Torn in Two

by J. D. Weston

  “She was beautiful in her own way. But I only know her from photographs.”

  “And your parents?”

  Another question designed to make Emma stumble.

  But this time it worked.

  Emma wanted to maintain the flow. She wanted to tell him that they had died too. That she was alone. But her throat clogged with emotion and she reached for her glass with too much haste, knocking it to the floor where it smashed. The amber liquid splashed across the deck and ran in all directions as if it too sought an escape.

  “Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Pulling herself from the bed, Emma knelt and began to collect the broken glass. She used the napkin and tried to stem the flow of tea from streaming across the deck.

  But a firm hand caught her arm and pulled her back to the bed where she sat, keeping her eyes on the mess she’d made.

  “You say you are a fast learner. Then you must learn your place in society.” Giovanni softened his grip but held on, running his hand along the skin on the back of her arm with gentle and inquisitive fingers. “It is not your place to clean.”

  “Then I should call the staff.”

  She tried to stand but his grip strengthened on her wrist, forcing her to face him. He looked unconcerned about the mess and more eager to provide Emma with her first lesson.

  “It is not your place to concern yourself with such matters.”

  “So we leave it there for somebody else to clean up?”

  “That’s right. We leave it there for somebody else to clean up.” He tugged on her arm, bringing her closer and lay the flat of her hand on his stomach. Thick black hairs grew from his bloated belly and seemed to congregate in the centre of his chest. “Your job is to look after me. To make sure I am happy. To make sure that each day I smile. Do you think you can do that, Emma? Have I made the right decision?”

  “Tell me why you changed your mind. Tell me why you sent Duska back.”

  “Because she was boring. Because she would give me everything I desire but nothing I need. She would bore me within weeks.”

  Finding aberration in the contours of his torso, Emma found herself fingering a path that followed the heaving of his great chest to the swell of his stomach, where she found a round path that returned full circle.

  “That’s nice,” he whispered.

  Pleased that such a simple gesture provided him with amusement and pleasure, Emma continued, adding more fingers that brushed against his skin. He moaned with pleasure. Inside Emma, the first tingle of power took root. A warmth began to grow inside her as she realised that the man who bore so much wealth and authority could be calmed with just a few fingers of her right hand. Her power began to bloom like a mountain anemone showing colour among the bland and rugged rocks.

  “Why don't you relax, Giovanni? Close your eyes and relax.”

  In response, the man closed his eyes and enjoyed Emma’s soft touch, seeming to relish in her exploration. Emma felt her powers mature. To tame the man with only a touch, to delay the humiliation of her own nudity as he had requested, served to feed the warmth and the beat of her heart.

  But the enjoyment soon grew stale. Her hand had reached the lowest point of its journey at the base of his belly when he caught her hand in his.

  “Relax.”

  “I am relaxed.”

  With no further words, he pushed her hand to the bulge that had begun to grow beneath his tiny swimwear. Sighing with small delight, he pressed her hand flat against his length, which seemed to grow beneath her touch.

  “There.” It was all he said and required no further explanation.

  He removed his own hand back to support the weight of his head and seemed to wriggle under her touch.

  Sickened by the hardness, by the vulgarity of what she was doing, Emma looked away and called upon the sensation that coursed through her body like electricity. She remembered the lady’s words telling her to give only what she needed in order to receive what she wanted.

  What Emma wanted was to be far from the yacht, far from Giovanni Francesco, and curled up in a ball beneath a blanket somewhere nobody could find her. Numbed to the act, her fingers traced his outline, finding sensitivity at the very tip of its length, which heightened his breathing.

  “More.”

  He breathed the words with his eyes closed and his huge belly filled with air. There was no escape. The elastic of his trunks pulled away with ease. As if it had been freed from captivity, the part of him that Emma had yet to see fell onto his belly.

  It was warm in her hand, as was the hand that Giovanni rested on Emma’s leg, searching for the slit in her dress. But with his eyes closed, he could not see Emma’s attempts to maintain her dignity, at least until the prize was for something worth giving.

  There was a peace between them. With Emma’s hands on the man’s only vulnerability, the power resided with her. She would give a little more than he had expected. Enough to quell his desire until they reached Italy. So, with the sun now high in the sky above her, she moved from her place beside him to the spot out of his reach. She lowered herself onto her knees and ran each hand along his thick thighs then pulled at his trunks and dropped them to the deck. It was the first time Emma had seen a man fully aroused at such proximity. It was proud, arrogant, and unashamed. The sack of skin beneath him was taut and he twitched once as she ran her finger from its base to its tip.

  What she was about to do would be enough to buy her freedom. To buy freedom until Italy. To buy peace until he required conversation.

  With one hand holding his swollen stomach and one hand holding her hair from her face, Emma lowered her mouth until the musty, aniseed scent of man was all that she could smell. Feeling her breath on him, Giovanni’s stomach swelled as he sucked in air in anticipation of her warm mouth. Emma’s heart beat faster than ever before and the warmth that had so often preceded her power now moistened her in her most secret of places.

