Torn in Two

by J. D. Weston

  With a mound of food on his plate larger than anybody else's, Frankie began to tuck in.

  The sounds of chewing and Jake’s cutlery against Mary’s dinner set were broken by Tom.

  “So what are the plans then, Frankie? Do you have a few days off?”

  Swallowing a mouthful of food, Frankie gave consideration to his response, being careful not to entice further questions on the topic of his work.

  “I finished a job yesterday. There’s nothing lined up for the time being so I was thinking that I could look after Jake for longer than usual.”

  “Longer than usual?” Mary’s head cocked. Her interest had been caught, and behind those inquisitive and self-righteous eyes, Frankie knew she would be lining up her defences. “But what about his school?”

  “Well, I’ll take him. It’s not too far.”

  “We’ve been over this, Frankie. We’ve got a routine now. The boy needs routine.”

  “Ah, Grandma, can’t I stay with Dad for a few days?”

  “What did I tell you about talking with your mouth full?”

  “Sorry.”

  The dejection was real. The boy lowered his head to his food and Mary turned her attention back to Frankie.

  “Frankie, I’m sorry. Maybe another time. But right now, we’re just too busy to change our plans. We’ll be at the caravan next weekend. That’s disruption enough.”

  “Mary, he’s my-”

  “He might be your son, Frankie, but it’s us who look after him.” She placed her knife and fork on the table beside her plate. The front line had begun their assault, and she now commanded the artillery to support them. “Maybe when you’re a bit more stable, when you’ve got yourself steady work.”

  “I do have-”

  “I think we’ve discussed this enough at the dinner table, don’t you?” said Tom.

  Always the voice of reason, Tom rose from his wife’s shadow to defend her and cut the conversation dead. An uneasy silence hung in the air for a few moments before Frankie offered the involuntary white flag he only used with his in-laws.

  “I’ll take him today and bring him back tomorrow.” Offering Jake a reassuring smile, Frankie hoped that somehow the boy had gleaned some kind of lesson from the interaction.

  “We’ve already had to change our plans so you can have him this weekend, Frankie. Please don’t upset our routine.”

  The artillery had crushed the lines of Frankie’s defence and formed gaping holes that were too disparate for him to defend at once. Attack was the only option remaining. But he would attack from the flanks.

  “Have you finished already, Jake?” Changing his voice to surprise and his expression from frustration to admiration, Frankie left Mary in mid-battle and turned his attention to his boy. “Why don't you go and finish your video game? Leave us grown-ups to talk, and then we’ll go play some football.”

  “Will you come and see after? I want to show you what I can do. There are mummies wrapped in bandages that come out of nowhere and diseased rats that bite your feet.”

  “Of course I will. Diseased rats and mummies sounds fun. Just give us ten minutes to have a chat.”

  Jake slid from his chair beneath the glare of his grandma, who despised children leaving the table before everybody had finished eating. Tom opened his mouth to talk, but was silenced by Frankie’s change in expression. In one swoop, Frankie had removed one-third of Mary’s army.

  “How dare you?”

  She wiped her mouth with one of the gleaming white napkins that she insisted on placing on the table at every meal, regardless of the occasion. But with his defences down, and Mary’s strength waning, Frankie moved in for the kill.

  “Stop right there. I’ve heard enough,” he said.

  Placing his elbows on the table and interlinking his hands, Frankie waited. The gesture was as much to control his own anger as it was to tease at Mary’s displeasure. With her emotions high, she would make a mistake. But from nowhere, Mary’s ally opened fire. Tom moved in but not in attack. His words were aimed to quell Frankie’s advance.

  “No, Frankie.” He glanced at his wife then back at Frankie. He too could play the game of silence. “We just want the boy to have a normal life. You were in the military. Surely you can see that carting him off here, there, and everywhere isn’t good for him.”

