Tortured Hearts - Twisted Tales of Love - Volume 3

by Jacqueline Pye

  Clatters, heavy footsteps as someone moved around above him. The drunken footfalls of someone unable to keep his balance. He was upstairs, and he was drunk. Cold fear spread like liquid around the back of his neck and settled in a heavy pit in his stomach. What now? He thought frantically. In his mind he could see the broken soldier lying on the floor.

  “Drop and cover time, Private.” Henry suddenly came to his senses and unfroze his limbs. The General was right; he needed to find some place to hide. He heard the footsteps coming closer to the top of the basement stairs and in a panic he dived behind some lopsided, mouldy boxes. Just in time too, because the instant he had crouched next to some musty, moth-eaten curtains, the door flew open. A loud burp preceded the beast of a man coming down the stairs. Henry screwed his eyes tight shut, hearing him stagger down the last few steps. In the dank and cramped basement, the fumes of alcohol, cigarettes and body odour quickly reached Henry’s nose.

  “Rosie!” The man yelled, slurring. He belched again and started shuffling through something. Henry didn’t dare peek round to check. He wrapped his bony arms around his knees and clamped down hard, tucking his head to his chest. Please go, leave, leave. There’s nothing for you down here, go away, go to bed. He willed the man to go. He would have prayed, but Henry had learnt long ago that no-one was ever listening to him.

  “BITCH?” The man yelled suddenly. There was a whistling sound, then immediately the shatter of broken glass against the wall right above Henrys head, and he was showered in droplets of beer and broken glass. He jumped, but thankfully was pressing his mouth together too tightly to let any sound escape.

  “Rosie! Rosie, where the FUCK did you put my beer?” There was a pause whilst he gathered steam, like a raging bull. “ROSIE!”

  Henry suddenly became aware of something warm and wet trickling down the side of his face. Squinting his eyes open, he brushed his cheek against his sleeve. It came away red, blood from one of the shards of glass had no doubt cut his cheek. Funny, it didn’t even hurt.

  The man was mumbling to himself now, profanities strung together between threats and belches. To Henry’s horror, he could hear the shuffling coming dangerously close to the corner he was crouching in, and worse still, he could see a few boxes filled with brown bottles clumsily shoved under the chair in front of him, hidden from the man’s view by the mouldy boxes. He had to move, now. There was no telling what would happen if he was discovered crouching there, hiding. The man was unpredictable at the best of times but when he was drunk…

  Henry waited till the shuffling and grunting stopped. He unclamped himself and slowly, slowly got to his feet. He peered over the top of the box. The man’s vast behind was stuck up into the air as he supported himself with one hand on the floor. He had obviously tried to look under the table by the opposite wall and had nearly fallen over. Henry gulped, it was now or never. He ducked under a broken clothes rail, taking care not to knock the blankets draped over it. Taking a deep breath, he crept towards the door, keeping one eye on the man’s back as he edged slowly towards the stairs. Unfortunately for Henry, this meant he wasn’t looking where he was going properly, and in his hurry to leave, kicked over an empty bottle. It landed on the floor with a resounding tinkling sound. Henry froze, and stood rooted to the spot as the sound permeated the haze of alcohol fogging the man’s brain. He lurched around and faced him; his tiny, blood shot eyes focusing on him in less than a second.

  Henry panted, heart ramming up against his throat as he turned to ice, frozen to the basement floor.

  “Choo doin’ down here, Boy” The man spat. Henry didn’t answer. “Where’s your whore ma?” Henry shook his head, stepping back slightly. Big mistake. He knew that when the tiny eyes flicked downwards, taking in his display of weakness. The man advanced on Henry, and he smelt the reeking breath from across the room, which intensified as the brute came closer.

  “I said - ” the man growled, wrapping his sausage sized fingers around Henry’s upper arm, “Where’s your slut-Mother?” The fingers dug in painfully.

  “I – I don’t know!” Henry croaked. “Maybe she’s working.”

