Torn in Two

by J. D. Weston

  Torn in Two

  The Frankie Black Files

  J. D. Weston

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

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  Also by J. D. Weston

  Chapter One

  The Mediterranean lapped at the shore not far from the open window of Emma’s bedroom, the sound somehow reaching her above the noise of neighbouring garden parties and barbecues.

  For a holiday villa, the house was nice, the nicest they’d been to as far as Emma could remember in her eighteen years. Memories of past holidays offered glimpses of run-down apartments and noisy children banging doors or crying in the hallways.

  And parents shouting.

  Often her own parents.

  But this year had been good for them.

  She rolled onto her side and felt for the switch that turned on her small, bedside lamp, which cast an orange glow across the sparse walls and tiled floor. On the floor beside her single bed was her bag. Emma reached inside and removed her little journal. It had been a gift from an aunt for Christmas and she’d been trying hard to keep a record of her thoughts and feelings. She’d tried even harder to make sure her parents hadn’t found it. Her secret journal entries late at night were the best time to get her thoughts down on paper.

  Emma opened the pink, leather cover and flicked through the pages to find today’s date. In the corner of each page was a small symbol pertaining to the things young females enjoyed. Each day was a different symbol. A small outline of a woman’s handbag adorned the corner of May 3rd.

  Her bottom lip folded beneath her front teeth. Emma tapped her nose with her pen as she pondered what she would write. Then she smiled as the highlight of the day came back to her.

  I love this place!!!

  She emphasised the first four words with three exclamation marks.

  Dad went out somewhere on his own today, so Mum and I went to the beach together for a girls’ day. Things seem to be better between her and Dad, less arguing. She even kissed him goodbye. I like spending time with Mum. She treats me like an adult now and we talk about stuff so easily. We were lying on the beach and she asked me if I’d like to invite Christos to dinner. I didn’t know what to say at first, but she laughed and told me she’d seen how I acted around him. Then she went on to tell me that I should be more natural in front of boys. She said, “They want you more than you want them, Emma. You have to stay in control, so they know their place.” It’s funny because it wasn’t until she said it that I realised that’s how she treats Dad.

  The thought of her dad made her stop writing and think of him, of how hard he worked and the nights he spent away just to make sure they were comfortable. Emma let her head fall back onto the cushioned headboard and rolled the pen between her fingers before she started writing again.

  Poor old Dad. He works so hard and Mum treats him so unkindly. And now I’m growing up, it’s sometimes like he gets treated worse than me. Mum talks to him as if he’s a kid. It’s a bit embarrassing. She counted out the exact money for him to go to the shop this morning, as if she didn’t trust him. No wonder he’s never home. I wish they would sort it out. I don't want them to get divorced and, as much as I enjoyed the time with Mum today, it would have been great if Dad had been there and they were nice to each other.

  They had a huge argument earlier. They must think I’m deaf. I heard it all. But Dad said something weird. Something about a mistake Mum made when she was younger. I’ll ask her about it when I see her. But I’ll wait until Christos has come to dinner, in case she changes her mind.

  A soft banging of a door outside caught her ear. Then nothing.

  Mum’s out right now, gone to see Angela again. Dad is home on babysitting duty. I told Mum I don't need looking after, but she insisted Dad stay home. I don’t know how she can talk to me like an adult one minute then like a child the next. Still, I’m not sure if I should ask Christos if he wants to come to dinner tomorrow. And if I do, I need to practice what I’m going to say. What if he says no? I’ll be so embarrassed.

  A chair scraped across the floor in the dining room. Her father, most likely, snacking as he did most evenings. The thought of food awoke her tummy.

  Dad’s snacking again. I can hear him in the dining room. Probably enjoying an unhealthy snack without being moaned at. I’ve decided. Tomorrow, I’ll ask Christos to dinner. Eeek.

  Emma snapped her journal closed and dropped it inside her bag then placed her pen in the little leather loop, so it didn’t get lost amongst the junk. She winced at the sunburn on the tops of her feet as she slid into her fluffy slippers. Then she stood, buttoned her pyjama top, and opened the bedroom door a crack.

  The hallway was silent and dark, the shadows hiding her grin as she stepped outside, ready to jump out on her dad. They had been in the house less than a week, but already, Emma knew the layout. At the end of the small hallway, the open lounge acted as a central living space. The dining room was at one end and a breakfast bar separated the kitchen from the rest of the space.

  Bright moonlight shone through the drawn blinds beyond the dining table and cast a weak light over the furniture, the back of the L-shaped sofa, the dining table, and a side stand where they often kicked off their shoes and flip-flops.