  “Seeing his dad would be good for him. Not having to listen to his dad be undermined by his grandma would be good for him, Tom.” Frankie tossed his napkin onto the table and pushed his chair back. “And if seeing his dad for a few days means having to travel a little further from school then-”

  “Frankie, there’s something you need to know.”

  The sentence came low and quiet, as if the gunfire and artillery had ceased and only the intelligence could move the battle on.

  “There’s nothing you can tell me I don't already know,” said Frankie. “I’m grateful for the help you give us, truly I am. These past few years, I’d have been lost without you. But you can’t ram it down my throat every time I want to spend a little time with my son.”

  “We’re not throwing anything in your face, Frankie.”

  “Jake, get your things. We’re leaving.” Frankie then lowered his tone and regained his composure. “Thank you for dinner, Mary. Maybe one day we can get through an entire meal without having an argument.”

  But Tom wasn’t finished.

  “Frankie, sit down.”

  “Jake, are you ready to go?”

  Ignoring his father-in-law’s attempts at asserting himself, Frankie stood from the table. But as he placed his dinner plate on the kitchen side, he caught his in-laws exchanging glances.

  “What is it?” asked Frankie. His senses pricked. Frankie felt the same dull ache in his chest as when the doctors had told him that Jacqui was gone. “What is it you two aren’t telling me?”

  Tom wiped his mouth and set the napkin down then placed his arms on the table, interlocking his fingers as if he were conducting an interview.

  “Tom?”

  Frankie glanced into the lounge to find Jake still playing his game. The air in the room felt heavy and thick with deceit and treachery. Looking up from his coupled hands, Tom once more met Frankie’s gaze head on. Man to man.

  “We’re filing for custody, Frankie.”

  Chapter Three

  Strong hands held Emma’s arms, forcing her forward faster than her shaking legs could manage. She stumbled at a doorway but was dragged upright then shoved through it, where she fell to the floor. Free of the man’s iron-like grip, Emma backed into a corner until she felt the cool, painted brick against her sweaty hands.

  Bright light spilled into the small room revealing the outline of the man’s lean body and the shadow of the thick growth on his face.

  “Who are you?” Her voice, no more than a frightened whisper, echoed once then ceased. “Where am I?”

  But the man simply checked his watch and glanced over his shoulder along the hallway before turning back and studying Emma’s body. He began at her bare feet. Then, as Emma turned to cover herself with her arms, his eyes traced her body through her pyjamas, and then finally rested on hers.

  Two hard pins of light framed by the darkness of his face.

  “What do you want?” The silence was as unbearable as the fear. Emma choked on her own ragged breath. “Is it money? My parents will pay. They don't have much but they can pay.”

  “Be quiet.” The man’s accent was local, much like Christos’, only gravelled with age and maturity, and cold with a bitterness that emphasised his words. “Be quiet and you will not be harmed.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You are safe. Please do not try to escape. It is far more dangerous outside than in here. It is in both of our interests if you ask no questions, if you stay quiet, and do as you are told.”

  “I want my mum.” The statement elicited the first wave of tears Emma had been holding back. Her throat clogged with phlegm and she slid down the wall to find a cold
, tiled floor. She hugged her knees close, burying her face in her legs, no longer able to look at the man’s silhouette. “Please, let me go. I can get you money. My dad can get money.”

  But the man offered little more than a twitch of his cheeks, a simple expression that conveyed far more than the words that followed.

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  Confused, frightened, and shaking with the terror of the unknown, Emma pulled her knees in close to make herself as small as possible.

  “There is a blanket on the floor. That is where you will sleep. There is a bucket in the corner.”

  “How can I sleep? How long will I be here?”

  “I will bring you food and water.”

  “How long will I be here?” screamed Emma, her fears being overcome by outrage. “What gives you the right to do this?”

  The man lingered for a moment as if considering a response, but then he turned and slid the doorway into place. A rattle of heavy locks against steel confirmed Emma’s fears, and she sat in peace, allowing the darkness to overcome her.

