Tortured Hearts - Twisted Tales of Love - Volume 3 Read online

  Tortured Hearts

  A Collection of Twisted Tales of Love - Volume 3

  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.

  Second Ebook Edition 2012

  Tortured Hearts

  A Collection of Twisted Tales of Love - Volume 3

  Edited by Anthony Armitt and Cass Collins

  Introduction

  Hush Little Baby - A.J. Armitt

  Evening Star - S.J.A. Turney

  Angel’s Choir - Robin Carter

  Mummy’s Little Soldier - Megan Merry Wright

  The Poem - Paul Murphy

  Lucky Lucy - Robert Brooks

  First Love, Last Love - Shirley Blane

  Cutting out the Cancer - Rachel Dove

  My Muse - Robin Carter

  Nero’s Love - S.J.A. Turney

  The Game - Jacqueline Pye

  Eternal Love - A.J. Armitt

  Author’s Bio

  Introduction

  Following the initial success of ‘Tortured Hearts’ volumes 1 and 2, my friends and I are pleased to present to you, err, volume three.

  But that’s not the only big news we have to tell you. We’ve now officially set up our own writing group, ‘InkSlingerBooks.co.uk’

  For those of you who may have tried it, writing is a difficult pastime. Once you have finished your latest ‘masterpiece’, you have to carefully edit it, proof read it, and then edit it once again, and then again...

  ...and that is why we’ve formed our group.

  At InkSlingerBooks.co.uk, we have a group of like-minded people who are willing to support and help each other. We also have a fantastic ‘grammar ninja’ in Cass Collins, our talented author who silently corrects the majority of our faux-pas before you ever see them.

  You may also like to know that some of our authors already have a healthy back-catalogue of books. Details of these can be found on our website www.inkslingerbooks.co.uk along with a collection of downloadable free stories. If you see anything you like, you will be redirected back to Amazon, where you can make your purchase.

  ‘Tortured hearts’ is just the beginning of what we hope will be a long series of anthologies showcasing our authors’ work. We have loved writing these dark and twisted stories, and we hope you will enjoy reading them just as much!

  Until the next anthology…

  The ‘InkSlingers’

  Hush Little Baby...

  The first blow of the hammer jolts Mike Bateman from his anaesthetised slumber. The second brings with it his muffled screams of agony. As rough hands press his shoulders to the workbench, the ball-gag plays its part, stifling his protestations and sparing us his pitiful pleas for mercy.

  I look on with morbid curiosity as Bateman writhes on the bench, unable to tear himself free from the six inch nails that have been driven through his palms. The soles of his feet scuff at the wooden surface, unable to gain any purchase; But how could they without the full use of his legs?

  My gaze meanders over the jagged shards of bone that protrude through his skin; grotesque ridges and peaks where my brother, Jason, has already taken the club hammer to our victim’s knees and shins. Though I feel no joy at what we are doing, I cannot prevent my lips from curling up into a satisfied smile. There will be no reprieve. No compassion for the man who raped and murdered my little girl.

  Bateman’s eyes bulge in terror as a second pair of rusted nails is driven into his forearms. His head rocks from side to side as more are hammered into his biceps, thighs and what remains of his shins.

  I look up into my husband’s eyes and see the horror etched into his features as my brother wields the hammer and nails with bloody precision. Tom, a gentle man by nature, is unable to take any part in the physical torture of our daughter’s murderer. He appeases his own need for revenge by restraining Bateman whilst Jason drives the last nail through the heel of Bateman’s foot.

  I have always loved the tender side of Tom, but right now, I can’t help but despise him for showing such weakness. I tear my eyes away from him and return them to the mangled wreck that is our daughter’s killer.

  He lies there naked and spread eagled like some unfortunate moth on a collector’s pin-board, and I can’t help but wonder at how utterly pathetic he looks. How could he possibly expect me to believe that my beautiful daughter could ever want him?

  How long ago has it been since Carla went missing? Nine months? It seems a lifetime ago; a hazy period in time where days and nights blurred and merged into one unending nightmare of despair and uncertainty. With each knock on the door, or ring of the telephone, fresh waves of hope and dread washed over me in equal measures. I knew only turmoil; each conscious thought caught in a perpetual battle, wavering between denial and acceptance.

  As with most conflicts, mine finally came to an abrupt and painful end. It was the day Detective Walker arrived at my house with the news that I had been dreading all along. The police had found a body in the woods. Less than a week later, my whole world was turned upside down. DNA samples and dental records confirmed that the naked, dismembered corpse that had been so casually dumped under a rotting, fallen tree was none other than that of my teenage daughter.

  Tears stream down my cheeks. Is it possible? After all these months of torment, am I still capable of producing yet more? Though it has been less than a year since I last saw her, I can barely remember her adult features. I have photographs, hundreds of them. Right from the moment I pushed her out of my womb, but nothing from the last three years. Nothing since she left school. Bateman has stolen my most recent memories from me.

