Torn in Two

by J. D. Weston

  At first, her fingers teased at the skin on her stomach. But as the intensity of her trembling legs increased, the grip on her insides strengthened and the flame that burned overcame her. She found her hands exploring the curves of her hips, the strong muscle of her thighs, then her hard and sensitive chest. But they were not her own hands. They were the hands of the men. Exploring her. Feeling her. Testing each part of her for the utmost sensitivity.

  A moan, soft and sensual, far off but close. Her own perhaps? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Standing there, for all to see, for all to enjoy, brought an exhilaration that defied any sensation Emma had thought possible. Her breathing quickened with every buck of her knees and jolt of excitement from between her thighs. She leaned against the door, inches from Darius, as a wave of power rushed through her. With every jittery breath he exhaled, her power grew. With every anguished expression he gave, his eyes sought more of her until his ragged breathing peaked.

  “Show me more.”

  The order came between his stunted breaths. His voice, weak yet demanding, fogged the vision of the marbled room. The water around her turned cold.

  “More. I need to see more.”

  A hand slapped against the steel door and the sound echoed through the corridor. It was the rumble of the quake that pulled at the walls of her thermae and cracked the painted ceiling.

  The hard, firm hands of the men that had caressed her turned cold, their fingers sharp and intrusive.

  And the flame inside her flickered then died, leaving her standing alone, nude for all to see.

  Once more, Darius slammed his hand against the steel, and once more, the thunderous echo rumbled off the tiled walls.

  Panicking, Emma stepped to one side. She stood with her back against the wall, out of sight of the leering eyes that had taken more than Emma was willing to give.

  “Where are you? Come back.”

  Straining to find her through the observation slot, his face pressed against the cold steel door, his eyes searched the tiny room.

  But safe in the shadows out of sight, Emma pressed herself against the wall. She’d given all she was prepared to give and more. She knew there was more, but that was not for a man such as Darius.

  She stayed that way for a while. For how long, she didn't know. But it was long enough for Darius to grow frustrated.

  “Bitch.”

  He slammed the tiny flap closed then found the switch for the light in Emma’s room and cast her once more into darkness. It was a poor attempt at revenge for spoiling his fun. But the reality was that Emma welcomed the darkness. She wanted to put on her pyjamas to prevent the dress being spoiled and did not welcome the thought of having to stare at the girl in the mirror.

  Darius stomped along the corridor, voicing his frustration in curses that Emma had only heard in movies, fuelled by the images of Emma’s body.

  Images he would never forget.

  The door at the far end of the corridor slammed, leaving Emma alone at last.

  Fumbling in the dark, she found her dress and hung it with love on the hanger. She ran her blind hand across the fabric in wonder and hung it from a crevice in the wall.

  Her pyjamas were balled in the corner, her safe corner. They felt itchy, smelled unwashed, and left her wishing the lady had provided more clothes. But that would come. Emma was sure of it. She stood before the mirror seeking the small slither of light she had clung to earlier. It provided just enough for her to find the edges of her face and the ends of her light hair, but nothing more.

  Where once she had welcomed the darkness, its shadows now offered new thoughts and tricks of the mind.

  Leaning forward, she found the moist reflections of her eyes. The space around them was as dark as dark could be. Space for her mind to fill with images of what was, and what was perhaps to come.

  At first, the dark space filled with the memory of herself but as a child. Soft, chubby cheeks. Her innocent young mouth open in wonder. Bright eyes her mother had always told her came from her side of the family.

  But before long, the youthful, innocent image of her former self evolved before Emma’s eyes to settle once more on the girl she’d left behind. Red marks surrounded her eyes, a reminder of the tears she had shed. The once bright, inquisitive eyes had dulled to wide circles that feared everything around her. And her long, blonde hair matted into knots from four days in her hole. She looked on, as before, with pity and sorrow.

