Tortured Hearts - Twisted Tales of Love - Volume 3

by Jacqueline Pye

  Butch headed North East with his wingman, and they climbed to their maximum height of twenty-one thousand, three hundred feet, to scan the sky in front.

  As they cruised, Butch thought of his new wife, Rita, whom he had met the previous year in July, and married six weeks later. He tapped his top breast pocket, which held a short poem about how precious time was, and how suddenly it could all end. When he had first read the words, they had resonated within him, striking a chord that he knew was a code he could live by. It was why he had married Rita so quickly, and now everything he did came under his new motto, ‘grab the moment’. He glanced up as his radio crackled into life, with his wingman shouting a warning.

  Far ahead, just visible and ten thousand feet lower, nine black dots in a `V’ formation grew bigger on the horizon. Butch radioed back to the aircraft carrier that they had spotted the bombers and their current position, and asked for back-up. They were told that there was a problem and that the other four fighters were too far away to help, and they were on their own. They were the only line of defence between nine Japanese bombers and the certain destruction of their fleet.

  The two enemies approached each other at six hundred miles an hour and Butch’s wingman was the first to pull his trigger as they started their dive at the bombers. His fifty calibre guns jammed and he pulled up and banked sharply. Now Butch was on his own, as his wingman turned and fled back to the `Lady Lex’. Now it was only him who stood between nine `Betty’ bombers and his aircraft carrier.

  Lt Butch O’Hare thought of his comrades on the massive ships, far behind and below, about to be blown out of the water if he couldn’t stop the bombers; he thought of his country and what the fleet’s loss would do to national morale so early in the war, and finally of his wife and their short time together. He again tapped the poem in his pocket and smiled to himself, then pushed the joy-stick forward, and his fighter dived at the bombers.

  His Wildcat only had ammunition for thirty-four seconds of firing, and so he chose his targets carefully, using only quick bursts on the trigger. He tore through the Japanese formation, and three bombers burst into flames and fell from the sky on his first pass. He pulled up and banked round sharply, coming at them again, and hitting two more as he passed through them, with bullets ripping through his own plane. He banked again, and continued to rake the formation, flying through it time and again, until he pulled his trigger and nothing happened. He was out of ammunition, and his fighter was peppered with bullet holes.

  He had reduced the Japanese bombers to four planes, and slowed them down, but still no back-up had arrived, and so he dived at them again, trying to clip their wings and tail fins with his own fighter. He banked, pulled up and attacked again, taking more and more hits to his plane, and still he kept trying to down them, with only his wing tips as weapons. And then the other Wildcats appeared and the last of the bombers were finally shot down, just before they were over the `Lady Lex’, and could release their payloads.

  Butch limped his Wildcat back to the safety of the aircraft carrier, and it was only when the camera film from his plane was developed, did the true enormity of what he had achieved, come to light.

  His skill and fearless flying earned Butch O’Hare promotion to Lieutenant Commander, and he became the U.S. Navy’s first Congressional Medal of Honour winner in World War 2, the highest award for bravery. He talked of his inspiration in life from the poem he always carried, and he continued to fly in raids and attacks, up until 27th November 1943, when he was killed in a night raid. Despite an extensive search, they never found him or his plane. He was awarded a posthumous Purple Heart and Navy Cross on the 26th November 1944. In 1945, a US Navy Destroyer (D-889) was named after him, and most famously of all, in 1949, Chicago International Airport was re-named after him, now known as O’Hare International. In 1963, President J.F. Kennedy laid a wreath there, in his honour.

  ***

  Another true story and Butch O’Hare was a real hero, a person for everyone to look up to and admire. Chicago’s O’Hare International airport is indeed named after him and the few words put together to form this poem gave him the strength to live a different life. But where did he find the poem? Well, the poem once belonged to his father; it was cut from a magazine and was found in a breast pocket when he died. He was gunned down and killed by two henchmen of the famous Chicago gangster, Al Capone, and was a guy known as Easy Eddie, or to give him his full name, Edward (Easy Eddie) O’Hare.

