Torn in Two

by J. D. Weston

  But before Frankie could finish his sentence, and with the energy that only young children can summon, the boy turned, ran, and didn't look back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A metal tray of unidentifiable meat clattered to the floor, rousing Emma from her tear-induced sleep. The door had been opened without her hearing, and silhouetted in the light from the corridor stood Darius. He stared down, seeming to study every inch of her from her feet to the hair that hung over her face.

  “You must be hungry.” There was a hint of compassion in his voice and the lust had all but gone.

  But Emma said nothing. Instead, she settled beneath the safety of her blanket, pulling it closer around her shoulder and holding it tight at her throat.

  “You must eat, Emma. You have to stay strong.”

  “I’m not hungry. Besides, I can’t even tell what it is.”

  “It is lamb. Come now. We will eat together. That way you will know it is not bad food.”

  He moved forward but halted when Emma panicked.

  “I want to be alone.”

  “Then you’ll die here. And nobody will know. Except me. Do you think the lady cares for you? No. Do you think she will shed one single tear if you withered away? No.”

  “Then I’ll die here. I have nothing else to live for anyway.” She hugged her knees closer to bury her face and breathed her own pungent breath.

  “Do you mind if I sit?”

  The question was asked with an innocent tone, but from the lips of such a vile human, it spurred Emma’s senses. Adrenaline began to seep into her bloodstream, pulling her from the drowsy state of mourning to a state of high alert.

  “Yes. Please, leave me alone. I’m sorry I teased you. I would never do that. Not normally. I just-”

  “I understand.” Darius stepped closer, then turned and lowered himself to the floor, choosing a spot out of reach of Emma, but from where the light of the corridor revealed the deep crevices on one side of his face. “I won’t hurt you. I’m lonely too.”

  “I’m not lonely.”

  “No. But you’re alone. You are alone down here when you should be shining like the sun. Such a pretty face.”

  Realising that if the light shone on one side of his face then it too must be shining on her own, Emma let a thick strand of hair fall down to cast her back into shadow.

  “I am not a bad man. You will see.”

  “But I am not a nice girl. I don't deserve kindness, however you wish to disguise it.”

  “I cannot hear you speak this way. Such a beautiful girl should shine like the sun. What is your favourite flower, Emma?”

  But, flowers being the furthest thing from Emma’s thoughts, she could not reply. Instead, her mind found solace in the memory of her mother. How nasty Emma had been to her parents. All they had tried to do was provide for her. To give her the best of everything.

  “I don't know.” She hoped her dismissive reply would send Darius away.

  “Please. I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “I deserve to be hurt. I deserve all of this.”

  The words came out before Emma could stop herself. She knew her response would encourage Darius when all she wanted was to be left alone. But there was something in his voice. A kindness. All she had seen of the man so far had been a facade of cruelty. A man who enjoyed the incarceration of weak girls. A man she had taunted with her body, knowing that he would dare not touch her. But she found something new in his words. A humanity. He was as human as she was with the same blood, flesh, and bones as anybody else she had known.

  And beneath the kindness that crept out of his darkness was something far more endearing.

  Vulnerability.

  “I won’t hear it. To me, you are an anemone, a bright yellow anemone bringing delight to the rocks from where you grow. Have you seen an anemone?”

  “I don't know. Perhaps. I don't know flowers very well. Only the ones that grow in our garden.”

  “Ah, but anemones are beautiful. Some are red with wide petals and a dark centre. But you, you are a yellow anemone. You blossom on the side of the famous Greek mountains. Where the trees fail to thrive, you shine, bright and vivid against the rock, as if you defy the rules of nature. You are a survivor, Emma. I can see it.”

  “I don't feel like a survivor.”

  “How you feel and how people see you are two different things, I think. To me, you are alive with beauty. Radiant.” He paused. “Whereas I, I am the weed that grows in the shadows. The world does not need to see me. My purpose is to dwell below society. Out of sight. Out of mind. I accept that. That’s what makes me strong, Emma. I can accept what I am meant to be. The weed between the rocks.”

  “Don't say that. How would you know what people think?”

  “I see you. I see others come and go. And you all look at me like I crawled from the darkest depths of the earth. All I want is for somebody to care. But it’s hard, Emma. It’s so hard. I see you and the world that smiles around you. And I see me and the scared looks of anyone who I try to know.”

  He pulled the tray closer so that it lay between them, a barrier, in Emma’s mind, that allowed her to relax the blanket a little. He took a piece of meat and chewed on it, leaving space for the silence that Emma had enjoyed.

  “How long have you been here?” she asked.

  Emma used the question as a distraction so she could reach out and take a piece of meat for herself, her hunger waking with a start. She snatched at the tray, fearful he would grab her hand. But instead, he watched her reach out with curiosity.

  “Long enough for the sun to forget who I am.”

  “Do you never leave? You never go outside?”

  “I do. But not often and only when it is dark.”

  “But why? How will anybody come to love you if you hide away down here? That seems foolish to me.” She talked while chewing, caring less about her table manners than her mother had taught her to.

