Torn in Two

by J. D. Weston

  At the front to the right was a roller shutter, padlocked to a small steel hoop that had been set in the concrete. To the left was an old, single door of pedestrian size which Frankie found also to be locked. The soft wooden door frame gave way under the heel of his boot and after a quick check behind him to make sure Constantine and his men hadn’t returned, he entered.

  Once inside the small hallway, he stopped and listened for movement or breathing.

  “Emma?”

  There was no reply.

  There was a doorway at the end of the corridor. Frankie stepped through into a larger space and flicked the light switches on. There was an immediate hum of electricity, and a row of fluorescent tubes blinked on to reveal the space in full.

  “Emma?”

  Again, there was no response. No scratching of nails or screams of a desperate girl trapped in a room or a box. No heavy breathing of another would-be attacker waiting to give Frankie a run for his money.

  He was alone.

  While the exterior gave the impression of an old boat workshop, the interior was lavish in comparison. The huge room was open plan and decorated to a deceptively higher standard than the appearance of the outside. In the far corner was a small bar with various spirits and four bar stools. There were three small couches in a U-shape with a large low-level table between them offering the guests comfort. A small dance floor had been laid to one side with two small podiums and a floor-to-ceiling pole in the centre.

  But what was of more interest to Frankie was a round table that had been placed to one side of the bar opposite the couches. The green beige finish identified it as a poker table and six wooden chairs had been placed around it. A deck of cards stacked perfectly square and an ashtray were the only items on the table. Lifting a cigarette butt from the ashtray, Frankie found no identifying brand. He dropped it and collected the cards, fanning them out in his hand.

  Just a standard deck of cards.

  Dropping them back down into an uneven pile that toppled onto the baize, Frankie moved to the next little area. There was a single office desk and leather chair. The desk had been designed to replicate the type of high-quality desk Tom had probably sat at with green leather inlay and moulded legs. It gave the owner a commanding view of whoever sat in the guest seats. But this desk was of poor finish, the type found in cheap furniture stores, built from chipboard and covered with a thin veneer.

  On top of the desk to one side of the leather inlay was a pile of papers, crumpled and torn with the holed edges from an old dot matrix printer. Finding nothing in the drawers, Frankie’s eyes were drawn to the wall behind the seat, on which a collage of photographs had been pinned. Easily identifiable in most of the photos was Constantine. Other faces included those of the men who had surrounded Frankie in the alleyway. The settings in the photographs varied. Some had been taken during smoke-filled nights at the poker table holding bottles of ouzo and vodka, poker chips, and piles of money. Two shots were of Constantine on the beach, each one with a different lady and each one with his melted arm out of sight behind the girls.

  But one photo in particular caught Frankie’s eye.

  It had been taken on what appeared to be a hot day in a small marina. Constantine and another man were standing on a small jetty beside a boat on which the name Hades Revenge had been painted. The boat itself was less than impressive, a skiff with a centre console and a few seats. It was the type of boat Frankie had seen the tourists hire to get around the Greek islands. The two large outboards on the rear transom appeared to be overkill for such a small boat. Both Constantine and the man standing beside him were dressed in fine clothes. They both wore shiny watches, flash sunglasses, and in general conveyed the look of wealth and financial comfort.

  Removing the photo from the wall, Frankie took one last look then stuffed it into his pocket. He turned to leave, but as he did, his eyes landed on a large cool box. It was white, the type that Frankie had seen the two men carrying from the beach.

  The two rubber catches popped open with ease. Lifting the lid, Frankie was surprised to find piles of euros wrapped in clear, sealed, plastic bags. He pulled the top bag out and opened it, retrieving the wad of notes. Flicking through them, Frankie counted one thousand euros. He counted the bundles and found twenty.

  “Twenty thousand euros. Why would twenty thousand euros be stored in plastic bags in a cool box?”

  Feeling that he had started to push his luck, Frankie closed the lid. He gave the room one final glance then left the same way he had entered, leaving the light on to make sure that Constantine knew he had been there.

  Bright sunlight met Frankie’s eyes as he stepped out into the alleyway, reminding him of the blow he’d received with a sharp stab of pain behind his eyes. He pulled his sunglasses down and walked along the alleyway, once more admiring the handiwork of the local artists.

  The crowd of people were still gathered at the beach, although there were fewer of them. Frankie noted that the white van was still standing tall among the line of cars and motorcycles.

  Pulling the photo from his pocket, Frankie took another look at the boat and the man with Constantine but found his eye focusing on the three small islands that were on the horizon. He held the photo up and found the same three islands from a similar perspective. The photo must have been taken from the marina in front of him.

  Crossing the street, once more glancing both ways to make sure nobody was watching, Frankie stopped at the open gates and took in the layout. Rows of boats on trailers on the concrete hard standing framed a narrow channel built from local rocks forming a breakwater. To one side of the channel, various boats were moored, gently rocking from side to side due to the fading wake of a tourist boat that was leaving the marina. A small floating jetty connected the boats to the concrete hard standing.

  It was identical to the one in the photo.