  Lucky Lucy

  She stood on a rubbish strewn road in the heart of London, the buildings looming high above her like unflinching sentinels. Everything had a grey tinge to it as the relentless drizzle fell on another autumn evening and the street lamp she stood under flickered intermittently.

  Ash fell from her almost spent cigarette, and she leant down to brush it from her thigh-high, PVC boots. Dressed completely in black, she could have passed as a mourner at a funeral, were it not for the fishnet stockings, mini skirt and boob tube that clearly marked her as someone not grieving over the death of a loved one. Her nipples poked through her drenched top like an exhibitionist at a wet t-shirt contest and beneath her skirt there was a glimpse of lighter hair for anyone who looked closely enough.

  It’s too fucking cold to be out with no knickers on, she thought as she lit another cigarette, chain smoking to stave off the boredom of a quiet night. Her voluptuous 5 foot 7 inch frame shivered as a gust of wind blew, and her platinum blonde hair flew across her face, momentarily shutting out the grim reality that faced Lucy.

  Her thoughts strayed to the decisions that had led her to this situation and the naivety with which she had made them.

  Six years ago she was living a comfortable, if not happy, life. She was thirteen years old and doing well in school and her new foster parents seemed to be ok, though she knew that they would eventually turn out like all of the rest. And besides, it would never be home without her brother there with her.

  Lucy’s brother, James, had been the one constant throughout her life, a rock to cling to in the maelstrom of the world. Four years her senior, he had protected and cared for Lucy for as long as she could remember. He was her mother, father, brother and friend throughout the constant moving between care homes and foster families.

  James had been old enough to remember their mother though he never spoke about her. She had died when Lucy was three years old, so the only memories she had were vague, like a vision of someone in a cloud of smoke, just shapes and shadows and scents. James had found her with a dirty needle hanging out of a vein, overdosed on heroin after another night of whoring for her addiction.

  Their mother’s death had clearly affected James, making him a quiet and introspective boy who seemed to shrink into his small frame. He was a handsome teenager, clean cut with short, cropped, dark hair and clean shaven. He had attracted plenty of girls physically but they had all found him cold, though Lucy had always had a brilliant relationship with him. That was until he got arrested for assaulting a prostitute and sent down for eight years, stranding Lucy with yet another family, though this time alone.

  Inevitably, her new foster parents gradually became more and more oppressive, suffocating her like a pillow held over her face. Without her brother there to spice up the mediocrity of her social imprisonment, it was torture. For 12 months she endured her lack of freedom until she could take no more. She packed her bags and with a fake ID and a change of name, she jumped on a train to take her south to London, the city of opportunity.

  Standing in the middle of Liverpool Street Station, she felt overwhelmed and fear gripped her as she pondered her decision to run away. The smells of Upper Crust sandwiches and Burger King Whoppers made her empty stomach growl, though without any money, all she could do was drool as tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

  Then she saw Gabriel, her saviour, an angel in this pit of demons. He was tall and blonde, with boyish good looks and a roguish look in his eyes, looking like he had just stepped out of a Calvin Klein
advert. She immediately felt more comfortable when he looked at her, with his pearly white smile of crocodile teeth, and asked her if she would like to be a model. She was saved.

  That was the beginning of her nightmare, standing in his studio with a bloodied lip and a black eye. She stood naked, her clothes torn and discarded on the floor with Gabriel whispering in her ear that he needed to give her a test drive before she could be trusted to work for him. He then proceeded to violently push her to the floor where he prised her legs apart with his crow bar hands and forcefully entered her. She cried silently, not wishing to risk another punch, though she was sure he could feel the sobs that racked her body.

  It was over quickly and he left her lying on the floor, blood pooling to form a puddle under her naked thighs. She lay there for what seemed like days until he came back with the offer to take away her pain, and though she did not answer him and lay paralysed, he pulled a belt tight around her arm and inserted the needle, violating her again and leaving a false happiness that slowly wound its chemical tendrils around her brain.

