I will, I swear I fucking will.’

  ‘Okay!’ Mike raised his voice and then looked up at the house. ‘We’ll go around the back. I’ve got a key.’

  Staffie followed Mike through the gate, and they both stopped before they got to the French doors. Staffie watched as Mike, slowly concealing his body, peered inside. He could see right into the lounge, but only his brother’s arm, dangling off the sofa, was visible. He stared, watching for any movement, but there was nothing.

  ‘He’s in there. I can see his arm, but I think he’s asleep or … Shit, get back, Staffie.’

  Mike quickly inserted the key in the lock and pushed the doors open. Staffie was on his heels as Mike ran into the lounge and stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Jesus!’ He held his hand to his mouth and just stared aghast at the sight.

  Staffie was no less shocked to the core. For there was one of his once closest friends with a hole neatly placed between his eyes. His gaping mouth looked grotesque, and his eyes were like a mannequin in a shop window.

  Mike wobbled and leaned back into Staffie. They were silent, just staring, trying to take it all in. Staffie, for the moment, didn’t know what to do. It was too shocking. Those words he’d expressed to Mike minutes ago about killing Eric felt like a sucker punch aimed at his best friend. Now he wished he could retract everything he’d said. It was clear that Eric wasn’t working for Torvic; the evil bastard must have killed him and then answered his phone.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mike. Jesus, I feel fucking terrible. Poor Eric.’

  Mike’s whole body seemed to shake like an office block in the midst of an earthquake. The big man rocked on his feet, before falling in front of his brother in a heap. Staffie held Mike in his arms as he broke down and sobbed through salty tears.

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to …’ He broke off.

  Kneeling beside him, they hugged one another, drawing strength from a lifelong friendship.

  ‘He knew, Mike. He knew you loved him.’

  ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘What am I gonna tell me muvver? What am I gonna do …?’

  ‘Mikey Regan, you’re gonna get yaself together, right? We’re gonna find this fucker and kill him!’

  Mike rose to his feet, with a look in his eyes that Staffie had never seen before.

  ‘Let’s go to Zara’s. I bet the fucking cunt’s plotted up there. You drive, Staffie, ’cos I’m losing it. That bastard killed my brother, and I won’t rest until the fucker is truly dead.’

  * * *

  Zara drove slowly along Tylers Green. She looked at the houses and guessed most of the occupants were elderly. The old-fashioned wooden front doors, with their polished doorsteps, and the immaculately presented front gardens lent themselves to typical pensioners’ homes. She drove to the end of the road and took the next left into an overgrown alleyway, which ran the length of the garages that were attached to the row of cottages. As she crept along at five miles an hour, she noticed that the lack of attention to the garages, with their peeling paint and weeds surrounding the entrances, was a sure sign that these parts of the properties were neglected and probably not in use except for the next one to her left. This garage, with the green door, was exactly how
Ismail had described it.

  Looking at the garage and then up at the back of the house, she wondered if this was the place where Torvic had grown up. The lace net curtains and the trellises that separated the two houses were not something she would normally have associated with Torvic. This had to be his mother’s house. The sound of the garage door banging in the wind pulled her from her gaze. The building wasn’t locked. She looked ahead and then in her rear-view mirror, but there were no cars around. With her gun in her hand, she opened the car door using her little finger. It was amazing how strong her fingers had become. She had to use the one hand now for everything; luckily for her, she had mastered using it and was finding everyday tasks much easier.

  She didn’t close the car door, in case it made a noise, but crept towards the garage, still with her gun pointing forward. Cautiously, she opened the door to let in more light. The place was deserted except for an old rifle and boxes of bullets. Her eyes then focused on the door that obviously led into the house. If he was there now, he hadn’t heard her, or he would have appeared.