  But something moved in the shadows beside the front door.

  “Dad?”

  No response.

  Emma looked back along the hallway for the light beneath her parents’ bedroom door.

  But there was nothing.

  “Dad? Are you here?”

  Telling herself to keep calm, she reached for the light switch on the wall.

  But no lights came on.

  The shadow moved again, growing larger as whoever it was moved towards her.

  “Dad? Is that you?”

  It moved past the dining table. The light caught the skin of a man’s arm. It was scarred or burned, shiny as if it had been melted onto his arm.

  Emma took a breath to scream, her heart pounding inside her chest as he stepped closer, his entire form now silhouetted against the window.

  A hand fell across her face and held her still as she tried to back away further into the corner. Another arm clamped onto her chest, restricting her arms.

  The silhouette bent to see her up close
in the dark. Dark eyes peered into hers with the curiosity of a child.

  He smiled. His foul breath wreaked of alcohol and cigarettes.

  Then her world turned black.

  Chapter Two

  The rattle of heavy gunfire greeted Frankie as he stepped up to the house, but it was silenced moments after he rang the doorbell, allowing him to hear the excited voice of his son, Jake, as he leaped up and ran to the front door.

  “Dad!”

  The boy’s beaming face was a picture of excitement as he tore open the door and launched himself into Frankie’s arms. The smell of home cooking hit Frankie nearly as hard as Jake’s weight.

  “You’re late. You said you were coming at six o’clock.”

  “I thought I told you never to open the door without a grown-up around?”

  Frankie’s father-in-law, Tom, emerged in the hallway with a cup of tea in his hand just as Frankie spoke the words. The smile dropped from Jake’s face like mud sliding down a wall, but Frankie couldn’t maintain his stern look for long enough to discourage the boy.

  “It’s okay. Just this once. But in future, what do you do?”

  “Go and find an adult.” Reciting the instruction from memory, Jake’s tone lowered in pitch with each word.

  “Good,” said Frankie. “Get your things together then. We’ll get you back to the house.”

  “Are you going so soon, Frankie?” asked Tom.

  Tom was sprightly for his mid-seventies age. His work in the garden kept him fit, and his fitness, along with his successful career in sales, had ingrained a fearless confidence in the old man that even Frankie, with his military career far behind him, admired. The man had spirit.

  “Mary hoped you might stay for some dinner. She’s doing a roast.”

  “I thought I could smell something good.”

  “Can we, Dad?” said Jake.

  Frankie lowered his son to the floor and gave a theatrical display of contemplation, but the pause was too much for the excited boy.

  “I helped pick the runner beans.”

  “Did you now? Since when do you enjoy gardening?”

  “He ate more than he picked,” said Tom. “But he did help.”

  “Are you sure there’s enough?”

  The question was rhetorical, requiring no response from Tom, who slipped out of sight into the lounge, a move which Frankie presumed was to allow him time to forewarn Mary of Frankie’s arrival. There was always enough food when Mary was cooking, but still, it was typical of her to make a song and dance about having to do more of something to cater for the extra seat. Preparing himself for a conversation with his mother-in-law, Frankie created a ploy to keep Jake away, at least until he’d measured her mood of the day.

  “Go and get your things together and tidy up the games.”

  “But, Dad, I want to show you how far I’ve got. I managed to get into the temple and I’m searching for a golden orb.”

  “Really? Well, you can show me later. Go and get your things together so we can go. You won’t want to do it once you’ve eaten.”

  “Okay.” The well-rehearsed dejection was familiar to Frankie and easily broken.

  He called to his son, “You need your football boots, your football kit, and your jacket. Plus anything else you might want to wear.”

  “Really?”

  “The weather’s nice. Why not?”

  The boy turned and ran up the stairs into his room.

  Jake shouted a response too quiet and excited for Frankie to comprehend as he moved through into the lounge. Video games were scattered across the floor and Jake’s games console had been pulled out, leaving a trail of cables.

  Following his nose, Frankie checked his reflection in the full length mirror that hung by the door. His black hair was beginning to show grey, but it was tidy. He ran his hand across his face and turned sideways on, pre-empting the comments from his mother-in-law about him not eating enough. He made his way through to the kitchen. The back door was open and Mary was standing at the oven stirring a pot with her back to Frankie.

  “Are you sure there’s enough for us all?” asked Frankie, and waited for her to turn.

  As predicted, she placed the wooden spoon down on the kitchen side, wiped her hands on the familiar red and white dotted apron, and offered Frankie a smile as she turned and opened her arms, inviting him in for a hug.