  But, from somewhere, her image elicited a new feeling. It was a feeling of envy. The girl she stared at, the victim, the bedraggled mess who stared up from her corner of safety, at least had something in her heart. She had memories. She had a love for those she had lost.

  With her subconscious reaching for her chest, Emma envied the girl, and with a sudden, frightful start, she saw what she would become. The mirror now showed her on the path she had chosen. The path that the lady had shown to her. It was the path of power, where every man was Darius and stared after her with a lustful gaze. Whichever way she turned, whichever way she looked, she found nothing in the form of friendship, tenderness, or the love that both crushed and filled the girl she’d left behind.

  Tears rolled across her cheeks. Her hair hung loose across her face, sticking to her tears and the layer of grease on her skin. But Emma didn't care.

  The path before her had never been so clear. She would be strong. She could have it all, anyone and anything she desired. She would have the power. But she would remain empty, devoid of life and love, like the beautiful shell of a being, carving an existence for the price of desire.

  Her hand reached forward, her vision blurred by tears and her mind dizzied by the memory of her parents who deserved mourning, deserved to be remembered, and deserved far more love than that she had yet offered.

  Trembling fingers touched the cold glass. Memories of what she had done to Darius only moments before filled her mind. She despised herself, her actions, and the power.

  “I don't want the power.” Emma spoke the words aloud and to the reflection of the girl she’d left behind. “I don't want it. I want my mum. I want my dad. Take it back. Take it all back.”

  The sense of loss and lack of hope combined with the darkness dizzied Emma’s mind, and as the reflection faded to black, her mind numbed to all but the path she had taken. She hung her head. Her fingers still felt the glass as if the feeling of touch held her close to the girl she had left behind, like she would vanish should she remove her hand, never to enter Emma’s mind again.

  She raised her head but found no reflection. No more memories.

  “Emma?” she whispered, searching for the girl. “Who am I?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I don't need a partner. I work alone and that’s the way it is,” said Frankie, refraining from staring at the girl and focusing on conveying his message to Mr Saint.

  But his words fell on deaf ears.

  “Mr Black, I am a figure of authority in this town and, indeed, I have friends in high places across Athens. For me to engage with a man…” He paused as if searching for a polite way to deliver his message. “Shall we say, of your talents, and to let you loose in Varkiza would both be unfair to the people of my town and to yourself. There are people here that deserve peace and there are people here that are best left to their own devices. For this reason alone, I insist on my daughter accompanying you. She will ensure you stay out of trouble and she will report back to me with your progress.”

  “That’s not how I-”

  “It is how you will work here. Please, Mr Black. Emma is out there somewhere. Humour me. I am, after all, paying for your services.”

  “I think you’ll find me useful, Mr Black,” said Sophia. “Or can I call you Frankie?”

  Her voice was silky, light yet confident.

  Pondering on the new approach, Frankie let the silence fill the space. In his experience, silence often conveyed a message far better than his limited vocabulary. A plan formed in his head and he regained his
control.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do. Alan and Sharon will make an announcement outside at the gates. Tell the press that the investigation is over and it is with deep sorrow that you are returning home to England without Emma. The event will never be forgotten. Emma will remain in your hearts as will the kindness and love shown by the people of Greece. The media teams cannot see inside the property. So wait thirty minutes. Then Mr Saint will drive out alone. The tinted windows on your Range Rover will work to your advantage. From that point on, Alan and Sharon will remain here. Under no circumstances are you to leave.”

  The orders roused the Fletchers. A perplexed expression spread across their faces. But it was Alan who spoke first.

  “What’s the point of that? Surely we need to be seen to be searching. Otherwise everyone will think we’ve given up. It’s only been four days.”

  “If Emma has been taken,” replied Frankie, “we need whoever it is to see that you are leaving. They will relax. They may try and move Emma. If she’s in the town, they’ll need to get her out, and right now, with you here, it’s too hot for them. Can we do that?”

