by A. J. Armitt
Tortured Hearts
A Collection of Twisted Tales of Love - Volume 1
Copyright © www.inkslingerbooks.co.uk 2012
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First Ebook Edition 2012
Tortured Hearts
A Collection of Twisted Tales of Love - Volume 1
Edited by Anthony Armitt and Cass Collins
Introduction
Daddy’s Girl AJ Armitt
Torture Robert Brooks
Where Angels Fear to Tread Paul Murphy
The Widow Tompkin Shirley Blane
Homecoming Alex MacKenzie
Threads of Love Rachel Dove
The Last Dance AJ Armitt
A Mother’s Love Paul Murphy
Happy Anniversary Robert Brooks
The Groomer Shirley Blane
Author’s Bio
Introduction
What is Love?
And why should it impact so differently on each and every one of us?
We can neither touch, smell, see nor hear it, and yet we know it exists, for it is an experience like no other, appearing in an instant or gradually easing into our lives.
It is such a powerful emotion, that we may find ourselves swept up, spun around and wrung out; sometimes in ecstasy, sometimes in misery, and sometimes in sheer passion.
It is an unseen force that permeates though our bodies and minds, filling our thoughts and dreams, influencing our decisions and guiding our actions. It gives us strength, but can also make us weak. It has the ability not only to heal, but also to destroy. It can be emancipating, but can also enslave us.
There is no mandate, no unifying theme; it takes all in different guises, twisting, soothing, but also hurting. Its sheer presence can lift us above all else, but when lost, it can bring our world to a grinding halt; toppling it from its axis, and sending it spinning off into oblivion.
It can and it does.
Love can manifest itself into acts of pure evil; for is revenge not a child born from Love?
The tales in this book are the consequences of such Love...
Daddy’s Girl
By AJ Armitt
They say “A girl’s first love is her daddy”.
My mum walked out on us when I was just two years old. I don’t know why, Dad never really liked to talk about it. All he would say was that some people found it difficult to cope with the strain of parenthood. It would seem that Mum was one of those people.
Not that I missed her, not really. I was too young to remember her when she left, and you can’t really miss what you’ve never had can you? And besides, Dad made up for her absence in ways that only a loving father could. Even from an early age I remember trips to the zoo or the beach; long summer days filled with ice-cream and candy floss, piggy-back rides and laughter. He was like a mum and dad all rolled into one. The best parent a kid could ever have.
All throughout my young life, he was there for me, whether it was leaving work early to attend a parents’ evening at school or giving up his Saturday mornings to coach our little league basket ball team. He would sit though hours of school musicals just to hear me utter my one line of script and spend long evenings reading text books just so he could help me with my homework. He took up karate on Wednesday evenings, because that’s what I wanted to do and he wanted to do it with me. He was that devoted.
Even as I got older his commitment to me never wavered. He would come home from work tired and hungry, but still find the time to drive me wherever I wanted to go. And he would wait up too, coming out to collect me at any hour of the day or night just so that he knew I would get home safely. He was like my own private taxi driver.
Most of my friends would slag their parents off. They would whine about how they never understood or always tried to control them, but not me. I could tell my dad anything. He never judged or expressed an opinion unless I specifically asked him for his advice; and then he would give me one of his sighs, take a moment to collect his thoughts, and tell me exactly what he thought I wanted to hear.
When I told him I wanted to become a surgeon, he paid for all my tuition and accommodation fees. I was the only doctor in my year to qualify without the encumbrance of student debt. At the time I never even considered the sacrifices he had to make, the things he had to do without, so that I could qualify for my dream job.
But was I spoilt?
You bet I was. I was the centre of his world, the apple of his eye. He loved me more than words could ever express, and I revelled in the attention. My dad was the coolest dad in the world. Ever.
Which is why I’m here for him now that he needs me.
I’m standing in the kitchen of Dad’s two-bedroom flat when I hear the low moan coming from the bedroom.
“It’s okay, Dad, I’m still here,” I call out to him.
He moans again, but this time his response is more like a sigh, recognition that he knows he’s not alone. I pick up the door key. He should be all right for a while.
“I’ve just got to nip out, Dad, I’ll be back soon.” I call again.
This time there is silence. He’ll be okay as long as I’m not too long.
Pulling the door behind me I take a quick look to my left and then my right. The corridor is dark, even though it is still day; the only light comes from the stairwell at one end of the passage, and a large window at the other. I push my hands into my coat pockets and make my way towards the stairs.
