Torn in Two

by J. D. Weston

  The bald man pulled his arm back, winding his strength for a blow that Frankie knew would hurt.

  “Stop right there.”

  The men froze. Including Frankie. It was a woman’s voice from the end of the alley. It was followed by the sound of slow footsteps and a sweet smell that somehow overpowered the sickly smell of urine.

  “Constantine, I suggest you call your men off.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The steel door rattled in its frame, echoing along the corridor in time with every one of Darius’ angered strikes. At first, Emma thought the door would break open and the lock would not hold. She stepped backwards through the corridor, feeling her way along the wall, afraid to turn her back on him until her hand found the way out. It was the door through which the lady had left and Darius had arrived. Her shaky hand pushed against the handle, testing to see if it was locked, or if it would make a noise like a squeak or a groan.

  It opened in silent welcome.

  The door led out into a dark stairwell. The same grimy tiles continued through and up the stairs. But even less effort had gone into cleaning than in her cell. Only the centre of each stair had been cleaned and the walls were thick with dust and grime. Darius’ attempts at escaping the locked room faded away as the door closed behind her. Emma took her first tentative step up the stairs.

  Peering up to the landing, Emma found no sign of life. Only shadows, darkness, and a quiet that enticed her wildest imagination to run riot. She clung to the handrail, stopping at each step, alert to each and every sound. The hum of a distant air conditioning unit. The groans of the building itself. And, somewhere far away, like the thud of her heart, was the persistent banging of a deprived man trying to force his way through a steel door, rhythmic and slow, as if evil ventured from the very depths of the earth.

  At the top of the stairs were three doors. The first to Emma’s left was open. A small bedside lamp on the floor provided the only light, a dull orange glow from a low-wattage bulb that lit only the dust in the air and a dirty mattress covered by the same type of blanket that Emma had been given.

  She moved onto the second door to her right, which opened into a tiny, filthy washroom. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, much like the light in Emma’s room.

  The third of the windowless doors, the door that stood before her, was locked.

  Placing her face and hands flat against the wood, she strived to hear a sign from the other side. A passing car maybe? Or voices? Anything.

  But she heard nothing.

  For the first time, she pictured the night she had been taken. Trying to cast aside the fear and the fright, she tried to somehow find a memory, no matter how slight or insignificant.

  But nothing came.

  “Help.”

  No response.

  She banged on the door with her fists, listening all the while for a sign of activity.

  “Help.”

  Nothing.

  In her mind, on the far side of the door would be a high street where hundreds of people would hear her screams for help. Men might break down the door and rush her to safety. Darius would be taken away in handcuffs by the Greek police. In her mind, people would call out with recognition and Emma would collapse into the friendly arms of somebody. Anybody. Anybody who would be willing to help her.

  But the useless imaginings of her mind were only dreams.

  She listened, hoping for a clue as to her whereabouts. But still, the door offered no insight as to what lay beyond.

  A single memory appeared. One of Darius standing in the doorway of her room with his hands in his pockets, rattling a set of keys.

  “Oh God.”

  Leaning on the locked door, Emma’s eyes followed the light from the room that she assumed belonged to Darius. The images barely registered in her mind. She just felt a sense of filth that matched her opinion of the man himself.

  “Who lives like this?”

  Her voice was a mere whisper, a breath of a thought, but sounded loud in the silence.

  Beside the bed on the floor was a plate of meat. It was almost identical to what Emma had been fed. The only noticeable differences were a piece of torn-open pita bread and a white sauce in a disposable plastic pot.

  A small TV had been placed on an upturned crate. It was the type Emma had seen before in movies. It had a small antenna on the top and eight buttons on the front to change the channels. Her father had told her on numerous occasions that when he’d grown up there were only three TV channels to watch. There had been no Internet or mobile phones, and if you wanted to watch a movie, you walked to the shop to rent it.

  “A mobile phone.”

  Glancing back down the stairwell to make sure that, by some misfortune, Darius hadn't escaped, a new lease of hope became clear. Pushing the door open wide, Emma stepped into Darius’ room.

  An ill-feeling came over her as if she was invading somebody’s home. This was all the man had, and despicable as he might be, entering his space and rummaging through his belongings felt wrong.

  She hung her dress on a nail in the wall and placed her shoes below.

  Using a finger and thumb, she peeled back the blanket to reveal the stained and worn mattress. There was a small envelope that contained two hundred euros.

  But there was no mobile phone.

  With frenzied movements, she lifted the side of the mattress, hoping that maybe Darius had tucked it underneath. But all her efforts did were disturb a cockroach that ran out into the open. She gave an involuntary scream and dropped the mattress then backed away as the roach scurried into the corner behind the TV where a mess of wires and cables collated into a single electrical outlet.

  Keeping her distance from the TV and the roach, Emma leaned over and peered down. Among the cables for the TV and the lamp was a thin, black cable that was caught beneath the upturned crate.