  Using her little finger again, she found she could easily turn the Bakelite knob to enter the house. Strange, she thought. It should be locked. Straight ahead of her was a kitchen. It was a small area with just the basics, consisting of an arrangement of Formica cabinets in between which were a free-standing cooker and a sink. It was spotless. Even the old floral tea towels that hung from the oven door were clean. Yet this was no man’s place, certainly not a wealthy one’s. This definitely must be Torvic’s mother’s house. The china chicken, the African violets in a pink pot, and the calendar on the fridge door all spoke volumes. Her eyes focused on the calendar with the picture of the Devonshire countryside; it was dated 1974. A cold feeling gripped her. So this wasn’t so much his mother’s home: it was his mother’s shrine. She sighed to herself at the thought that Torvic had been loved as dearly as she had by her own mother.

  The tick-tock sound reminded her of her father’s grandfather clock. Leaving the kitchen, she wandered into the living room where a smaller version of her own timepiece stood. She tilted her head to the side; it just seemed so out of place, nestled between the two Dralon armchairs with the embroidered backrests. Again, the room was very dated, with the Winchester pattern carpet, the Chinese rug, and the glass top coffee table. For a moment, she was mesmerized as her eyes drifted around the room. Taking in all the knick-knacks and doilies on the side tables, and the small black-and-white photos, the eerie experience intrigued her.

  In fact, she was so captivated by the character of the home, she wanted to look at the other rooms and decided to go upstairs, hoping that she would learn who Torvic really was. Would she discover anything by this visit to his mother’s home? What had driven the man to be so evil? The staircase was steep. Leading off from the small square landing were four rooms, one of which contained a toilet, another a bathroom, and then just two bedrooms.

  The largest was the room at the front of the house; inside was a double bed covered in a pink candlewick bedcover. A Tiffany lamp stood on one bedside cabinet and a spectacles case lay on the other one. By the bed, she noticed a pair of slippers, roughly size three.

  His mother must have been a tiny woman.

  Going into the other bedroom, she found it was marginally smaller, with a queen-size bed that dominated the room. Along the opposite wall stood a wardrobe and a chunky pine cabinet. Like the other bedroom, it was immaculate. A red throw and matching covers lay on the bed. Beside it, there was a small rug and above the bed was a framed photo, again in black and white, of a man leaning against a motorbike. She stared until she realized it was Torvic in his younger days. His cap and tatty shirt implied that he wasn’t wealthy, and the look in his eyes suggested he was a sad young man.

  She turned to face the cabinet and noticed that inside a silver frame there was a photo of a woman. Suddenly, her heart pounded. Snatching the photo, she stared at it. No! This couldn’t be! But it was. It was of her mother. She’d never seen that photo before, but the evidence was there. No one had hair like hers. Holding the frame, she felt something behind it, and quickly, she turned it over to see an envelope glued to the back. Her curiosity was overwhelming, and she had to look inside. She needed to know the significance of the photo. At first, she felt a piece of paper in the envelope, but there was something else behind it. It was a chain. Placing the frame face down on the cabinet, she pulled the contents of the envelope out and stared at them once more. There was a ring on the chain. It was a dainty gold ring with a small diamond surrounded by sapphires. Then her eyes peered at the letter. Was this from her mother? she wondered. The discovery sent her into an anxious place, setting off a string of palpitations, which made her breathe erratically. As she opened the folded paper, she looked at the name at the bottom of the page and held her breath. It was from her mother. This was like stepping back in time, peering into the past.

  Dear Vic,

  Please stop sending me gifts. You really must leave me alone. I am returning the ring in the hope that you will finally get the message. I am to be married to Izzy, two days from now. What you and I did was wrong. As much as you are to blame for what happened, I was too. I should never have agreed to meet with you and certainly should never have taken a drink from you. So I know you drugged me, but I will not hold you entirely to blame, as it was I who drank the drink. Please leave me and my family alone. I will then keep what happened between us a secret and will take it to my grave.

