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

  ***

  Over the next few weeks, I found as many excuses as possible to see her. It was like fate was pushing us together. A simple, happy meeting at the supermarket, watching as she checked the melons were ripe for breakfast or the bread fresh. She was always looking for the freshest fruit, vegetables or other produce. Everything she did had a sensual undertone to it. I almost embarrassed myself in that first meeting by growing hard watching her sample the fruit, so erotic was the way in which she handled it.

  My route home soon changed to take in a walk past the restaurant at approximately the time she finished work. This took careful timing and sometimes meant hanging around in the alley around the corner to make sure she had come out, but kismet, fate was taking a hand in this relationship. It wanted us to meet regularly so she could see the universe was guiding us towards one another.

  Everyday as I grew to know her, I knew I had made the right choice. My days became consumed by her and thoughts of her. I know it started to affect my work because my boss started to make noises about lack of productivity. I didn’t care. I had been there years and always given my best. It finally reached a head when he told me he was going to complain to Human Resources. I knew right away that that this was going to be trouble, trouble that I didn’t need or want. So I arranged to have a long chat with him and at the end of the conversation I was sure that he understood all that was happening in my life. I had taken him through all of the changes and all of the things I had to look forward to and above all, what my love would bring to me and everyone else. I fully expected him to understand and leave the matter there. He has not been back into the office since we spoke. I heard that he had had an accident or something; I wasn't really paying attention when the condolences’ card came around for him.

  That night I waited for her to finish work so I could walk her home. It had now become a nightly ritual, me making sure she got home safe and sound. The city was a dangerous place at night, and walking her home meant peace of mind for us both and allowed us to spend time together every day. That night, however, was when I resolved that we had to go to the next level. I needed to buy her something shiny, something to dazzle her and show my love. Something I could give to her that she would keep in her heart forever. Something that we could both share, and which might go some way to matching her beauty.

  What to buy though? There were so many ideas spinning around my brain. I was becoming dizzy with all the possibilities. All the things I could do. I almost, so very almost, took one of my pills to make the spinning stop; but no, I didn’t need them any more, I had my beautiful angel to help me; she calmed me like nothing else and kept me focused.

  When I finally found the perfect gift, I needed to plan the evening. This wasn’t the sort of thing you just turned up to, like a bunch of flowers from a delivery man. This needed to be memorable. The type of night that came along once in a lifetime and so every detail needed to be right; right down to the clear, moonlit sky. Do you have any concept of how hard it is to get everything to coalesce at the same time; the venue, the people, even the weather?

  Firstly, I needed somewhere secluded; you don’t want to declare immortal love in the middle of a packed room. You don’t open your soul to another in view of others. It needed light. I wanted us to become one in the romantic, heavenly moonlight. I needed the right equipment. If we were to truly do this right, we needed a kitchen; fully stocked to be able to provide the best possible accompaniment to the main course, to help complete the night.

  I had been taking cooking lessons for some years now. Sautéing or stir frying meat was an art form and needed practice if you were to make sure you sealed the essence of the food, and didn’t ruin it. This night would be the culmination of all that work, putting every lesson, every nuance of the art to the test.

  I knew instantly the ideal place would be her house. It would be the perfect surprise to walk her home, and then to spring the surprise that the evening wasn’t over. That for once she would be the centre of attention, not serving others, not having fat, old men leering at her, she could be the one to relax and enjoy while everything was done for her.

  The next couple of weeks went in a blur; I was amazed just how fast. It was like someone had put the clock on fast forward. I understand that this is all due to the effect of adrenaline on the body’s system, hyper extenuated excitement, something akin to the flight or fight reaction; it messes with your perception of time. Something that’s normally an isolated reaction, but for me it seemed to just roll on and on with the excitement and apprehension that was growing every day.