  He glanced around the room waiting for each of them to nod, although Sharon and Alan’s came with reluctance.

  “Meanwhile, Sophia and I will begin the search.”

  “Where will you start?”

  “With the boy. I need to get a feel for the place until Mr Saint provides me with information. I need to know who’s who. A young boy like that will know everyone and if he likes Emma as much as you say he does, Sharon, he’ll help us.”

  The morning of questioning hadn't been too much of a disruption to the family. But the moment Frankie’s plan was announced, tension built. Holding her stomach as if she was going to be sick, Sharon poured another glass of wine. The bottle emptied but she appeared as sober as a judge. Only her trembling hands and sunken eyes betrayed her true feelings.

  “Are you ready for this, Sophia?”

  “Of course. I know where we can find him.”

  Glancing around the room one more time, with a final look at each of the photos on the wall, Frankie followed her out of the house, where she began her power play.

  “I’ll drive. They won’t bother us in my car.”

  Frankie quelled his objection and allowed her the win.

  The headlights of her Mercedes SUV flashed once and the door locks clicked open. Another click of a button on the fob that was fixed to her sun visor opened the electric gates.

  “You have your own gate key?”

  “We have been with the family for the past two days. I have run errands for them and bought food. Anything I could do to make their lives easier. They are going through hell, Frankie.”

  “They are indeed. I can’t imagine how they feel.”

  “Nobody can. Mrs Fletcher clutches her stomach as if Emma is still inside. I believe the loss of her child has affected her more than it has Mr Fletcher.”

  “People handle things in different ways. For Alan, he’s feeling more guilt than loss. He’s the man of the house, the protector, and somebody took Emma from under his nose. For Sharon, as a mother, she probably feels as if a whole part of her has been taken. Like a missing limb. She’s feeling helpless.”

  “Do you think we’ll find her, Frankie?”

  “I haven't failed yet, Sophia. My only concern is whether or not she’s alive when we do.”

  The statement did as intended and initiated silence, leaving room for Frankie to think. Sophia drove well. She was confident, not too slow, not too fast. Enough to stay under the radars of local police who, in Frankie’s experience, despised having people such as himself continuing an investigation which they had failed.

  Sophia pulled into an empty parking bay facing the glistening, blue Mediterranean Sea. The drive could be measured in minutes.

  The warm air hit Frankie as soon as he stepped from the air-conditioned car. He removed his jacket, folded it once, and hung it from his arm, but he left his bag in the car. Small groups of tourists walked with little ambition along the promenade savouring the sun and the air. On the beach, people lay reading books, played bat and ball, and splashed in the sea. All of them were seemingly oblivious to the nightmare that the Fletchers were enduring.

  He made a mental note to call Jake. Enough time had passed for him to have calmed down. But what Frankie would say, what empty promises he could offer, still eluded him. After what he’d seen of the Fletchers’ loss, he just wanted to hear Jake’s voice.

  “Give me a lay of the land, Sophia.”

  To avoid the distraction of Sophia’s appearance, Frankie averted his eyes and gazed along the beach taking mental snapshots of what he saw while he waited for her to fill in the details.

  “The town is very much divided. To our right and all the way along the coast to Athens are holiday homes and the houses of the wealthy, which is where the Fletchers’ villa is. At the other end of the beach, you will find the poorest of families. The people are honourable. They work hard, but sadly, they have little to show for it save for the smiles on their tanned faces. The two classes blend in the streets behind us and up to the mountains holding the old town. The church calls people from all walks of life.” She turned back to stand side by side with Frankie and stared out to sea. “And the beach. This is where the classes combine, stripped of class and wealth or poverty. This is where we are all equal. It is my favourite place to be.”

  Peering along the small row of restaurants and shops that stood across the beach road from the church, Frankie spied an outdoor seating area that overlooked the sand.

  “Do you drink coffee, Sophia?”

  “Of course.”