  But no more tears fell.

  In her mind, a thousand questions, thoughts, and imaginings fought for attention, but none prevailed. They faded as if the darkness coaxed them away, lured by the shadows, leaving Emma staring, open-mouthed, at the slither of light beneath the door.

  Time passed like slow-moving water in a far-off river, a meandering blue on the horizon that confirmed its presence, but which way the water flowed and how fast could not be ascertained.

  There were no windows to offer Emma a sign, only painted, brick walls, smooth to the touch and cold as if they hadn’t seen or felt the warm touch of the sun for an eternity.

  An eternity.

  She pondered the phrase.

  How long would she be there?

  How long had she been there?

  An eternity already. An eternity that stretched with each passing second, minute, and hour.

  Finding the corner of the room by sliding her hand along the cold wall, Emma judged the distance to the slither of light beneath the door. It was three times her own height, should she lie flat on the floor.

  “Fifteen feet,” she spoke aloud, and marvelled at the sound of her own voice. There was no echo. No romantic acoustics that made the sound pleasant. Only the brief joy of a voice to break the haunting silence.

  The next corner of the room was another three of her own body lengths, and it was there she found a blanket. It had been folded neatly as if her own mother had placed it there. But the material was scratchy like the type her dad kept in the boot of his car for when they got muddy and he didn't want the seats to be dirtied.

  “Another fifteen feet,” she spoke out loud again, and then bit her lip to stem the smile that cracked the film of dried tears on her cheeks.

  Emma bundled the blanket beneath her arm and slid her way along to the next corner where she knew what she would find. Despising the thought, she still welcomed the bucket with gratitude. At least she wouldn't have to go on the floor like an animal. The next wall took her to the door, where a cool breeze brought with it an aroma of spiced meats.

  “Gyros,” she whispered, remembering the restaurant she had been to with her parents a few days before.

  They had been to see the Acropolis, and at the bottom of the hill they had found a small street lined with cafes. Her father had chosen the restaurant as it had two men performing some local music. One of them had a guitar, and the other played a bouzouki. The songs had all sounded the same to Emma but were strangely familiar, and she had said so to her mum.

  “It’s like I already know these songs, but I’ve never heard them before.”

  “That’s because they are Greek classics,” her father had cut in, still listening to the music but turning to her to offer a distracted smile. “You have heard them all a thousand times before in films, on the radio. It’s cultural. You’re hardly even aware of the songs. But to see them being played live is something you will never forget.”

  Her father had ordered for them all, and each of them were presented with a plate of cheap fries and a lamb gyro.

  Rolling onto her back, Emma pulled the blanket behind her head to use as a pillow and savoured the memory of the meal.

  “It’s a kebab, Dad.” Emma had laughed with disappointment. “We can get these at home.”

  “It’s a gyro, Emma. Eat it and tell me where you can get kebabs that good at home. Maybe in London or one of the cities, but you won’t get one of those from your local chip shop.”

  At first, Emma had watched her mother pull the soft bread apart to expose the chicken and salad in a white sauce. She used a fork and sampled it as if she was at one of her weekends away with the girls tasting fine cheeses or canapés.

  Her father had simply held the entire gyro up from his plate with both hands and taken a huge mouthful, leaving a smear of sauce on his face. Emma’s mum had shaken her head and looked away to make sure nobody had seen it, and Emma had laughed. Her father looked between the two of them wondering what was wrong, which had brought on more laughter from Emma, so much so that eventually her mum had laughed too, and then leaned across the table to wipe his mouth.

  It was then, right at that moment, that Emma had an insight into what they must have been like before she was born. When they had first met. She had seen the photos, and they had seemed happy, as most couples do when they are young and carefree.

  She clung to that moment. A single snapshot of adoration buried beneath the layers of mistrust, bitterness, and tears that time had laid down.

  But the memory was short lived.