  I had checked the meteorological reports for the next week and this Sunday was the night. It seemed right that my angel and I become one on the Lord’s Day. But it also meant that I had to have everything ready on time. I watched her leave for work that afternoon, and it left me hours to set things up. I started upstairs in her bedroom, the skylight opening out onto the roof and a large balcony with French doors, plenty of room to let in the full moon. I spent some time getting to know the room, getting to know the essence of her in the room, in her sanctuary.

  I scattered rose petals all around the room and on the new, pure white, Egyptian cotton bedding Then I laid out a set of lingerie, something on the daring side but also not anything demeaning in any way. Next were the candles; placing them carefully so they could not catch fire to any fabric or be knocked over by a breeze. Perfect for our night; the room was at the rear of the house in the spacious grounds of the building. There were many advantages to her being rich but this was the only time it had really registered with me. The sense of space normally only available to the truly rich in this city.

  As the time drew near, I knew all was ready and the food was finely chopped. The blinds were closed so no light escaped to give the game away. The candles lit, it all looked perfect. Now I needed everything to appear normal, calm and quiet. I needed to walk my angel home thinking nothing out of the ordinary, a true surprise.

  In my excitement, I raced down the road to park up and be ready to meet her. Just as I flew through the last junction, I saw lights in my rear view mirror. Shit..... shit.....shit, not now! I turned the car into the side alley near where I would normally park so I could speak to the police officer without obstructing traffic. We were away from the prying eyes of nosey parkers who just assume everything is their business. I just didn’t need this though; my schedule was tight enough as it was.

  The police officer was very polite about the issue, but I could not have him delaying me and I had very little time to talk him out of the ticket. I could tell him about my love and why I needed to get going, why I could not be delayed. But how to express all of that so quickly? I just could not do it. So I showed him. He seemed to understand so much quicker than I thought possible, and then I was off and moving again. Unfortunately I was now behind schedule and when I turned the corner opposite the restaurant, I could see the lights were already off. She had left for home. The panic that set in nearly made me choke. I could not let her get home before me, otherwise everything would be ruined and there would be no coming back from that.

  No time to go back for the car; I raced down the main road, taking short cut after short cut. Down all the dark roads and alley ways, places I would never want her walking down on her own, praying that she stayed to the well-lit streets. I was utterly desperate to get ahead of her and make sure the night wasn't ruined. As I turned towards her street, she was there, only a hundred yards ahead. So sweating from the exertion of chasing her, my lungs heaving, I slowed. I knew I could catch her now, the night was saved. I slowed some more. It was better to catch her now on the porch, it would be even more of a surprise; a beautiful shock to the system.

  Finally the moment had arrived; there she was, beautiful in the moonlight, her hair taking on a ghostly quality in the full moon's light. I slowly crept towards her, careful not to make her jump. I stepped up behind her and quickly reached out to forestall any shocked cry of surprise. This was the part that
terrified me; I clamped my hand hard over her mouth, but kept the chloroform soaked, silk cloth to her lips and nose careful not to bruise her perfect face.

  I carried her in the house and carefully closed the door, carried her upstairs to her shrine. This would be the place where we became one. I laid her perfect body on the bed and dressed her in her new lingerie. Then stood back and admired her as the moon bathed her in its ethereal glow. As the clock struck midnight, I leaned across to caress her face. Naked, I climbed above her, ready to thrust on the final stroke of midnight. As the clock struck the final chime, I plunged her gift deep into her chest. The 9 inch, razor sharp blade tore into her, cutting through her flesh like a hot knife through butter. Taking a polished set of bolt croppers from my pocket, I began to clip at her ribs. Within minutes, her chest cavity was laid bare with her heart still pulsing in her splayed breast. A few, quick cuts with a perfectly honed blade, and the heart was free, still beating in my hand with its final vitality. I rushed down the stairs. Now was the important part. I needed to cook her inner beauty, her soul, while the essence was still there. We could become one. My beautiful angel would join me and the rest of my angels for eternity. I allowed myself a smile. This would make ten now; ten little angels, all perfectly prepared and consumed. Every one taking me one step closer to God, and every one forever singing a heavenly choir in my head, together forever.