  Nobody stopped Frankie from entering. Nobody questioned him walking behind the rows of trailers beside the fence, keeping to the shadows. There was no friendly tap on the shoulder as he stood watching a man and his boy work on a small skiff at the far end of the jetty.

  Recognising the confident swagger of the teenager as Christos, Frankie turned his attention to the man. He was much larger across the shoulders and heavier set, but even from a distance, Frankie noticed he had distinct similarities to the boy. The way they both brushed their hair from their faces. The way they stood with their hands on their hips while resting. The boy appeared to do most of the work without instruction, as a son might endeavour to please his father.

  The father matched the size and appearance of the man who was standing beside Constantine in the photo.

  From where Frankie stood out of sight, he watched as Christos dragged another large, white cool box along the jetty to the rear of the boat and stowed it beneath the rear seat.

  While Christos lowered the seat back into place, Frankie felt his phone vibrate. He watched as father and son began to secure the boat. Then he hit the green button to answer the call, but said nothing.

  “Frankie, it is Sophia. We have received a phone call on Emma’s hotline. Emma has been spotted. Meet me at the Grand Britannia Hotel in Athens. Come quickly.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “I can’t believe we’re going through this again. How many times do we have to do this?”

  A kitchen cupboard door slammed, which Emma guessed was done by her mother. The thick walls that kept the villa so cool during the heat of the day did little to provide any acoustic insulation. Her parents’ voices came through the bedroom wall muffled but clear enough for her to hear the expression and bitterness in their arguments.

  “I just don’t understand why she needs a babysitter. She’s an adult. The more you wrap her up in cotton wool, the harder it will be for the poor girl to get out and meet anyone.”

  It was an argument that her father used often, and each time, a small part of Emma sided with him.

  “Don't you tell me how to raise my daughter.
”

  “She’s our daughter, Sharon.”

  “Who raised her when you were out every night?”

  “You mean working to keep a roof over our heads?”

  “I still had to keep her safe. I was the one home-schooling her. Everything that girl knows is because of me.”

  “That’s because you haven't let her out of your sight since she was born. No one else has had a chance. And she was only home-schooled because you have this crazy idea that she’s someone she’s not.”

  “How dare you.”

  “She’s a kid, Sharon. Yes, of course she’s special. She means the world to me. But she’s a kid. She has to go out and make mistakes so she can learn.”

  “No, she has me to guide her, so she doesn't make the same mistakes I-”

  “Listen to me, woman. She has to make the mistakes so she can learn from them. Just because you made a mistake when you were just a kid doesn’t mean she’ll make the same one. And telling her about it isn’t going to stop her doing it.”

  “She can never find out.”

  “I’m not going to tell her. But you have to let her out and that’s the hardest part about being a parent. You have to watch her make the mistakes and all you can do is to be there for her when she makes them.”

  His voice had softened. It was her father’s attempt at calming her mother down. He tried every time and never succeeded.

  “I can't believe you’re saying this. We agreed we would mould her into the perfect girl and we have.”

  “You agreed we would mould her into the perfect girl, Sharon. I would have been happy if she came out with five legs and three heads.”

  The comment raised a smile on Emma’s face although it didn't last long.

  “I’ve given you a perfect daughter, Alan. The least you could do is show a little gratitude.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Sharon. Of course I’m grateful. But it wasn't just you. I’d like to be included in this whole parenthood thing.”

  “You are included. You go to work and pay the bills and try not to blow all of our money on your dirty habit. I raise our daughter. And now I need a break. We came out here so we can relax and so I can spend some time with Angela. So that’s what I’m going to do. All I’m asking is that you stay home while I go out. You’ve been out every night this week and I haven't asked where, have I? I haven’t nagged you about it, have I? Plus you’ve had the entire day to yourself. Let me have some time.”

  “Three times, Sharon. Three times I’ve been out and all I’ve done is walked on the beach to clear my head.”

  “Well, tonight I’m going to clear my head.”

  “And fill it with wine.”

  A laugh burst from Emma’s lips, uncontrolled and far too loud. She covered her mouth, praying that her mother didn't hear. Taking sides was not how Emma dealt with the arguments.

  “Just stay home tonight, Alan. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  The front door slammed, leaving Emma breathless from the tension. She pictured her poor old dad, a downtrodden man who fought a losing battle every day of his life but rarely complained and always had a smile for his little girl.

  Moving to the bedroom door, Emma hesitated with her hand on the handle, listening to make sure her mother had actually left. Then, with a sigh, she pulled the door open and leaned against the door frame until her father came into view, stepping from the kitchen with a bowl of something in his hand.

  “Hello, sweetheart. You’re in your pyjamas already?”

  He disappeared again and began rummaging through the cupboard of pots and pans.

  “I fancied an early night. The sun takes it out of you, doesn't it?”

  The sound of the gas stove was cut and her father appeared from the little kitchen again, placing the bowl on the island.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “She doesn't mean anything. You know that, right?”

  “I know.”

  “Just let her have her time.”

  “Dad?”

  He looked up at her, his eyebrows raised in anticipation.