  A flash of headlights brought her back to reality and she quickly wiped the tears from her eyes, thinking cynically of how pointless they were. She was her own boss now so Gabriel could go fuck himself.

  Melancholy descending over her, Lucy walked towards the waiting car with the craving for a fix slowly creeping into her mind. She plastered a smile on her face as she saw the Mercedes badge on the front bonnet, hoping that this could be a good score. An electric motor whirred as the passenger window squeaked downwards, revealing a fat, middle aged man in a badly fitting suit.

  Lucy looked into the man’s beady eyes and tried to forget about his piggy, little hands as she pulled down her top to reveal her plump breasts and erect nipples.

  “Are you after some of this?” she purred as the man stared like a child looking at Christmas presents.

  “Err…Err… No, I can’t do this,” he stuttered and stamped his foot on the accelerator, speeding away like a greyhound out of the traps.

  “You old cunt!” shouted Lucy as she despondently turned away, wondering if she should maybe call it a night. The weather seemed to have deterred her regulars so chances were slim of making much money tonight. One more cigarette, she thought as she resumed her place at the lamppost.

  As she flicked away the butt of her cigarette and turned around to leave, the sound of hesitant footsteps reached her, coming from the other direction. Smiling, she hitched up her stockings and leaned back, eyes straining to see a silhouetted figure approaching uncertainly. As the figure came closer her smile started to fade. Although it was dark, he looked fairly young and possibly handsome; not someone who would need company from the likes of her.

  Spinning on her heel, Lucy started to trudge towards home but was stopped by a quiet voice carried on the wind. Glancing behind her, she saw that the man was following her, and an unwanted image of Julia Roberts in ‘Pretty Woman’ popped into her head. He was large, muscular but not beefcake large. He was standing in the shadows. He seemed unthreatening, with longish fair hair and dark stubble that she could barely see in the darkness. He reminded her of Gabriel, if Gabriel had been a surfer.

  The headlights of a passing car gave just enough brief illumination for Lucy to pick out the large sunglasses that perched upon a broken nose. So, a shy and secretive one, Lucy thought.

  Looking him up and down, she asked, “Can I help you?”

  “I don’t know,” murmured the guy, his gaze dropping to his shoes. “I heard that you provide a service. As long as the money is right, obviously.”

  “Maybe I do. It’s not cheap though, Darling!”

  No sooner had the words left her mouth than she was staring at a wad of £50 pound notes, and plucking two from the pile, she took his empty hand. It was soft, the hand of someone who uses designer moisturiser and has expensive manicures, and she felt a slight trembling as she slowly led him into an alleyway nearby. It was dark and dank, the perfect setting for their seedy encounter.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing so please be gentle.” Lucy heard shame in the voice and wondered whether it was because of being a virgin or because he was paying someone to pop his cherry.

  “You see, I don’t speak to girls much. I get a bit shy and tend to clam up so I haven’t had any opportunity, and well, at least this way I get to do it with someone who is experienced, and you are really pretty too…”

  Lucy placed a finger on his lips to stop his nervous rambling, and replied, “Relax. I’ll make this as enjoyable as possible. You don’t need to worry about a thing!”

  Smiling coyly, he let her lead him to a doorway where she pulled him further into the shadows.

  As she tenderly kissed his neck, she grabbed his hand, guiding it under her top to caress her bare breasts. She heard him muttering, “No.” Before she could lose him, she reached into his boxers and grabbed him, feeling him swell with lust and hearing him gasp.

  Not wanting to waste any more time with him, Lucy dropped to her knees and slowly yet forcefully guided his erection into her mouth. Speeding up her movements, she looked up to see the silhouette of his hands behind his head.

  “I want to fuck you now,” he whimpered as she got up and wrapped her legs around his waist, gasping at the size of him as he entered her with a sigh.