  Mummy’s Little Soldier

  The sun glinted, sharp and golden off the tin foil rocket tip. It spun in rays over the herds of scruffy, plastic dinosaurs and tipped the hats of the broken soldiers that ambushed them with scantily painted bayonets and guns. The battle scene was carefully arranged on the thread-bare, clown rug that had been there since this room had belonged to a child, and was complemented by peeling wallpaper that had once matched, and was now a faded and spotted yellow, stained with damp.

  The small window was so dirty, it was amazing any sunlight managed to penetrate through the grime. The rocket hung limply above the window between a lonely pair of painted, papier-mache, hot air balloons, with bedraggled clumps of cress, grown at school, hanging from the baskets. They blocked most of the view of the street outside, and did a good job to block most of the sun that came streaming in through the holes in the patchy, blue curtains.

  Apart from the battle scene on the clown rug, and the things clearly made by a young child, the room was almost completely bare. No stuffed animals, as one might expect to see in a child’s room. Just a few papier-mache balloons and broken toys. It was also remarkably tidy, with the thin duvet pulled clumsily back into a neat corner on the small bed, and pyjamas folded on top of the pillow.

  A wonky drawer set was missing half its handles, and the drawers themselves were hanging skew-whiff off the chest. The rickety bed and one medium, clumsily painted box were the only other items of furniture in the room.

  Outside the room there was a sudden shuffling, like someone had just dropped something very light. There was a sharp intake of breath, a silence, and then more shuffling. The door handle twisted, ever so slightly, and then quickly opened the tiniest amount. A small, brown eye blinked around the gap. Then, as if satisfied, the owner stepped inside the room quickly and shut the door behind him.

  The owner was Henry Brown, a small boy, who looked too thin and unkempt. Dirty brown hair topped a thin, pale face. He had a distinctly unhealthy look, as though he had not seen the sun or eaten a proper meal for quite some time.

  He sighed and dropped a small bag he was carrying onto the floor. Henry seemed to relax a bit more when the door was shut. The room seemed to cheer him, and he almost smiled as he crossed to the battle scene he had been playing with that morning. He looked at the carefully arranged figures, his lips rising to an almost smile. The dark shadows under his eyes stretched slightly, making his unhealthy appearance even more obvious.

  His stomach growled and he coughed slightly to cover it, a force of habit that he didn’t need to enforce here. That was just for the school’s benefit. He was hungry, but then that was nothing new. Stepping towards the small bag, he hesitated slightly. He didn’t have much to last him tonight. His stomach growled again, more ferociously this time, and his resolve wavered. He crossed the room in two steps and slowly unzipped the zip. In the mess of papers and school books, he knew there were two precious food items. A KitKat, and an apple. He pulled them both out, checking the closed door beforehand, just to make sure.

  Staring at them both, his mouth watered. Which to have? … he never got chocolate here. That was just something that came along when one of the teachers was feeling particularly nice, or no-one was watching the collection of lunch boxes in the cloakroom. He had had to take this from the cloakroom of the year above, and by accident he had taken it from the lunch box of a girl whose birthday it was. She didn’t notice, but after he had seen the badge on her dress and the balloon on her chair, he had felt cold and guilty all over. Even more so when the teacher had appeared with a box of cupcakes the girl had apparently made herself, and started to hand them out to her class. Henry left the lunch hall after that, leaving his solitary slice of bread behind. He hadn’t wanted to have to steal again this week. Today was classed as a good day, even if the bread was so out of date that he had had to poke a hole in the middle where the mould had started to grow.

  He would save the chocolate for tomorrow. He placed it carefully in the depths of his bag and pulled out the small apple he had found in someone’s garden on the way home. He bit into it, munching, savouring the tart juice running down his chin. Wiping it with his sleeve, he settled on the bed with his bag, pulled out his reading book and started to read a sheet he had been given for homework.