  Summoning all her courage, Emma pushed the crate to one side with one hand and pulled on the thin cable with her other. The roach darted out, faster than she imagined possible, like a tiny dot in the corner of her eye.

  Giving a little scream, she jumped up, dropping the cable. She backed out of the room, furious at her own fear and childishness.

  After a second or two of revulsion and nausea, Emma tried again. She pulled on the cable, being mindful of the lurking roach. She managed to pull the TV and the crate away from the wall, and there, in a pile of dust and dirt, was an old mobile phone.

  Just like the TV, it was the type that her father had told her about. There was no screen to tap, just a number pad and three extra keys to navigate the menu.

  At the top was a power button. She hit it and watched with hope-filled glee as the phone glowed green and began its boot sequence.

  “Come on,” she urged, then glanced out the door and down the stairs.

  She was rewarded with a fully operational phone, albeit somewhat dated. But it wasn't until she had the phone ready to go in her hands that she thought about who she would dial.

  999 resulted in a long, unsuccessful dial tone, as if the number wasn't recognised. She cursed herself for not knowing the local police number. Surely it was 999. Or maybe 911?

  Again, she heard the now familiar unresponsive dial tone.

  She tried her mother’s number in case someone had it. Maybe the police. But she didn't know the international dial code and heard the same tone telling her the call had not been connected.

  As a last resort, she sifted through the dialled numbers. There were just three, all of them local numbers. But she didn't know if they were mobile phones or landlines, and even more worrying, she didn't know who they belonged to.

  The last call had been made only three hours before. It couldn't have been the lady as she would have been with Emma. The next number had been dialled four days before.

  “Could this be her?”

  A plan hatched in her mind. She would dial the second number. If she reached the lady, she would explain that Darius had attacked her and she had locked
him in the room. But if it was anybody else, she would ask them for help. Maybe they could tell the police, who would trace the call or find the phone somehow. They could do that. She’d seen it on TV.

  Her thumb hovered over the dial button but her entire hand shook with trepidation. The phone’s tiny screen showed only a single bar of signal strength. So she moved closer to the locked door. Realising she was breathing loudly and could no longer hear Darius banging on the door, Emma glanced down into the darkness below.

  The stairwell was empty.

  The phone issued a dull, digital beep when she hit the call button. But this time, instead of the solid, monotone, dial tone, the call clicked twice then connected and began to ring. It was as if it was the first call Emma had ever made. Her heart began to pound inside her chest. Her hands became clammy and trembled with every ring.

  The call was connected. The rasp of breath over the phone’s speaker was all Emma could hear.

  “Help me. Please. I’m trapped.”

  There was no response.

  “Can you hear me? Hello?”

  Another rasp of breath.

  “If you can hear me, my name is Emma Fletcher. I’ve been kidnapped. My parents have been killed. I’ve been locked in a room in a basement and I can't get out.”

  The person failed to respond to Emma’s plight. There was no sound to indicate if they were even still on the call.

  “Are you there? Hello? Can you hear me?”

  Three beeps announced the call had disconnected. She stared at the phone’s tiny screen and found the signal strength had fallen to no bars.

  The hope and image of rescue had raised her spirits to lofty heights, but now she realised that whoever had answered the phone, if indeed they had heard her, was unlikely to phone the police. Instead, they might pursue a response far worse than her current situation.

  “The keys.”

  Speaking out loud seemed to help. It was as if she wasn't alone but with a second person with whom she could reason.

  Emma leaned over the stairwell, peering down into the shadows.

  A tiny part of Emma hoped that the second person would tell her not to go back down. There would be only one outcome.

  But she saw no other choice. Perhaps Darius would understand. Maybe, if she reasoned with him, he would help her. But with each tentative step back down the dark and grimy staircase, an ill-feeling washed over her like poison coursing through her veins.

  The corridor was quiet, as it had been before, when the darkness had been Emma’s friend and the corner of the room had been her sanctuary. Her bare feet made little sound on the hard, cold tiles. Only her breathing disturbed the peace.

  The steel door was still in place. Darius had been unable to break it down. She pictured him on the far side of the door, cowering and holding his wounded head. Perhaps he’d bled to death.

  What if Emma had done more damage than she had intended?

  The observation slot was open. The little steel flap hung down like the lower lip of a dumb ogre standing guard over its prisoner.

  Edging along the wall furthest from the door, Emma stared into the dark room. There was not a lot to see and minimal light to see it by. The further she edged, the darker the room seemed to become, until she stood facing the door.

  But still, she could see nothing of what was inside or any clue as to Darius’ whereabouts.

  Squinting, she leaned forward, reaching back with one hand for no other purpose than to maintain a connection with something, and trying not to venture too close.

  It was when she was just a few feet from the observation slot that she heard the first sign of life. It was a chuckle, dark, throaty, and evil, as if it came from the ogre itself.

  Then Darius’ eyes came into view, stepping from the shadows he’d grown accustomed to for however long he’d called this place his home. Two brown eyes, lined with a history that nobody cared for, glowed against the black room. They squinted and the lines around them deepened as a face might during laughter. A single one of his weak, claw-like hands lifted a small bunch of keys into view.