  Yours sincerely,

  Isabel

  Zara shook all over. This was her mother’s handwriting, her dear mother, who this evil man eventually killed, all because he couldn’t have her. It must have been why he hated her father so much because Izzy had what he wanted. He must have really loved her mother to have kept the letter, the photo, and the ring. She wasn’t just a passing girlfriend, she was the love of his life, but he’d killed her. What Torvic couldn’t have, he took, and in her mother’s case, it was her life.

  She looked at the date on the back of the envelope: it was the year she was born. Then she counted back the months. No! It was nine months before she was born, to be exact.

  Suddenly, she spun around and stared intently at the enlarged photo on the wall, searching for any evidence that she looked in any way like that man. He couldn’t be her father, surely to God! No way! An unexpected tear made its way down her cheek. But, quickly, she brushed it away and ground her teeth. This man wasn’t her father: Izzy was. He had to be: no man would have loved her the way he did unless he was her father.

  She calmed herself down and continued to search for anything else that would expose who Torvic was, and, more to the point, what he was about. What had made the man become a monster? Her eyes fell to a kid’s piggy bank, which was covered in cracks. On closer inspection, she realized that it had been smashed and glued back together, piece by piece. That being the case, the money box clearly held some significance. Carefully, she held it in her hand and rattled it, but just a few loose coins jangled.

  The internal door banged suddenly, the shock making her drop the piggy bank, which shattered into a thousand pieces onto the cabinet. She cursed and quickly retrieved her gun that she’d left on the side. The door banged again, and then she realized it must have been the wind. Her eyes returned to the broken mess and the old pennies that were strewn everywhere. Something told her to clean everything up and hide what she’d discovered. She quickly used her hand to sweep away the broken pieces and the coins behind the cabinet and kicked the pennies under the bed.

  This room wasn’t who Torvic was now: it was who he once was – a man filled with hopes and dreams, saving his money, loving a woman he couldn’t have. The man in the black-and-white photo, who was leaning against the gleaming bike and holding a spanner, with grease up his arms, looked to be a tortured soul. That look, which she’d initially thought was just sadness wasn’t sadness at all – it was bitterness. She glanced once more and then saw the small newspaper cutting press
ed into the corner of the frame. She leaned in closer and tried to see who the subject of the picture was, but the image was too small to see. Underneath, though, was a short write-up. Con artist Ralph Torvic Sobol was found dead on Saturday morning. His death was attributed to alcoholic poisoning. She speculated on whether it could be his father.

  As she headed back down the stairs, she took one last look in the living room and glanced at the photos; they were nearly all of his mother, and that’s when she noticed that each one was torn in half. She could only assume the other part would have shown his father. The one photo that was intact was of Torvic with another much younger lad. They were grinning, with their arms around each other.

  The sudden chime from the grandfather clock was sufficient to startle her once more; it reminded her that perhaps she’d been there long enough. Retracing her steps, she stopped when she reached the garage. The boxes of ammunition were all neatly stacked; he would be back for those, unless he’d enough already. Today, she wasn’t taking any chances and searched for something to put them in. On the floor in the corner, she spied an old Army bag, covered in spiderwebs and dust. She checked outside before she got to work loading the bag. Once she’d cleared the shelf of the shells, she scurried to her car, wasting no time in pulling away.

  The old Army bag lay on the seat next to her, and as soon as she was far enough away, she pulled over to catch her breath and take a proper look in it. Visions of her mother and Torvic sickened her. Worse, though, the germ of an idea filtering inside her mind that he might be her father made her want to puke. Nevertheless, she was drawn to that dust-covered Army bag.

  The green canvas had two pockets sewn into the sides. She slid her hand inside the first one and pulled out an old cigarette case and a metal military disc with the name Ralph Sobol engraved on it. Next, she slid her hand inside the second pocket and retrieved the contents, comprising a photo and a note. The photo was of a tall, heavily built man and a young boy, approximately two years old, who she assumed was Torvic. Unfolding the note, she read the contents.