  “She tell you to say that?” Henry knew then that nothing he said would make any difference. He recognised the signs, knew the man was just looking for an excuse to work himself into a frenzy. He kept silent, as the man gathered momentum, screaming curses at him, his grip getting tighter and tighter as his voice got louder and louder.

  He imagined this as a test, an interrogation by enemy troops. You kept silent when the enemy questioned you; you never gave up your comrades. The general in his head nodded his approval, smiling at Henry. Henry hadn’t been smiled at like that for a long time. He couldn’t remember the last time, but he imagined it was like having a father smile at you. How the kids at school were greeted in the playground. It was never how he was greeted. He was left to walk the 40 minute walk home alone. He imagined, with a sharp longing, the general coming to meet him one day, giving him that small smile, holding out his hand to take his bag for him and asking him about his day. Henry gushed to tell him, how all the boys wanted to be his partner in P.E. because he was the fastest, how he did a really good drawing and the teacher stuck it up on the board for the whole class to see. The general would let him play on the swings for 5 minutes on the way home, pushing him and laughing, and then before they set off he would sneak him a small bag of chocolate buttons with a wink and a whispered ‘don’t tell your mother!’And they would arrive home to a house that was warm and smelled of nice food and contained a mother who wasn’t emaciated, broken. She would hug him, and kiss them both…

  Spittle flying at his face brought him back to the present. Too late he caught the smile that had started at the corner of his mouth, and even though he pulled it back sharply it was too late. He barely even saw the fist flying through the air before it caught him square in the stomach. Henry doubled over, all the wind knocked out of him as his empty belly screamed in agony. The second blow glanced off his shoulder, probably only a non-direct hit as a result of all the beer.

  ‘Batten down the hatches, men! Heavy enemy fire!’ The general’s voice came. The man was beside himself, roaring in fury.

  “Cheek me will you, Boy! Smirk at me will you?” He screamed as blow after blow reached his back, his ribs and arms, which Henry had thrown over his head and ears. Like the soldiers, all he could do was wait for the bombing to finish.

  Suddenly there was his mother. Standing in front of him like a tank, taking the man’s hand, screaming at him to stop. He turned and let fly a fist against her cheek. She slammed against the wall and lay a crumpled heap at the bottom.

  The room was oddly still, both the man and his mum breathing hard and fast. She whimpered. Henry watched them both through spread fingers. The man stalked past them and staggered up the stairs, slamming the door. It was over.

  Henry crawled towards his mother, clutching his side. He shook her gently.

  “Mummy…” She shrugged him off, hand cupped over her cheek. Now that the moment was over, she seemed almost angry. He hung his head in shame. Of course she was. She was annoyed with him for making the man mad. Her messy, blonde hair had escaped its hair tie, and the angry, red mark over her cheek was only just starting to fade from the last time she had to step in.

  “Why do you never learn?” She hissed at him. “Stay out of his way!” She glanced at his school trousers. “Again, Henry? Fuck’s sake,” she said impatiently, sucking in her hollow cheeks as she always did when he disappointed her.

  “I’m sorry, Mummy,” he said, colour flooding his face. This anger was worse than the long silences from her.

  “You’re getting too old for this.” She picked herself up and brushed her coat. “Clean yourself up and get to bed.” She started upstairs and he kept close behind her, her small body shielding the sight of the man from him. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs to the bedrooms and he quickly hurried up the first few steps, though not before seeing her pull out the draw
er of the unit where they kept their most precious things. He hesitated just in time to see her slip out a clear plastic bag filled with a powder and a small needle and spoon. He didn’t need to see anymore to know what would happen next. He ran, as quickly as his bruised ribs would allow him to his room and shut the door.

  His broken and battered soldiers greeted him as he flew across the carpet and dived onto the bare mattress. His things were still downstairs, still wet. He groaned as the lumps in the bed made contact with his side. Hot fire flew through his bones. He lay as still as he could, bunched up against the wall. He was freezing, but tonight he would have to just bear it. After all, soldiers slept in all sorts of weather. It was nothing to them. He drifted off into a fitful sleep, nightmares waking him every so often or the occasional noise from downstairs.