  When he reached for his homework diary, a slip of paper fell out. It was addressed ‘Mr and Mrs Brown’. Henry pulled out the folded letter inside and surveyed it with disinterest. A few phrases jumped out at him as he read slowly, taking his time over the longer words ‘arrange’, and completely skipping a few he didn’t understand: ‘standard development’, …‘deficiency’. One phrase in particular stood out to him

  ‘I am sure you are just as concerned as I am … lack of motivation to learn, please respond … to further discuss his special needs.’

  Henry didn’t understand what Mrs Bungby was talking about. He certainly wasn’t special. He had never been special. It must be one of those adult words that meant stupid or weird or something else like that.

  By now he had finished his apple, and his stomach was still aching with hunger. He scrunched the letter back in his bag, angry that all the teachers were talking about him yet again. It wasn’t fair. All he wanted was for them to leave him alone.

  He tried to focus on Mrs Bungby’s sheet. The words shimmered and jumped around the page as tears filled his eyes. The brightly coloured picture in his book swam in front of him, and Biff, Chip and Kipper blurred into one. He coughed quietly, a tear splashing onto the page. Sniffing, he scrubbed his eyes furiously. Turning to his army on the floor, he thought how a soldier would behave. Soldiers certainly didn’t cry over homework. They didn’t cry over anything. He sighed and breathed in, refusing to let his bottom lip tremble. Leaving his homework unfinished, he slowly changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed. Exhausted, he was asleep before the sun had even finished setting.

  ***

  When Henry next awoke, the room was nearly in darkness. The orange glow of the outside street lamp had replaced the glow of the sun. He sniffed, shivering slightly in the cold bed. It was also wet. Harry shot upright and pulled the soaked sheets off his legs, a cold feeling of dread stealing over him. Not again. He didn’t even have any clean pyjama bottoms, these were his last pair that fitted. He leapt out of bed, panicked. If he was discovered, he would be punished. His blood seemed to leap against his skin in fear, his heart raced and his stomach roiled and growled as the room spun around him. He crawled onto the floor in the midst of his soldiers and hugged his sodden knees, waiting for the room to stand still.

  Once h
e had calmed slightly, he sat up, facing his troops. As always, he felt slightly ashamed. This isn’t how a soldier would behave, a soldier would get things fixed, a soldier could look after himself.

  ‘Pssssst! Private!’

  He looked at the small, broken legged general. ‘Pull yourself together, man! Are you a member of the Squadron or not?’ Henry said quietly to himself. The General seemed to nod his approval at him. ‘What would a soldier do?’ he silently asked Henry. ‘He would fix it sir!’ The soldier smiled, Henry nodded, and at once got to his feet and saluted.

  Moving with caution, but with a steely determination, he quietly stripped the bed of all covers, and replaced his pyjama bottoms with his school trousers. He would spend the rest of the night in those. He gathered the bundle up in his arms and moved silently over to the door. In one fluid motion he twisted the door handle and opened it quickly. It squeaked once, as usual, and then fell silently against his wall. Henry paused, as he always did, to listen for any sounds of disturbance. Nothing. He didn’t expect there would be. She would be at work. He would be out.

  All the same, he was as quiet as possible as he made his way down to the basement. He made it into a game. A soldier’s stealth game, a run into the enemy trench to deactivate the bomb, then home to safety. A mad dash across the hall, avoid any loose objects, leap over the barbed wire that was the tangle of electrical wire by the broken TV sets. Open the door to the trench and shut it, all in under 30 seconds.

  For around 30 minutes, listening intently at frequent intervals, Henry washed his sheets and pyjamas out at the spotted and stained basement sink. He strung them over a couple of boxes and covered them with bin liners, like he had so many times before. He had just tucked the last corner out of sight, and was feeling pretty happy with himself when he heard the unmistakable sound of the door slamming upstairs. He froze, his heart shot into his throat and started thumping, violently.