  Power. The lady spoke the words as if she was standing beside Emma providing moral support and encouragement. Give only what you need to give.

  “Sir?” It was a man’s voice, lighter than Giovanni’s and submissive.

  Erupting into anger, Giovanni raised his head. Emma looked up from where she knelt, poised to undertake an act that would rob her of any remaining innocence. At the side of the yacht stood a member of the crew averting his eyes.

  Emma froze, unsure if she should let go or move away.

  “What is it, man? I told you I wanted to be alone.”

  “I am sorry, sir.” The man spoke with an Italian accent but his English was good enough for Emma to deem him to be of some authority among the crew. “There are two boats approaching fast. One port side. One stern side. They are coast guard, sir.”

  What happened next was a blur of relief and fear. It maintained the shroud of uncertainty that had hung over Emma for as long as she could remember.

  Springing into action faster than Emma thought he was capable, Giovanni ran to the side of the yacht, naked and unabashed, but with his pride softening. Seeing the boat in the distance, he ran to the other side, cursing in Italian. The stern side offered him a similar view, which only served to enrage him further.

  Sliding on her knees, Emma shrank back to the very front of the boat, the place Christos had called the bow.

  But the bow offered little safety.

  “You? You did this.”

  Like a bull, Giovanni stomped across the deck, raising his arm as he walked. His eyes sank back into dark hollows and his jowls tightened as a beast might bare his teeth before a kill. The flat of his hand found the pale skin on Emma’s face, sending her to the floor. But with his anger far from nourished, he stood over her, and with a display of dexterity beyond Emma’s expectations, he reached down and grabbed her hair. The smooth deck of the yacht offered little resistance, allowing him to pull her along while she screamed and begged, pleading her innocence.

  Her foot caught the leg of a sunbed, snagging
his progress and causing his curses to escalate into multi-syllable sentences of rambling Italian bitterness. He dropped Emma to the floor giving her time to scramble away. But she manged only to claw herself along the deck a few metres before a kick to her back sent her sprawling.

  Once more, Giovanni stood over her, still naked and angered beyond the wrath of hell.

  “You little bitch. You whore. You did this.”

  But as he reached down one last time and raised her head by a handful of hair, an escape presented itself to Emma.

  It was as if choreographed by some sick trick of the mind. Giovanni raised his hand, his fist clenched and his face contorted with hate. Above him, in the blue sky, a helicopter thundered. Preparing for the final blow, Emma gripped the broken glass in her hand. Giovanni’s body tensed as he released the power of his arm into a long, sweeping downward arc. As if the entire scene played out at half speed, Emma closed her hand around the base of the broken glass and lunged upward, sending the razor-sharp shard into the soft space between his legs.

  The effect was immediate.

  The sweeping blow faltered.

  His face released its hate-filled grimace and took on an expression of dubious uncertainty that seemed to stretch with agony.

  Blood poured from the wound, running down her hand and her arm until its sticky warmth dripped from her elbow.

  But Emma wasn't finished.

  With her hand still gripping the glass and the man still looming above her, and as the first of the coastal police climbed onto the boat, she pushed up with everything she had, feeling the glass cut through his scrotum, tendon, and organs.

  Knees buckled.

  The glass became slippery with blood.

  His weight fell onto her weakened with pain and defeat. She lay smothered by the broken man staring up at the sky, shattered by her own actions and broken by the greed of others.

  Men shouted. They pulled his giant body off her and dragged him away in handcuffs. But Emma remained silent throughout, fingering the blood on her hands as if she was held now by some rite of passage.

  She could never go back.

  She would never be the same.

  There she sat in a pool of blood and broken glass until strong hands hoisted her and carried her to the police boat. A giant blanket warmed her. Once more, the tiny dots of the Greek islands appeared on the horizon, tiny imperfections on a flat line where the deep, glistening blue of the Mediterranean met the fading hues of the blue sky.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Hysteria amassed on the dockside.

  The news of the capture of the Saints spread like a forest fire, attracting professionals, locals, and tourists all keen to witness the safe return of Emma Fletcher and to catch a glimpse of the faces of the guilty party.

  Roves of police scoured the ship pulling each and every container open and spilling the contents onto the deck. Media encircled the activity, held at bay by a fresh wave of security out of respect for the Fletchers, who waited for news of their daughter.

  The few corrupt guards who had been coerced by the brown envelopes of the Saints all peered through the meshed rear windows of a police van. The Saints themselves were offered preferential treatment. They both waited in the rear of police cars parked inside the ring, handcuffed and grateful for the protection from the hordes of the public, who shouted insults and threw whatever debris they could find at the pair.

  Three ambulances had reversed up to the gangway, where medical treatment was being administered to the girls who had been pulled from the container, shaking, tearful, and in deep shock. A fourth ambulance had parked away from the hive of activity waiting for Emma.

  “How did you know?”

  That voice. That familiar voice. Frankie refused to turn. The anxiety of Emma’s return was more overwhelming than he could have imagined.

  “How did I know what?”

  The sweet smell of Penelope’s perfume entered Frankie’s space. He breathed it in and softened.