  She squeezed him tight, held him, and then pulled away to get back to her oven, turning her head to wipe the tear from her eye with a discreet dab of her apron. Then she cleared her throat.

  “I’ll need to make some more gravy, but there’s enough of everything else to go around. You look like you could do with a good meal.”

  Frankie swallowed the comment on his weight and pushed the conversation on.

  “I hope Jake hasn’t been any trouble.”

  “No more trouble than his mum was at his age.” The reference to Frankie’s late wife marked the tone of what was to come. “And, no doubt, a little less than you were to your parents.”

  The last statement brought a smile to Frankie’s face. How well his mother-in-law knew him.

  “I’ll take that silence as an accurate reflection, shall I?”

  Smiling at the woman’s intuition, Frankie moved the subject on.

  “I didn’t think we were letting him play the video games anymore?”

  “An hour a day. That’s what he’s allowed. Besides, he loves those adventure games. I think you might have yourself a budding archaeologist on your hands. You can’t tear him away from them.”

  “But those games can be very graphic-”

  The electric whisk cut Frankie off, and a sideways glance from Mary confirmed he’d trodden on thin ice.

  “Get yourself washed up, Frankie. I’ll be dishing up in a few minutes.” Her ability to move the topic of conversation on was as good as Frankie’s, although far less subtle. “You can get Tom in here as well. No doubt he’s hiding in the garden somewhere.”

  “I was hoping to have a chat with you both.”

  “We can chat after dinner. I haven't been standing here all day to have a cold roast dinner.”

  Escaping to the garden to find Tom seemed preferable to Mary’s cold tongue. Her heart was warm and her mind was keen, but somehow, through years of being a stay at home mum and housewife, she’d lost her sense of empathy, saying what she thought at the most unsuitable times.

  “And tell him to wash his hands,” she called out. “I don't want to see half the garden up his fingernails while I eat my dinner.”

  Between two rows of climbers, Tom’s bald head appeared then disappeared as if the old man had ducked down out of sight. Frankie found him with a hose in his hand watering his beans and tomatoes.

  “It’s ready, is it?” he asked, hearing Frankie approach.

  “You know the drill.”

  “I’d better get inside and wash my hands then,” replied Tom, fighting for a lifeline to Frankie’s amusement, but maintaining a loyal respect for his wife of nearly fifty years. “I don't want to bring half the garden to the dinner table, do I?”

  He rolled his eyes at Frankie, who smiled and lifted the heavy lid off the compost for Tom to drop a handful of cuttings inside.

  “Before we go inside, Frankie, I’d like to say something to you,” he said, squaring up to Frankie, man to man. Tom was a picture of courage. It was easy to imagine him as a father. He was fair, honest, and loyal with the ability to commence the tougher conversations of parenthood without the need for the games and mind tricks that Frankie used with Jake. “Whatever happens today, you know she only wants what’s best for the boy. We both do.”

  A wooden spoon banging on a metal saucepan announced that dinner was ready. The underlying tone was that Mary had seen the two men talking through the net curtains and she feared a loss of control.

  “Come on, Grandpa,” called Jake from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready. Dad, Grandma says to hurry up.”

  Tom called out without breaking
eye contact between the two men, “We’re coming, Jake.”

  “Should I be worried, Tom?”

  Wiping his hands on his trousers, Tom smiled. “Even if you should be worried, I doubt you would be.”

  He winked at Frankie and led him back to the house.

  “Did you wash your hands?” Shrill and authoritative, Mary offered the question to the room without looking at any of them in particular.

  “I did, Grandma,” said Jake, as he squeezed into his spot behind the table and slid onto the chair. “Daddy didn’t, and Grandpa just wiped his hands on his trousers.”

  Standing beside the kitchen sink, Tom held out the soap for Frankie and joined him in another eye roll.

  “Jake, one of these days, that tongue of yours is going to get you into trouble.”

  Meaning the statement to be light-hearted, Frankie winced as soon as he’d said it, knowing that Mary would bite.

  She heaped a pile of roast beef onto Frankie’s plate.

  “He’s only speaking the truth. There’s no harm in speaking the truth. As long as he’s not lying, he can speak as much truth as he likes.”

  “I just meant that sometimes it’s better not to lie or tell the truth when you get other people into trouble.”

  “Yes, well, it’s nice for an old girl like me to have a younger set of eyes on my side.” She sweetened her tone with another of her warm smiles aimed at Jake, who beamed at the support. “Have some more potatoes, dear. They’ll only go to waste.”