  “Looking for these?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “This is the reason my father asked me to escort you.”

  Sophia strode out of the alleyway leaving the five men staring after them both and the young boy, who was standing far behind them, eying Frankie with caution.

  “If we are to find Emma, we are to stick together. You do not know this town like I do.”

  Instead of Sophia’s scolding causing offense or upsetting Frankie, he focused on the exotic accent. He admired the way she articulated herself using a second language, somehow managing to retain the romanticism and exuberance of her native Mediterranean tongue even when speaking the comparatively cold, hard words of the English language.

  He smiled as he walked, knowing that to respond would be like throwing petrol onto a fire, preferring instead to focus on Emma.

  “Do you find this funny, Frankie? You have been in this country for just five minutes and already you think you understand my people?” She leaned in close to him raising an index finger, which further amused Frankie. “Let me tell you something. This is a sleepy town. It is quiet. That is the way we like it. But when people like you come here and think you can disrupt the balance of our lives, they soon learn that we are not a people to be messed around.”

  “People like me?”

  “Yes. People like you. Foreigners who think that somehow because they are from London or New York or wherever they are better than us. It is not so.”

  “When did I ever say that I was better, Sophia? Your father brought me here to do a job. To find Emma.”

  “Then you should listen to me.”

  “No. You listen to me. I didn't ask for your help. I can manage just fine without you.”

  “It looks like you were managing very well, Mr Black.”

  “I would have been fine. What’s the worst they can do? Rough me up a little? I give as good as I get, Sophia. So next time you feel the need to stop my line of enquiry in case you think I’m going to get myself hurt, don't bother.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “What were you doing down there?”

  “Chasing Christos.”

  “You lost a little boy? I thought you were good at finding people.”

  “Well, when they’re only four feet tall, I tend to lose them as well. I’m multi-talented, Sophia. The men had a van. The main guy, what’s his name?”

  “That was Constantine. Not a lot goes on in this town without him knowing.”

  “Well, Constantine had a van and he was keen to stop me seeing inside. Could he be part of this?”

  “No. Impossible. It is not Constantine’s style.” She glanced over Frankie’s shoulder to make sure they weren’t being overheard then coaxed him on by starting a slow walk back to the car. “Constantine is one of the good guys. Sure, he has his fingers in lots of pies, but his heart is in the right place and he keeps the town peaceful.”

  “What type of pies?”

  “Frankie, must you persist? Or should I tell my father that you are too much trouble? Maybe we should hire somebody else?”

  “Be my guest, Sophia. It’s two p.m. on day four of Emma’s disappearance. Most kids that go missing are found in the first twenty-four hours. After that, the chances of finding them drop significantly. Be my guest. We have a five percent chance of finding her. Less than that of finding her alive. So if you want to find someone else, why don't you go and explain that to Sharon and Alan? Why don't you go and tell them that you just fired the only guy in this town who is capable of finding their little baby?”

  “She is not a baby. She is eighteen.”

  “Of course she’s a baby. To them. To any parent, their kids will always be their babies. You don't understand it, do you? Because you don't have kids. I do. I’ve got a son, and if anyone took him away, I’d do whatever it takes to
get him back. If the only man helping me wanted to walk into the fires of hell to look for him, I wouldn't stop him. Not if there was a slightest chance of finding my baby boy. Do you understand that, Sophia? Can you empathise just a little with what they’re going through and how the people of this town and the balance of their lives has absolutely nothing to do with it? I’m here to find Emma. And nobody is going to stop me. That includes you, Constantine, or anyone else that decides they don't want their toes stepping on.”

  A car drove past at low speed, manoeuvring into the opposite lane to get past Frankie, whose rant had taken him into the road.

  Maybe it was his honesty, or his emotion, or his empathy for Sharon and Alan, but whatever he said seemed to silence Sophia. Maybe she finally understood.

  “You are a passionate man, Frankie Black. Strong and passionate. I like that.”

  Sophia stepped into the road without so much as a glance for oncoming cars, as if her father’s influence in the city carried the drivers on the roads. She eyed Frankie as she closed the gap between them. Her hips swayed from side to side and her hair caught the soft breeze as if nature itself fell under the authoritative arm of the Saint family.

  “Okay, Frankie Black. We will do it your way. I will answer your questions the best I can. I will help where you need it. But if you land yourself in trouble, you are on your own. I cannot be responsible for that.”

  There were no words Frankie could think of that wouldn't sound smug. So he kept quiet, choosing instead to study her flawless skin and enjoy the way the sea breeze held the thin material of her dress against the pleasant curves of her body.

  “I have some errands to run. But, please, Frankie.” She stepped close enough that she needed to look up at him. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Give them to me, Darius.”

  Forcing herself to be brave and trying hard to refrain from showing fear in her eyes, her body, or her movements, Emma stepped forward, letting go of the wall behind her until she stood at arm’s length from the door.