  Grinding against him, she could feel him ready to come inside her and pulled him deeper, listening to his shortening breaths as he got close. He groaned and she felt him ejaculate, and looking up at his face she could see his malevolent smile and she knew something was wrong.

  “Lucy, I don’t know how you let yourself get like this,” his voice had deepened to a rough, gravelly tone that seemed familiar.

  “All that time I tried to protect you, from the past and present, and you still end up a whore, just like her!” There was vitriol in the words and a hint of disappointment.

  “I heard from some of the boys inside that you were whoring but I had to see it for myself. You fucking disgust me.”

  She felt no pain at first, just freezing cold as the steel entered into her thin body, plunging deep inside and searching for her heart. She was already numb from the sheer devastation of seeing her brother’s face after all this time and the knowledge of what he had done to her.

  Lucy dropped to the floor as he pulled himself and the blade out of her and she heard him zip up his flies. As she lay on her side, with blood gushing out of her severed arteries, she heard his footsteps, now full of confidence, walk away back towards the street as she slowly let the darkness take her.

  First Love, Last Love

  He successfully kept his relationship with Egbert a secret until after the marriage.

  He met Grace when she came to look at the house. Charles was being forced to sell because his mother had recently died. Unfortunately, she had lived long enough to spend his entire inheritance on booze and gigolos and had managed to run up substantial debts besides.

  Grace had inherited several millions from her uncle, her last living relative and was looking for something more suitable for an heiress with pretensions.

  It was love at first sight. Grace fell for the house and, as an afterthought, for Charles. He fell for Grace and her millions. She moved in, he never moved out, the wedding was wonderful and they planned to live happily ever after on her money.

  It could have worked. It should have worked. But there was a large fly in the ointment. Not a fly, exactly. A large, smelly, hairy animal.

  “Egbert? Who calls a dog Egbert?”

  “Call him Eggy, darling, he prefers that.” Charles, ever mindful of the bounty Grace was bringing him, tried to soothe her. Eggy had just jumped up to greet her. It was their first meeting. He had lodged the dog with a friend during the house viewings and throughout his brief and heady courtship of Grace.

  Now the sale had gone through, Grace’s name was on the deeds and Grace’s money, or what was left of it after paying his mother’s debts, was in Charles’ bank account. Egg
y returned home. He was introduced. Initial impressions were not favourable.

  “Yuk! He’s slobbering.” Grace shuddered. For her, dogs were a foreign species. They belonged outside in pens or kennels, where they protected perimeters. Not in drawing rooms filled with her exquisite period furniture. And not resting their filthy paws on her designer skirt.

  “Get off,” she shrieked. “Charles, get him away from me. I’m allergic to all fur except mink.” She sneezed, to prove it.

  Charles sighed. As first meetings go, it lacked the instant rapport that had sprung into being when he and Grace had first met. When he and Eggy had first met, too, for that matter. He led Eggy from the room and took him down to the kitchen. She would get used to him, he was sure and in time would come to love him as much as he did. Grace was carefully wiping her skirt with a tissue when he returned.

  “Don’t allow him in the house, Charles. He’ll make a mess of everything.”

  Charles said nothing. He was already learning that to disagree with Grace was not good for his mental health or his physical wellbeing. He kissed her neck and she patted his ear, much as he would have patted Eggy.

  “Now I’ll have to change before we go out to lunch, this skirt is ruined.” Her tone was accusatory and heavy with disapproval.

  He went up to help her change and win her around. His unqualified success at this meant they were late arriving at the restaurant. Lunch became an afternoon of idle chat. Then dinner with friends at another restaurant took up the evening.

  Falling into the house at midnight, they heard a mournful howl coming from the kitchen.

  “Oh, poor Eggy,” Charles said. “He’s had no dinner and will be dying to go out. You go on up to bed, darling, while I see to him.” Grace frowned, but said nothing as she turned and climbed the stairs.