  The sky was just starting to get light when she softly opened the door. He could hear the snores from downstairs that meant he had fallen asleep. She stood in the doorway, swaying a little, eyes half shut. She closed it softly behind her and crawled onto the mattress next to him. He didn’t move, trying to pretend to be asleep, but when her arm came over him and sent the inferno down his side again, he couldn’t help but give a small whimper. Sitting up, she left only to return again moments later with a damp rag.

  Clumsily, she lifted his t-shirt and began to wipe around the purple blossoms on his skin, murmuring to him as she did in a soft mumble.

  “Such a brave, little soldier. Mummy’s brave boy.” Henry watched her with his wide, brown eyes, so like hers, not daring to say anything. Once she had finished, she curled up next to him again, throwing the coat over the two of them, and gently placing her arm on top.

  “I love you,” she whispered. He felt uncertain, this had happened only a few times since the man, and only after that needle came out. She was distant, off in some imaginary land, but in that land she loved and cared for him. And so, with her warmth, protection and temporary love, Henry felt safer than he had done in months, and he quickly drifted into slumber.

  In his dreams that night, there was only her at first. Then her and the general. She wore a pretty dress and her face was full and glowing, happy. They danced together, and swept Henry up into the tune, into their arms. The three of them were laughing, singing along and swirling around the kitchen. Then the old nightmare crashed in, and the drums of the song turned into the booms and ratatatatata of the spray of bullets that ripped through the general. He crumpled, his uniform peppered with holes and oozing blood. His mother stood by, still and unresponsive, growing thinner and thinner as he watched her, tugging at her dress, begging her to hear him.

  Henry Brown awoke with salty tears dripping into his mouth, the dancing images of his mother and the general bright behind his pupils. The room was cold and empty. His mother was gone. He didn’t know if she’d even been there to begin with.

  The general smiled sadly at him from the floor.

  “Morning, Private. Up and at ‘em.”

  The Poem

  Some things in life happen for a reason, and others are just simply unexplainable. How often have you heard someone say, “If it wasn’t for this happening, I wouldn’t be here”? It happens all the time, in all walks of life, everywhere around the world. I would like to share with you, the affects that a simple poem can have on completely different people. People from different backgrounds, and who have polar views and attitudes on life. Allow me to tell you two stories, where a single, short poem casts its affects on two, completely different people. The first, true tale is set in Chicago, in 1930, and is about a gangster called Easy Eddie. This is his story.

  Eddie put the scissors down and re-read the poem he had just cut from a magazine. The moment had been an epiphany for him and the words had burned themselves into his mind. As he read each line, the message of the poem hit him like an express train, searing through the layers of greed that had taken root early in his life, and questioning the paths he had chosen since. They cut through his emotive idealisms that had justified his actions for so long, and a realization dawned on him that it was time to change.

  He placed the piece of magazine in his pocket, and walked out of the kitchen and onto the patio surrounding the swimming pool. He sat in the afternoon, summer heat and thought of his young son, and the effects of his own associations that would impinge on the boy’s later life. Easy Eddie, as he was known, made the most difficult decision of his life.

  As the lawyer and business associate of Al Capone, he would turn states evidence, which, he knew, would probably cost him his life. But what was life without integrity? Was a tarnished name the legacy he wanted to leave Edward junior? He pulled out the poem and read it again. The message was all too clear to him, life is short, and it can stop when you least expect it to, something he knew only too well, working for Al `Scarface’ Capone. If nothing else, he wanted to pass on the right example to his beloved son, and so he sat back and closed his eyes, thinking about how he would achieve his new goal.

  ***

  The next day, Eddie was sitting opposite Frank Wilson of the IRS, the Inland Revenue Service, eating lunch and offering to turn over key financial records of Al Capone’s bootlegging business. His thoughts constantly turned to Eddie junior, as he dropped deeper and deeper into his new role as an undercover agent. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead and he blew out softly at the end of the meeting, closing his eyes. He had started the ball rolling and there was no turning back. He knew the key was Capone’s book-keeper, and he knew how to lead the IRS to him. He thought again of the poem, and of the lesson in life it offered.