  Somewhere further along the hallway, a door slammed and hushed voices, urgent and anxious, carried along the tiled floor.

  Footsteps approached, growing louder. Emma sat up, sliding into the corner, and waited as a jangle of keys banged against the steel door.

  Chapter Four

  “He’s my son. You can’t just take him away because you don’t think I have a stable life. You’re my in-laws. What happened to being supportive? What happened to loyalty?”

  “Sit down, Frankie. Please.”

  Tom glanced past Frankie into the lounge. Then he stared up, waiting for Frankie to sit down. It was a technique Frankie had seen used in the military by officers. They would wait patiently for a command to be actioned before delivering a disciplinary to ensure they had the individual’s full attention.

  “You can’t do this, Tom.”

  But Tom remained silent, sitting patiently with his fingers locked while Mary stared at Jake’s empty chair, unable to meet Frankie’s eyes either because of what Frankie had said, how he had acted, or just out of pure shame.

  Frankie leaned towards the latter.

  He pulled the chair beneath him, sat back, and pulled one leg onto the other.

  “Is this going to be civilised?” asked Tom.

  “I see no reason to make Jake aware at this stage. So if you’re questioning if I’m going to raise my voice again then the answer is no. But if you think for one minute I’m going to sit here and let you two belittle me then let you take my boy away, you better be ready for some kind of comeback.”

  He turned to Mary, staring until she looked up.

  “You’d better be ready to fight because he’s all I’ve got. He’s my everything, and I won’t sit by and watch the last good thing in my life be taken away from me.”

  “We don’t want to take him away, Frankie,” said Mary.

  “So why does anything need to change? Why can’t we just go on as we are?”

  “Because the boy’s suffering, Frankie.” Tom’s mouth was down turned but his eyes implored compassion. “Can’t you see it? Look at him. He’s getting into trouble at school. He’s-”

  “He’s what?” asked Frankie.

  “Socially awkward. He doesn’t pick up on cues. He doesn’t see the world as you or I.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my boy. He just needs to be let out of this house once in a whil
e to go and kick a football around with boys his own age. That’s where he’ll get his social cues from.”

  “You don’t have a stable job, Frankie. What is it you’re doing now anyway?”

  It was the question Frankie had been avoiding.

  “I’m just doing security for a few guys I know.”

  “And you’re travelling?”

  “The work isn’t going to come to my doorstep. You know how it is.”

  “No, Frankie. That’s just it. We don't know how it is. We understand the circumstances. We know why you haven’t got a steady job. But as much as it pains me to say it-”

  “Don’t go there, Tom.”

  “Jacqui would still have died whether you’d been kicked out of the army or not.”

  “There it is.” Rubbing his eyes, Frankie tried to make sense of their argument. “You had to go there, didn’t you?”

  “What would you have done then, Frankie? If you were still signed up, you’d be off God knows where risking your life, and we’d still be looking after the boy. It’s for the best, Frankie.”

  “Jacqui died. Your daughter died. And since then, I’ve done everything I can to make sure that boy is fed and that he has clothes on his back. I don't see you turning away the money I send through to make sure he has decent clothes.”

  “That’s all in an envelope in my safe.” Tom’s pride in their ability to take care of whatever life threw at them shone with confidence. “We haven't touched it.”

  Frankie sighed and let his head rest on the palms of his hands.

  “I just thought I’d get a bit more encouragement from you both. Do you know how hard it is to come here and see him unhappy? You both do a great job of looking after him. It was unfair of me to hint at anything else. But…”

  “But what, Frankie? Say what’s on your mind.”

  “I’m trying to build something. I’m trying to build a business. I’m trying to pay the bills. I’m trying to raise the boy the best way I can. The way Jacqui would have. With her values. But every time I get my head above water, I come here and you push me under again with your perfect lifestyle, successful career, and immaculate table cloths and napkins. There’s only so much I can do. I’m trying to build something to give him stability. But I need your help. Just a little longer.”