I push open the door with some trepidation. It’s just so quiet, so still. I never liked using these stairs when I was kid, but the lift is out of order. Some things never change. I lean over the rail and look up and then down, twenty floors to the bottom and the only exit out of here. I shudder. The sensation that I’m being watched by some unknown menace lurking within the stairwell has never left me. I realise I’m holding my breath and so I let it out in one long exhale.
Get a grip woman; you’re thirty-five years old for Christ’s sakes! I take hold of the rail and though I’m still looking down the well, I stealthily make my way down the steps.
Even though my trainers have rubber soles, I can still hear each echoed footstep. I find myself stopping at intervals to check that mine are the only ones, but the only sound I hear is my heartbeat thumping noisily in my ears.
Mercifully, at the fifteenth floor I exit the stairs. Just like my Dad’s floor, the corridor is dimly lit. Rubbish litters the floor and rats scurry amongst the debris. I take a deep breath. This is it.
Standing outside the first door, I reach into my pocket and remove the stethoscope. It was a present from my dad when I qualified, one of my most treasured possessions. It’s served me well all these years, and helped me save many lives. Hopefully it will
help me keep mine a little longer.
Placing the headset in my ears, I press the chest piece against the door and wait. Nothing .I move on to the next door, and then the next. By the time I get half way down the corridor I’m beginning to feel a little despondent. But then I hear it, inside flat 15G, the slightest of sounds. I press the rubber cup against the door even harder and hold my breath. There is movement inside.
Removing the stethoscope from my ears I return it to my pocket. I step back from the door, reach out and give it a gentle tap. No answer. I try again.
The narrow shaft of light at the bottom of the door flickers. Whoever is inside is watching me through the spy hole in the door. I force a smile and give a little wave. The door lock clicks open. Dad always said I could win anyone over with a flash of my pearly whites.
“What do you want?” a young man peers out through the narrow gap between the door and its frame, a silver chain his only protection from forced entry.
“I’m a doctor,” I reply. “I’m looking for supplies to help my dad. He’s sick.” There is a prolonged silence where we look each other up and down. The man appears to be in his mid-twenties. He has an outgrown crew cut and his face hasn’t seen a razor in quite some time. His clothes look as though he’s slept in them for the past month. Perhaps he has?
“I ain’t got nothing,” he replies. But then adds with a dangerous glint in his eye, “Nothing I wouldn’t want to give away for free anyhow.”
I swallow hard. Dad needs help. “Perhaps we can trade?”
The young man licks his lips. “What you got worth tradin’?” I offer him another smile. I already know what he’s thinking.
“Food, water,” I point to my back pack. “What ever you need?”
There’s another pause whilst the young man appears to be weighing up the risk. After a few moments he closes the door, rattles the chain and then opens it again, this time wide enough for me to gain entrance. “Well come on in,” he gestures.
As I step into the man’s flat, I’m already aware of his intentions. Through the corner of my eye, I see him removing a wooden bat from behind the door.
He tries to take me by surprise and swings wildly at the back of my head, but I am ready for him; all those years of karate lessons with Dad have helped to hone my responses. I duck forward and feel a light breeze as the bat misses my skull by inches. With a backward kick of my heel, I hit him squarely in the groin. By the time I spin around he has already dropped his weapon. My hand flicks forward and his eyes open wide with surprise. His hands close around his neck, but nothing can stop the warm blood from escaping the six inch gash that runs the length of his throat. Red liquid gushes out of him in waves, each fresh gout corresponding with a beat from his floundering heart. I step back and wait for him to bleed out. Within moments his lifeless body crumples before me and I smile with grim satisfaction. Removing a handkerchief from my pocket, I wipe his blood from my surgical scalpel; I had it in my hand the moment he closed the door to remove the chain.
Just like Dad’s, the flat is small and pokey. Unlike Dad’s, it’s filthy. Rubbish litters the floors; a dozen black bin bags lie heaped up on one side of the room. I give one of the bags a gentle kick. Empty food cans. The man had been holed up here for quite some time. Closing the front door behind me, I take the time to explore, removing anything of use: batteries, food, bottled water, prescription drugs, even the wooden bat. You never know when that may come in handy. By the time I get to the second bedroom I’m pretty much fully stocked. I push the door open and my cheeks broaden into a wide smile. The room is piled high with tinned food and bottles of water. I’ve hit the Mother Lode.