  He is sobbing. Even the ball gag cannot silence his pathetic whining. I want to drive a knife through his heart there and then, but that would be too quick, too easy for a murdering bastard like him.

  How could the jury have been so gullible to have been taken in by this snivelling wretch of a man? ‘Inconclusive evidence’ his brief had called it. Inconclusive? They had witnesses who saw her arrive at his house the morning she went missing; her scarf was found in his bedroom; and most damning of all, his DNA was found inside her. What more evidence did they want? My daughter had visited her tutor to garner some assistance with an upcoming exam. Once she arrived at his house, he raped and murdered her. His explanation that they were lovers was totally implausible. Absolute nonsense!

  Thank God for my brother, Jason. Without him, I think I would go mad. I have relied on him so much for the majority of my life.

  When our Mum died, she left the house to the both of us. I was a total mess, but he remained strong. He took care of everything, the funeral, the bills, everything. He comforted me and helped me to get over her death. We have rema
ined close ever since. Even after I married Tom, Jason stayed on to live with us. Some people would find that a bit weird, but it’s a big house and it works for us. Jason has always been my rock, my pillar of strength.

  Whilst Tom and the others seemed to accept the verdict of the court, Jason was outraged by it. He loved Carla almost as much as me and Tom. He was the greatest uncle ever; almost a second father to our child. He and Carla were always very close. I remember when she was a little girl, she was afraid of the dark. Tom and I would read to her, but Jason would sing her lullabies until she fell asleep. My brother has a wonderful voice, and Carla loved him for it.

  “Are you ready?” His voice doesn’t sound so wonderful now. It is tinged with menace. I wipe the tears from my eyes and the snot from my nose on the cuff of my pullover. I nod and step towards my daughter’s killer.

  “Mike Bateman, to say that I hate you is an understatement. You’ve taken everything from me that mattered; the only thing that mattered. And for that I’m going to make you pay.”

  Bateman shakes his head in protestation, but I ignore him. He could claim his innocence as much as he liked, it wouldn’t make a difference; his fate is already sealed. I walk over to the other workbench where Jason has left his tools, and for what is probably the first time, Bateman sees the array of sharp instruments laid out on its surface.

  His red-rimmed eyes widen with the realisation of what is to come. He begins to weep. His body glistens with sweat, and an odious smell fills the air. I think he’s shit himself.

  “You raped and murdered my little girl,” the words stick in my throat, “and then you cut her beautiful body into small pieces.” Reaching out, I pick up the hacksaw. It feels heavy in my hand. “We’re going to do the same to you, Bateman, apart from the raping of course, you’d probably enjoy that. We’re going to kill and dismember you.” I pause for effect. “But not in that order.”

  Bateman begins to scream, but nobody can hear him. Even if he didn’t have the ball-gag in his mouth, there is no-one around for miles. A disused tin-shed on uninhabited farmland? No-one will ever know we were here.

  Tom turns away and vomits on the floor. He looks up at me with puppy-dog eyes and dribble running down his chin. He’s so weak.

  “I can’t do this, Samantha, I just can’t.”

  “Tom, you pussy , this is the man who butchered your daughter! What are you going to do, just stand there whilst me and Jason cut him to pieces?”

  “No, not even that. I understand your need for revenge, but I just can’t do it. I’ll be outside.”

  Tom almost runs for the door, and I spin towards my brother. Will he back out too? But Jason is nodding. I needn’t have worried. He will stay with me to the end. The door clicks shut. Tom’s outside, but he hasn’t gone far. We can hear him retching as he spills his guts in the undergrowth.

  I return my attention to Bateman. By now the smell emanating from him is truly vile, pervading the room with the evil filth from his bowels.

  “So where do you want to start?” Jason’s voice is calm, almost serene. It reminds of days filled with joy; evenings where we would sit in Carla’s bedroom reading her stories and singing lullabies.

  I replace the hacksaw and run my hand over the ghastly implements that Jason has brought with him. I’m humming and I realise it’s my Carla’s favourite. Jason joins in and sings the words to ‘Hush, Little Baby’. He sings it so well and I’m again reminded of Carla and how she used to giggle whilst Jason sung to her. My hand stops wandering and I pick up the Stanley knife. I test the keenness of the edge, gently caressing the blade with my thumb before glancing at Bateman. His bloodshot eyes are pleading with me to put the deadly instrument back on the bench.

  “Razor sharp,” I tell him. “I’ll need this later when I slice open your stomach and yank out your intestines.” He shakes his head in desperation. I return the knife to the table.“But for now, this will have to do.” Reaching over the array of tools, a pair of razor sharp pruning sheers slip easily into my hand. “First I’m going to cut off your fingers and toes. After that... well...” My eyes wander from Bateman’s face until they rest on his shrunken genitals. “...After that, I’m going to start cutting off everything else.”