  “Thanks, Dad, for sticking up for me.”

  “Don't be silly. Not that it did any good, mind. Are you sure you don't want something? I can do some pasta?”

  When her father offered to cook for her, it was time to cut her losses and run, a fact Emma had learned as a child.

  “I’ll be okay, thanks, Dad. I’m watching my beach figure. You know?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be watching mine too.” He disappeared into the kitchen again. “The good thing is, with my figure, I can watch it from any angle.” He popped his head around the corner, smiling at his own joke the way he always had.

  Rolling her eyes and smiling back at him, Emma pushed closed the bedroom door.

  “Goodnight, Dad.”

  “Night, sweetheart.”

  A stubborn smile still clung to her lips when Emma climbed into bed. She switched off the lamp and made a nest from the pillows as she had done each night. Then she lay with her eyes closed listening to the ocean a few hundred feet away and the cheerful noises of a nearby garden party, playing the conversation over in her mind again, analysing what her father had said.

  Just let her have her time.

  He made it sound as if her mother had never had a moment to herself.

  She thought back to the muffled argument. There was something her father had said in the heat of the moment about her mother making mistakes. But the thoughts of her mother only recalled memories of the day they had spent on the beach, the girlie chats, and how her mother was beginning to treat her like an adult on occasion.

  Thinking that she might write a diary entry, Emma rolled onto her side and fumbled for the switch to turn on the bedside lamp. But she found nothing. Feeling behind the bedside table, she searched for the cord to trace her way to the switch.

  But there was no cord.

  She swung her feet from the bed to turn on the main light. Warm, soft carpet greeted her feet in place of the cold bite of the tiled villa floor. Even the main light switch wasn’t where it had been. She felt along the wall, which was longer than she remembered, until her fingers found it and flicked it on. Emma gasped in surprise at the figure in a chair in the corner of the strange room.

  “You’re awake. How are you, my darling?”

  “It’s you.”

  Feeling for the wall behind her, Emma edged backwards to keep the bed between them. Then she glanced at the door and around the room, not recognising anything.

  “Do you want to run, Emma?” The lady laughed. She pushed herself out of the armchair beside the window and took three steps to the centre of the room. “Go ahead. Run. Tell people who you are.”

  “How can I tell people who I am when I don't even know myself?”

  “That’s not so true. You at least know who you are not. The person you become depends on who you want to be. We’ve been through this. Did you not listen?”

  Leaving Emma free to run from the room screaming and shouting, the lady opened another door. Curiosity got the better of her and Emma craned her neck to watch as the lady stepped inside a large en-suite bathroom with black granite surfaces and a large glass shower cubicle.

  “I listened. I listened to everything you said. And look how far that got me.”

  With the lady out of sight, Emma considered the door. But she knew she would not get far. Instead, a thought struck her. In front of the window, beside the armchair, was a coffee table on which was a heavy ashtray made of thick, green glass.

  Edging around the bed, keeping out of sight, Emma collected the make-shift weapon and moved closer to the bathroom. Peering around the edge of the door, she found the lady standing with her hand beneath the spray of water testing the temperature.

  She smiled at Emma with some kind of fascinated affection.

  “Are you going to hit me with that?”

  Unable to reply, Emma swallowed hard and stared at the floor.
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br />   “Should I be grateful it is not a bucket?”

  Tossing the unused ashtray onto the bed, where it bounced once and settled among the pillows, Emma closed her eyes, remembering what she had done to Darius.

  “I’m so very proud of you, Emma.”

  “Proud?” Emma stared up at the woman. “I thought you would be mad.”

  “Why would I be mad?” The lady stepped from the bathroom amidst a cloud of steam. “I have spoken to Darius.”

  “How is he?”

  “Upset. Is that what you want to hear? Or do you want to hear that he is angry? Or ashamed of his behaviour? Which is it, Emma?”

  But the more Emma thought about it, the less relevant Darius’ feelings became.

  “I… I don't care. I did what I had to do.”

  Closing the gap between them, the lady stepped up until their faces were just inches apart. A soft finger brushed Emma’s hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with care and attention.

  “Precisely.” The lady’s voice was a whisper, a hiss that matched the running water but was shaped by words and spoken with adoring eyes. “You did exactly what you had to do. You gave everything you had to give and nothing more in order to receive exactly what you wanted.” She moved closer, placing her cheek against Emma’s. “I am so proud of you. You have come a long way. Do you remember the girl who cried and mourned her parents? The girl who was ashamed of the very thing that will carry her through life?”

  “The girl I left behind.”

  Feeling the warmth inside return, Emma’s eyes closed at the touch of the lady’s body as it pressed against her own.

  “You’re strong, Emma. You can have anything you desire. All you have to do is control your power. Just like you did with Darius. Tell me how it felt when you teased him.”

  “I… I can’t describe it.”

  “Did your knees tremble?”

  The lady’s hands ran along the arch of Emma’s back.

  “Yes.”

  “Could you feel your heart beating harder than ever before?”

  Gentle fingers found the zipper on Emma’s ruined red dress.