*****
It is late in the afternoon before I manage to transfer all of my plunder to Dad’s flat. Just in time. It’s starting to get dark. Not a time to be wandering the corridors of the high rise. You never know whom you may bump into.
Dad’s becoming a bit agitated now, he’s getting hungry and he doesn’t like that I’ve not fed him yet. I can hear the bed creaking where he’s trying to lift himself up. I don’t have to worry though he’s too weak for that and the bed rail will stop him falling out.
“I’m coming, Dad, just give me a few more seconds,” I call out to him. I put the last of his food on the plate and then carry the dinner tray to his room.
“There, there, what’s all the fuss about?” I ask him. He looks up at me sheepishly. I think he knows I’m trying to do my best for him. I place the tray on the plank of wood that I have nailed over the two make-shift bed rails.
Dad is already sitting up. He hasn’t really moved since I left him. He reaches out with his right hand and begins to shovel the food into his mouth. I turn away from him. These days I can barely stand to watch him eat.
I walk over to the window and survey the scene outside. It is one of devastation.
The sky is almost black; a swirling mass of flies that threaten to block out the sun. Their population has gone into overdrive these last few months. My eyes drift downwards. The streets below are even worse. Upturned cars and barricades; broken glass and mangled corpses. Not a living soul wanders the streets, not since the dead rose up to walk the earth.
Dad moans again and I turn to see what’s wrong. He’s finished his dinner, but it looks like he wants more. Fresh gore hangs from his desiccated lips. He’s made short work of the liver from the man in flat 15G.
I take the tray away from him and he makes a move to grab at me. I needn’t worry. He’s far too slow these days.
“No, Dad. That’s not nice!” I scold him. He withdraws his hand and gives me his puppy dog eyes again. “And you can stop giving me the look. We’ve got to make your rations last.”
He relaxes again as though accepting what I have to say and allows his one remaining arm to fall down by his side. He’s a pitiful sight. Why hadn’t he just listened to me?
It had happened during the first few days of the holocaust. The Army had told everyone to stay indoors; the streets were just too damned dangerous. Not that people had listened, most of the survivors had tried to escape the city. Those that had made it took their food and water with them.
We were low on supplies. Dad told me he needed to go out in search of food. I begged him not to, but he wouldn’t listen; he simply patted me on the hand and told me everything would be alright. My stomach lurched as I saw him walk towards the door with the stolen fire axe in his hand. I just knew it wouldn’t be. I ran to the window and peered out from behind the curtains. The streets were deserted. There was no sign of anyone. Not even the dead.
After a few minutes Dad appeared below me. He was with two guys from the building; a middle-aged fat man and a young skinny kid just out of his teens. They hid behind a parked car until they knew it was safe and then made a mad dash for the mini market at the end of the street.
The store must have been unlocked, because they disappeared inside pretty quickly. Acidic bile burned at my insides. I looked at my watch and counted down the seconds. They were taking far too long.
My attention switched back and forth from my watch to the entrance of the mini-market. Where the hell were they? I wanted to open the window and scream out at the top of my lungs for them to hurry up. I reached for the handle, but then froze in terror.
About two hundred yards down the street they came; a steady flow of walking corpses. They rounded the corner like freshly erupted lava, creeping along the street, absorbing and devouring everything in their path. I let go of the handle. I knew I couldn’t call out now. If the dead heard me and found their way into the building... well, it didn’t bear thinking about. I clutched hold of the curtain. I felt so helpless.
From the corner of my vision, Dad burst out of the mini-market with the axe in one hand and a rucksack in the other. He was running like his life depended on it. I gave a huge sigh of relief. The walking dead were at least fifty yards from the next street corner. He would be back in the building before they even knew he was there. My initial surge of euphor
ia suddenly became one of dread. Where were his companions? As he drew closer my stomach lurched in terror. The fire axe in his hand glistened with viscera; blood ran the length of his arm. I turned from the window, ran out of the flat and hurtled towards the stairs.
About twelve floors down, I found Dad. He looked pale, drawn, frightened. From the waxy colour of his skin, I knew he’d lost a lot of blood. I winced at the size of the wound in his forearm. The bite was deep. All the way down to the bone.
I removed my belt and used it as a tourniquet to stem the blood flow. With some difficulty I managed to get him back to the flat. At his insistence and while he was still lucid, I tied him to the bed frame. It was then that I made the most difficult of decisions. I amputated Dad’s arm, just above the elbow.