  ***

  Tom sits in the car whilst Jason cleans up the mess. I’m standing outside the outhouse with a cigarette. I gave up smoking years ago, but now I’m back on two packs a day. I inhale deeply, appreciating the harsh taste of the nicotine. Will Tom and I ever get over this? Will he be able to forget what I have done? He’s not a strong man and I think he needs me, but I don’t think things between us will ever be the same again. Still, I have Jason.

  It’s almost dark now. We’ve been here much longer than I realised. I take another drag on my cigarette, and my eyes are drawn to the dark patches and blotches that coat the front and sleeves of my pullover. Bateman’s blood. I didn’t realise there would be so much of it. Luckily Jason has come prepared. He’s brought with him fresh clothes, Jerry cans of water for us to wash with, and a can of petrol to incinerate the evidence and clean the tools. He’s just so organised.

  Even now, he’s wrapping what’s left of Bateman’s body in the last few, black bin bags. When he’s finished he’ll put them in an old suitcase he found in a skip and bury the body in the woods. Our final act of revenge.

  Jason walks past me and drops his tool bag by the boot of the car. I smile sweetly at him. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

  “I’ll just finish up. Another ten minutes, and we’ll be out of here.” He returns my smile, and I’m reminded of the little boy I grew up with; the mischievous scamp who could melt any heart with his boyish charm and a flash of his pearly whites. I simply nod and watch him return to the outhouse. When my mobile phone rings, it takes me by surprise. I didn’t think there would be any reception out here.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs Johansson?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Detective Walker. Are you okay to talk?” My heart skips a beat. For a brief moment I wonder if he knows what we’ve done. Could they be investigating Bateman’s disappearance so soon?

  “Mrs Johansson?”

  “Oh, hi Detective. Sure, what can I do for you?” I hear Walker sigh. What can he want?

  “As you know, since Mike Bateman was found innocent, the Force has put the investigation into your daughter’s murder on hold.”

  “You knew he was guilty too, eh?” Walker ignores my question. There’s another pause in the conversation.

  “Mrs Johansson, a new witness has come forward.”

  “A new witness? Why now? Why didn’t they come forward at the time of the trial?”

  “The witness in question was a friend of your daughter’s. She was taking a gap year travelling the world. She’s only just found out about Carla’s death. Her mother didn’t want to tell her in case it ruined her holiday.”

  The uneasy silence is broken by my groaning stomach. I already know what Detective Walker is about to say next.

  “Mrs Johansson, I think Mike Bateman is an innocent man.”

  Bam! Walker’s reply knocks the wind right out of me. It’s as though I’ve been hit in the chest by Jason’s hammer. I think I’m going to be sick. I blurt out a nervous response.

  “Why? What has changed? What do you know?”

  “Your daughter’s friend, her name is Katherine. Carla told Katherine about her affair with Bateman.”

  “So they were lovers?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry, I know that this must come as a real shock to you.” A shock? I think I’m going to keel over. I look back towards the metal outhouse. Oh God! What have we done?

  “N-no, it’s fine. Thank you for telling me, Detective.” I’m trembling, and I can hear it in my voice.

  “Mrs Johansson?” Detective Walker’s voice takes on a more solemn tone. “I’m afraid there’s more. Katherine also told us that Carla called her on her mobile on the day she went missing. Your daughter told
her she was also seeing another man, but that their relationship was nearing its end. After seeing Bateman, she was going to meet the other man at Luigi’s restaurant in town to tell him it was over. We’ve checked security camera footage outside the restaurant and Carla left with the man. He was quite possibly the last person to see her alive.”

  “Oh, Jesus! Do you have the man in custody?”

  “Not yet no, but we’re looking for him. Mrs Johansson, do you know where we can find your brother?”

  Bam! This time the Detective’s question hits me like a freight train. The phone slips from my hand and I totter on unstable legs. I can hear Detective Walker’s voice calling my name, but my attention is focused elsewhere.

  I knew Jason loved Carla, but I never imagined for one minute it could have been in that way. But then it all started to make sense, the way Carla and Jason used to look at each other all the time, the secrets they shared, his absolute hatred for Bateman, even after he was found innocent. How long had they been seeing each other? I don’t want to know the answer; even thinking about it sickens me more than I can bear.

  I stumble towards the outhouse where my brother is neatly packing away the remains of an innocent man.

  As I pass his tools, I retrieve the freshly cleaned Stanley knife from the top of the bag.

  Evening Star

  Three shovels bit into the frost-hardened ground, chipping at the stone-like mud and striking sparks from pebbles therein. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted, adding its ghostly call to the chorus of nocturnal fears: bats squeaking as they wheeled in the trees and around the belfry, the distant mournful howls of wolves in the forest beyond the dim circle of light that enclosed the civilised world, the sound of branches and leaves cracking with the cold. The three men started as the bell in the monastery chimed a chilling two strokes. One dropped his shovel and retrieved it, sheepishly.

  “My lord?”

  “Hmm?” Pedro looked around distractedly, and seemed to notice the three working men for the first time. “What?”