  “My story is long and sad. I prefer to talk about you.” He looked up at her, reaching for another piece of meat with nothing but admiration in his eyes. “Tell me something. Something about you. About your life.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. I have nothing. And for me to become anybody now, I will have to give everything. I know that. I understand what the lady wants me to do.”

  “And so do it.” Darius’ voice became excited. “You have a chance at something. You have a chance at freedom. Do not end up like me, Emma. I am afraid your bright yellow petals will wither and fall. A girl as beautiful as you should shine like the sun.”

  The constant praise and affection created a period of awkward silence to which Emma did not know how to respond.

  “I’m sorry. I talk too much. I don't have practices.”

  “No. Don't apologise. It’s me that should be sorry. I am sorry for teasing you. It was such a cruel thing to do. I’m not cruel. At least, I never used to be cruel. Now I don't even know who I am.”

  Burying her head, Emma let the tears come, hating herself for allowing them to run. The layer of regret and remorse for what she had done to Darius sat atop an unending desire to speak to her parents once more.

  “It’s my fault they argued. It’s my fault they hated each other. I just wish I could see them again. I wish I could tell them I love them. To tell them I’m sorry.”

  “Shh. Easy now.” Darius slid close enough for Emma to smell the musty odour of sweat. “It wasn't your fault. How could the blame be put on someone as perfect as you?”

  “But I’m not perfect. I’m not beautiful. You see me through eyes that are accustomed to the dark. I was young and innocent. But not anymore. Nobody would want me now. Everything I touch turns black and dies.”

  A hand touched her knee, and although it was covered by her blanket, she could feel his warmth. He rubbed slowly, offering reassurance.

  “Please, don't-”

  “I won’t hurt you. But I want you to see how pretty you are. Just you being here has brightened my days.
Just your presence. Although it saddens me to see such beauty wasted down here. You are the anemone. You are the sunshine.”

  His hand moved to her shoulder and parted the hair she had been using to shield her wretched tears, sending a wave of nausea through her. But she held firm, focused on her breathing, and allowed him closer.

  “Don't cry.”

  “I can’t help it. I just want to disappear. I want all of this to disappear.”

  Burying her face once more into the safety of her blanket, Emma felt him slide even closer. The tips of his fingers found her distant shoulder and the weight of his arm hung on her neck. Even through the dirty blanket, a foul odour of unwashed skin tainted the air she breathed. And then his breath, thick and putrid, warmed the side of her face as he leaned in.

  But it was the sound of him smelling her hair that tipped the balance of Emma’s control and stirred the wild anger that brewed deep inside her. She had given more than she had planned and now she would take anything she wanted.

  Turning like a coiled spring with her hands together as if she was holding a bat, Emma slammed her fists into the side of Darius’ head, which hit the wall behind. The crack was sickening. It was enough to stun her and make her question what she’d done.

  Dazed, Darius clutched his head. He pulled his hands down to reveal blood-stained fingers. Before he had a chance to react, Emma lunged again. Her grubby thumb found his eye and, with all her strength, she forced his head back into the wall again and again, grimacing with each sickening crack of his skull.

  Until his lifeless body slumped to the floor and blood pooled onto Emma’s blanket.

  Power surged through her body. Her skin prickled, alive with the sensation, the energy, and the power she had pulled from Darius. His body twitched once. His fingers flexed then retracted into fists that pushed him up onto all fours. He peered up at Emma through hate-filled and bloodshot eyes, crouched like an animal, stayed by the blows to his head.

  It was with calm, calculated composure that Emma turned her back on him. She collected her new dress and shoes from the floor then stepped into the corridor. The sound of the door sliding closed roused Darius from his dazed state. The column of light narrowed until only a thin line shone on his face. At the moment his rage collided with the inside of the steel door, Emma clicked the padlock shut.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The boy was fast. He was faster than Frankie and nimble with a keen understanding of the layout of the small beachside town. His bare feet sprayed sand into the air. He hurdled sunbathing tourists and scaled the chain-link fence of the marina as if he did it every day. The fence bowed under Frankie’s weight as he launched himself as high as he could, reaching up and clinging while his heavy boots scrambled for purchase. With one eye on the boy, Frankie pulled himself over, dropped to the ground, and spun to catch a glimpse of Christos’ red shorts disappear between two boat sheds.

  The boat sheds were long enough for a small Bayliner to be pushed inside on a trailer, and each had a gantry with a hoist to allow the owner to maintain the underside out of the water. The sheds backed onto a wall, beyond which was the main beach road. But by the time Frankie had dusted himself off, the boy was nowhere in sight.

  Never one to give up on a chase, Frankie scanned the surroundings. To his left, the beach road led to the Fletchers’ house where, Sophia had explained, the houses of the wealthy were located. With his back to the sea, the houses sprawled up the mountainside in front of Frankie. The whitewashed four and five bedroom villas merged with the poorer, smaller houses, which were duller in finish but still retained the Mediterranean look.