  Without waiting for a follow-up question, Frankie walked toward the tables and chairs. Being the gentleman that he was, he pulled a seat out for Sophia then took one himself. It was a move designed both to win Sophia’s favour and to ensure he was afforded the best view of the beach and, more importantly, the people.

  When the waiter had taken their order and had hurried back inside, Frankie pulled his sunglasses down from on top of his head and savoured the sunny warmth on his skin.

  “What do you think happened to Emma?” he asked Sophia.

  “Varkiza is a quiet town. Perhaps if the family were staying in Athens or one of the more popular spots, then I would consider foul play.”

  A family ambled past, perhaps looking for lunch after a morning on the beach. So Frankie leaned across the table to ensure confidence. “But?”

  “But it is not Athens,” continued Sophia. “It does not have the volume of tourists that other places have.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means that it is unlikely to be a hot-spot for criminals or murderers.”

  “Murderers? So if it was central Athens, you would say that murder would be a possibility?”

  “I would say it is a possibility in any city. But this is my town. I know it well. The people are good, honourable people.”

  “And so?”

  “And so, Frankie, I believe Emma has run away. It is that simple.”

  “In her pyjamas?”

  “Her mind is not as it should be.”

  “Why? Her mother seemed to think she was a level-headed girl. She doesn't drink, she doesn't smoke, and her interest in boys is somewhat delayed.”

  “It is her parents. Have you seen them? They do not act like a married couple. They are no longer in love. Perhaps the holiday was a way for them to re-engage. Perhaps it was meant to be time for them to come together and restart the fire, the passion.”

  “I didn't see much passion between them.”

  “And that is my point, Frankie. They bicker and squabble. They act like children, using Emma against each other. The mother takes Emma to the beach for some girl time. The father buys her gifts. Yet one rarely displays any kind of respect for the other. And on top of the childish behaviour, they do not let her be herself. She is nearly an adult yet the father stayed home to mind her. Never is
she allowed to be on her own. You say she doesn't drink or smoke. Why? Because they do not let her out of their sight. They are both fearful the other will take her away for good. Can you imagine if you were in the middle of that? Imagine if your parents argued day and night. A deluge of bitterness from the moment you wake in the morning to the moment you go to bed in the evening. It would be enough to drive you insane. No. It is my belief that Emma went for a walk on her own. Maybe she considered leaving. Perhaps she went for a swim. I like to believe Emma spent the last hours of her life floating in the sea, staring at the stars, and enjoying some peace and quiet.”

  “You think she drowned? You think it was an accident?”

  “I think she drowned, Frankie. If it was an accident or not, I cannot say.” Sophia gazed out to sea as if to reaffirm her statement. “The sea is far more powerful than you or I. So many have been lost. I wonder how many of those chose to be lost.”

  Sophia appeared to be entranced by the glistening, blue water. Following her gaze, Frankie’s eyes fell short of the sea. They locked onto a boy that Frankie would describe as a stereotype of Mediterranean children: jet black hair, a perfect tan, and the lithe physique of a child who had grown up swimming and playing in the sun. The boy was also staring out to sea with one hand shading his eyes. He was barefoot and wore a pair of red shorts with a dark, sleeveless vest.

  “Is that our man?” Frankie stood to gain a better view. “It looks like him but I can’t tell from here.”

  It was Sophia’s turn to follow Frankie’s gaze.

  “Yes. That is Christos. He’s still a boy, fifteen or sixteen I think. His father moors his boat in the marina. Perhaps he is waiting for him to return to help him unload.”

  It was all the information Frankie needed. Leaving Sophia to cover the bill, he strode across the footpath and dropped down onto the beach. It was midday and the heat from the sand warmed Frankie’s feet even through the thick soles of his boots.

  “Christos?” Hoping to catch the boy’s attention without frightening him, Frankie called from afar. The boy turned and looked Frankie up and down. “I’m a friend of Emma’s. I was hoping I could ask-”