  ***

  Sportsman’s Park, Chicago, 8th November 1939.

  Eddie looked around his office, his movements erratic, and picked up the .32-caliber semi-automatic pistol. The cold metal was unfamiliar to him and the weight surprisingly heavy. He slipped it into the waistband of his trousers, and pulled on his suit jacket.

  Six years earlier, Al Capone had been sentenced to eleven years jail, and Eddie had given evidence against him. The mob boss was due for release any day and it was time for Eddie to leave town. He looked around his office for the last time, a sad smile on his face, and then headed out to his old Lincoln Zephyr Coupe, and drove away.

  He kept his speed steady, glancing in his mirrors repeatedly, and thought of his son, Edward. The boy was now grown up, and doing well. Eddie allowed himself a smile as he approached the intersection of Ogden and Rockwell. He thought again of the poem that had changed his life, nine years earlier, and took a deep breath of satisfaction. As he slowly exhaled, a black sedan pulled up alongside him, and two shot-gun wielding men opened fire. His only thoughts, as he stared down the barrels facing him, were of his son, and the poem he always carried.

  Easy Eddie managed a brief smile, as the final words of the poem echoed around his head and the dignity and family name he had given back to his son, before he died in a hail of gun fire.

  His car rolled into a post at the side of the road, where police found him and discovered the semi-automatic pistol, a rosary, a crucifix and a poem cut from a magazine. The poem read...

  The clock of life is wound but once,

  And no-man has the power,

  To tell just when the hands will stop,

  At late or early hour.

  Now is the only time you own,

  Live, love, toil with a will,

  Place no faith in time,

  For the clock may soon be still.

  A sad but inevitable end for a man trying, or rather wanting, to change, moved by the words of a short poem. The exact same poem features in the second story, but our protagonist lives in a later decade, and is a completely different kettle of fish. Here, the man is a war hero, who loves his country and would do anything for it. The same words above, helped him too, but this time he’s not carrying such a heavy burden, he hasn’t wronged anyone, in fact he is everything that Easy Eddie wasn’t. Yet still the same words have a similar effect on him, pushing him to put his life o
n the line. Let’s move forward in time to the 20th of February 1942, and cross to the other side of the world, to The South Pacific Ocean, during World War 2.

  The claxon sounded again, as Lt Butch O`Hare dashed onto the flight deck of the aircraft carrier USS Lexington. He ran straight to his Wildcat fighter plane and climbed up the short ladder to the cockpit.

  He raced through his pre-flight checks and gave the thumbs-up. A crewman pulled away the chocks, allowing Butch to twist open the throttle and taxi forward to his take-off position. Behind him, five other Wildcat fighters followed. He glanced up at the control tower and saluted the commander, who was stood on the gantry leaning out, and then Butch opened up his throttle and his Wildcat shot forward. The 1200 horse power engine roared into life, and Butch hurtled down the runway, the fighter bumping and bucking beneath him, and then he was airborne, and the plane rose smoothly into the clear, blue sky.

  He glanced down at the Coral Sea dropping away below, the sun glinting off every blue wave crest, and smiled. This is what he had trained all these years for. This was his vocation, and he was good, one of the best. He thought back to the events over the last day that had brought him to where he was now, flying full throttle and trying to find an enemy intent on killing him and all his shipmates.

  They had been sailing deep in enemy waters, preparing for an air strike against Japanese ships, anchored in the harbour of Rabaul, on the island of New Britain in Papua New Guinea, and were still 400 miles away when they had been spotted by a Japanese Flying Boat. Although they had shot it down, the Japanese pilot had radioed through the carrier’s position, and the Japanese response had been to send out nine Mitsubishi G4M `Betty’ bombers.

  Butch had not been called on to fly in the first wave to attack these bombers, and six other Wildcats had been scrambled, and had destroyed the threat, with the help of the ship’s anti-aircraft guns. Now nine more `Betty’ bombers had been sent in another wave, and it was his turn. Behind him, the other five fighters left the flight deck of the `Lady Lex’, as the carrier was affectionately known, and now they split into pairs to find the approaching threat.