  There was only one place Christos could have run to and hidden. On the far side of the road, a row of single-story buildings with flat roofs and open shutter doors stood either side of an alleyway. The buildings themselves appeared to be industrial, likely something to do with the marine industry, and the open shutter doors, added with the lack of customers, gave weight to the slow and sleepy pace of the town. The traffic was sparse. Frankie barely had to look left and right before crossing and few eyes followed him as he entered the alleyway. Only a man rocking back and forth in an old chair enjoying the lunch-time sun looked up then averted his eyes and laid his head back down.

  The alleyway was cool and in deep shade, but it retained the smell of countless men who had relieved themselves, perhaps on the way home from a local bar. The walls were adorned with several years of graffiti. Frankie made his way along the alley, stepping with caution to avoid alerting the boy. Between the graffiti and the unique pictures of faces, body parts, and what could only be loosely described as abstract art was a reoccurring symbol. It was as if a zero had parted at the bottom and grown feet, in Frankie’s mind. It was a symbol he’d seen countless times before.

  “Omega?”

  The more he searched between the mass of artwork and random words, the more the symbol appeared. Some were very small, likely to have been written with a marker, while others were so large they were barely recognisable. They reached out from behind other images of faces and scenes of what Frankie assumed was the sunset. But there were lots of them, too many for Frankie to count. But each of them, on a wall of colour, shapes, and intrigue, were painted in a vivid red. There were no omega shapes anywhere on the wall in any other colour.

  “Red omega?”

  He spoke aloud, distracted from his original purpose. But Frankie was reminded of his whereabouts when the sound of crunching gravel came from his right. He turned to find three men step from around the corner where two alleys joined at ninety degrees. The two men to the left and right eyed him with a lazy nonchalance. But the man in the centre, smaller than the others and wearing a tight, black t-shirt and dirty, faded jeans, watched Frankie with curiosity. He walked into view like a cat stalking a bird.

  “Are you lost, my friend?”

  He stopped and folded his arms, a sign he was unafraid and unused to people venturing into his alley.

  There was movement behind Frankie. He turned his head just enough to see two men in his peripheral blocking his exit.

  “What are you doing here? This is not the place for a tourist.”

  “Lucky I’m not a tourist then.”

  Taking two steps towards the main man, Frankie retrieved his phone from his pocket and opened a photo of Emma. It was one he’d saved from a news report and showed her smiling at what looked to be a family wedding. It was obvious to Frankie why the family, probably Sharon, had chosen that particular picture to be broadcast. Emma appeared natural, young and healthy, and was the living, breathing definition of beauty.

  “I’m looking for my friend. Perhaps you’ve seen her?”

  “She isn't here.”

  “But you haven't seen her photo.”

  “I haven’t seen her.”

  “And your friends? Or do they only see what they are told to see?”

  Around the corner, Frankie could see the rear corner of a white van. The doors were open but he couldn't see inside from where he stood.

  The two men on the outside took a step forward.

  “That’s far enough.”

  The main man held his arm out in the international gesture for stop. His forearm shone unlike the dull sheen of skin. It was more like the texture of melted wax, as if his arm had been held against a flame.

  “Her name is Emma Fletcher. Maybe you heard about it on the news? She went missing four days ago.”

  “And you’re here to play hero?”

  “I’m here to find here. So if you do know anything, now is the time to mention it.”

  “She’s the blonde girl? The pretty, young, blonde girl?”

  “That’s her. Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?”

  “If I knew where she was, do you think I’d be standing here talking to you?” He looked around at his cronies who chuckled at his distasteful remark.

  “What’s in the van? What is it you do here?”

  “Ah, my friend, this is not your busines
s. Why don't you move on? Buy an ice cream and enjoy the beach.”

  “If Emma is here, it’s my business. Maybe you could tell me where I might find her? You look like a man who might have his ear to the ground.”

  The comment seemed to anger the man. The mock-friendly smile and pleasantries vanished and the man nodded at the man to his right.

  “You could try looking in Athens.”

  “Athens is a large city. Can you be specific?”

  Closing the distance with slow, measured steps, the man eyed Frankie, sizing him up with dark, beady eyes. He reached up and placed his hand on Frankie’s shoulder, coaxing him to face the alleyway entrance. Then, with his other hand, he pointed to the road.

  “Walk to the end of the alley. Turn left.” He shoved Frankie forward, towards the two men who had closed in behind him. Then, with his index finger raised like a school teacher scolding a child, the man lowered his voice to a growl. “And never come back to this place again.”

  The two men opened a gap between them inviting Frankie to leave. But instead, Frankie straightened his jacket and centred himself between all five men.

  “You know something, and I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s in that van.”

  Frankie began to close the gap between himself and the main man, who held up his hands in a gesture of peace.

  “Okay, okay. Have it your way.”

  Frankie stopped.

  “I gave you the chance to leave,” the man continued as he turned and left the circle of men that now surrounded Frankie. “But it seems you will have to learn the hard way.”

  He nodded at the man to his right who, in turn, reciprocated the signal to the rest of the men. Bracing himself for a blow from the bald man on the right, Frankie widened his stance. But as the two men in front approached, the men behind each pulled on one of Frankie’s arms, locking them behind his back and leaving Frankie defenceless. Save for his boots. Which he prepared to use to maximum effect.