  “That I would come. That I would follow you.”

  “I was beginning to think your hunger for a story was waning, Penelope.”

  “Any later and my hunger for a story wouldn't have been the only thing waning. My timing has always been a virtue.”

  Relenting to her charm, Frankie offered her a sideways glance and smiled his appreciation.

  “I knew you’d be following me. I felt alone. But I knew you’d be there. And wherever you go, the cameras go with you.”

  “But it doesn't make sense. You put yourself in danger. They could have killed you.”

  “You told me to stay away from Constantine,” said Frankie. “He was your story. But I knew he played a part somehow. You fed me a line about hunting a sex offender. But you didn't have much faith in the lead, did you? You knew I was on the right track but you couldn't piece it together. I fed you just enough information to keep you on my tail.”

  “And you knew you couldn't take down the Saints without my cameras.”

  “Not without spending the next fifteen years in prison myself. It’s the scoop of the century, Penelope. A live broadcast of the Saints in action. Most reporters would give their right arm for that story. I imagine your editor will appreciate it.”

  “I imagine my editor will be sat in his chair wondering where the rest of the story is. I promised him a sex offender. Gratitude is not one of his strongest points.”

  “Did I interupt your investigation, Penelope?”

  She laughed. It was a breath, nasal and succinct.

  “I almost had it, Frankie. I almost had it all worked out. I even got some of the locals to talk. The offender was infatuated with a local girl. He was deranged. He thought she loved him, but she was just a child. The locals hunted him down. Constantine was with them when they burned him alive in some old factory up in the hills where he was hiding. Constantine volunteered to go in and make sure he was dead.”

  “They burned him alive?”

  “Have you seen the scars on Constantine’s arm?”

  Frankie nodded but said nothing, listening to Penelope’s findings. He had always enjoyed the way she could spin a yarn.

  “What would you have done, Frankie?”

  “To a man like that? I’d like to say that burning him alive isn’t really an act of justice. But who knows? I wonder if the police would have done anything? Maybe the locals taking care of it was the best way?”

  “So you would have burned him too?”

  Frankie shrugged, unable to empathise with any amount of accuracy.

  “What if it was your brother they were burning?”

  His eyebrows deceived his straight face and Frankie turned away to watch the boat arriving while he digested the news.

  “My theory is that Constantine pulled his brother from the flames and kept him up there in the hills in his warehouse. What better way to keep your banished brother from being torn apart by angry locals, than by employing him to keep your drug business secure?”

  “So nobody talks about Constantine because he’s a hero?”

  “It just so happens that I found his warehouse.”

  She smiled when he turned back to face her, waiting for her to continue.

  “And it just so happens that in that warehouse, in a storage cage in the basement, was a pair of pink pajamas. A pair of girl’s pink pajamas.”

  “Emma’s? So that’s where they were hiding her?”

  Penelope shrugged, still enjoying having Frankie hang on her every word.

  “And among his things, buried beneath a mattress was a photo of the girl. It was torn and faded but it was her. I know it was.”

  “He’s still alive. You found him?”

  “No. He’s gone. And if Constantine goes to prison, he’ll never return.”

  It was Penelope’s turn to seek distraction in the arriving boat, but as she turned away she slipped something into Frankie’s hand. It was a photo, faded with age, torn and cracked with more than five years of incessant obsession, but
he could make out the girl with ease.

  She was almost identical to Emma.

  Behind them, some twenty metres away, the line of reporters all jostled for prime position. Camera men were perched on the roofs of their vans and reporters fixed their appearance, readying themselves for the big moment.

  And it arrived.

  The Singing Star was towed into the port by a police boat. There were no crew manning the fenders and tying off the sails, only a single policeman who steered the elegant vessel to the dockside where it fell into the shadow of the container ship. Its lifeless sails fluttered in the breeze in defeat like the wings of a dying butterfly.

  “This is it.” Nodding at her camera crew before squeezing Frankie’s hand, Penelope readied herself to capture the moment. “I guess I’ll see you around, Frankie Black.”

  “I guess you will. Maybe I could see you at dinner tonight? I won’t fly out until late.”

  Her lips straightened in a smile of condolence. Her eyes danced across Frankie’s face, admiring his prominent, dark features. For a moment, she bit her lower lip as if giving the invitation serious consideration. But there was history in her eyes, and self-preservation prevailed over desire.

  “I’d love to.” She sucked in a lungful of air and touched his arm with a warm, soft hand. “But apparently there’s a local villain who’s been running drugs and an illegal gambling ring. I hear the police are lining up a raid as we speak. I couldn't miss out on that, could I?”

  “I guess not.”

  The rejection was polite. The offering was futile and Frankie knew it. But in Frankie’s experience, chance had a way of sometimes working out.

  Sometimes.

  “Maybe next time.”

  And as the first of the policemen climbed up the gangway onto the dockside, Penelope let her hand slip from his arm, looking back only to tease him with what he could have had. That seductive smile. The childish, feminine tone of her voice. And eyes that would once more keep Frankie awake at night.

  “Goodbye, Frankie Black.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four