Tortured Hearts - Twisted Tales of Love - Volume 2 Read online

  Tortured Hearts

  A Collection of Twisted Tales of Love - Volume 2

  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 2

  Edited by Anthony Armitt and Cass Collins

  Introduction Megan Merry Wright

  The Anniversary Meal SJA Turney

  The Reunion Paul Murphy

  Flowers are Forever Rachel Dove

  Russian Roulette AJ Armitt

  Scarlet Charmer Gordon Doherty

  Sisterly Love Robert Brooks

  You’re my Baby Shirley Blane

  Sin + Love = Virtue SJA Turney

  Kristina AJ Armitt

  The Colony Paul Murphy

  Author’s Bio

  Introduction

  By Megan Merry Wright

  Love is a many splendorous patient kind not bitter or jealous

  Love is what you find when all your dreams

  Sometimes Love can be

  Love hurts like

  Why the fuck do people love…

  Love follows no quotation or rules

  Love knows no boundaries or direction

  Love will target the young or the old,

  For love knows no discrimination.

  It shows up in fools, loudly and proudly,

  It sneaks into cynics, deadly and shrouded

  It rips through us all, and laughs as we fall

  Powerless to prevent it, hopeless to reverse it

  It slides in like a bullet, taking us unarmed,

  And leaves a trail of devastating harm,

  Until life spills out of the whole we once were,

  Cascading through places where love did occur,

  Staining them all with a bloody red dye,

  So we kiss the moments we cherished good-bye.

  But as time passes we may start to mend,

  Scabbing over wounds as love starts to end.

  But these scars can act in funny ways,

  Sending us off into a frantic craze,

  Cold madness sweeps across every cell,

  And as love leaves, insanity swells,

  We’re not the person we used to be,

  Forever changed, no longer free,

  Dark and sinister we have now become,

  Our mental state altered: we’re a loaded gun,

  Though when love leaves, we can heal, we can repair

  But we never forget the scars that we bear.

  ***

  Megan Merry Wright lives in Leeds, is a nanny and storyteller extraordinaire for adorable twins and waiting to take a place on a primary teaching course. Avid poet and hopeless procrastinator, one day hoping to eventually finish her children’s novel (it’s only been six years in the making after all!). Twitter account @meganelisabeth

  The Anniversary Meal

  By SJA Turney

  I look down at the small black box on the table in front of me. Its contents cost me an arm and a leg. Certainly more than last month’s pay check. I hope she likes it.

  I look around the Golden Palace at the couples and families enjoying their chow mein, their dim sum, their sweet and sour. There’s a low buzz of conversation and the occasional light laugh. Only one table has a single occupant other than this one; an Asian man in a sharp suit furiously working the chopsticks with his left hand as his right rattles away on the Blackberry.

  But I’m not really alone. The empty seat opposite me is just waiting to be filled.

  The waiter brings me a jug of water and a glass, and a bowl of prawn crackers. He’d offered me beer or wine, but I’m driving after this – the car’s illegally parked on the double yellows behind the restaurant and I can only hope all the traffic wardens are at home watching Coronation Street with their feet up by now.

  I eat a prawn cracker and wash it down with the water, the ice tinkling around the glass and the jug.

  It’s our anniversary – the one of when we met, of course. So far the time’s never been quite right for engagement… so far.

  Lauren is five minutes late, but she’s never been on time in her life, so I don’t concern myself until she hits the twenty minute mark.

  As long as she’s not with one of her gigolos, tonight of all nights.

  I rub the smooth, felt surface of the small box for comfort.

  See, the thing is; I’ve been blissfully happy in our relationship, and I know there have been hiccups, but I truly believe that Lauren’s been happy too. She’s had her little affairs, of course – twelve of them in only eight years – but they’ve only ever been heat-of-the-moment things, while what we have is an everlasting love.

  My friends have always ribbed me over it. One or two of them have been quite nasty at times and I think they despair of the situation. They tell me to ‘get a backbone’ or to ‘grow a pair’ but they simply don’t understand that I’m happy; that I can quite happily forgive those flings she’s had, because I know who it is she comes home to and snuggles up next to at the end of the day.

  You see, Lauren’s always been a hot person.

  Not in that way, although that’s true too. She is hot. But she’s also hot-blooded, hot-tempered, and warm in that special way. She’s impulsive and rash. She knows what she should do, but she’s weak. When one of those affairs ends, after three days or so of trouble, she’s always broken and hopeless, tears of misery and sorrow until I brush them away and tell her that I forgive her.

  And I always do.

  But tonight things are going to change. Tonight I’m going to make her mine and only mine from this day forth… in sickness and in health… for better or for worse… etc, etc.

  I rub the black felt surface and wonder if I could have afforded a nicer one. This one’s expensive and pretty and has just the right decoration. I like it. But will she? It’s so important to choose the right one. Will she be disappointed?

  The thought panics me for a moment, but I brush it aside. Tonight is not a night for nerves. I need to be strong. Be the man she deserves. Take her hand in mine and make the future ours together.

  The restaurant door opens and my heart flutters.

  No. It’s some family with two excited kids, the boy carrying a balloon. A Chinese birthday meal? Well, why not.

  I’ve always wanted kids. Lauren doesn’t.

  The family settle down at their table, a waiter fussing around them. The little birthday boy spots me looking at them and grins. I give him a smile and a thumbs-up and then quickly return my attention to my prawn crackers and water. The dad just looked across and it doesn’t do in this day and age to smile at kids. It gets
you on registers, whatever your intentions.

  The prawn crackers are the same as always. Why is it that you can go into any Chinese restaurant in the country and each meal has variations in taste and consistency, some better than others, but prawn crackers are all the same, everywhere? They must all be made at some central location and then shipped out to the restaurants afterwards.

  Why is it not the same for poppadums in Indian restaurants?

  They…

  I have been so wrapped up in my contemplations of the variations in ethnic foods that I totally missed Lauren’s grand entrance.

  She’d crossed the room, entering hot on the heels of the birthday family, and stood in front of me while I busily tried not to look like a paedophile, studying my food. It was only as my eyes lifted from the bowl that I noticed the sparkle of her dress above the yellow silk of the gaudy tablecloth with its dragon motif.

  I lean back and my eyes drink her in.

  She is simply stunning.

  She’d spent several hours in town this afternoon buying herself a new dress and shoes for tonight, having her hair done and her nails and beauty treatments that I couldn’t even name, but which will drain the account for weeks.

  But she wants to look her best for tonight.

  It’s almost as if she knows what I’m waiting to spring on her.

  Her dress is black and grey, with sparkly decoration, low neckline, slit up the side and very figure-hugging. Her black, lustrous hair hangs in waves like the rolling surface of a nocturnal sea, highlighting the creamy smoothness of her slender neck.

  Her smile is radiant, her scent musky and attractive.

  I love her so much.

  The waiter appears as if from nowhere and pulls out her seat for her. She sits and smiles at me. I reach across the table and take her hand in mine, squeezing it lovingly.

  Her eyes dip with a knowing smile as I reach for the black box in front of me.

  In a fluid move, I draw the 9mm Beretta Bobcat from the jewellery box and stand up, the chair scraping out from beneath me.

  “Mine forever,” I say with deep affection as I fire four shots in quick succession.

  I’m not a good shot. I’ve done paintball and airsoft a few times, but I’m hardly trained. That’s why it’s so messy. I’ve seen those movies where they do the ‘double-tap’ thing, but I’m just lucky I didn’t hit an innocent bystander. That would be an awful birthday.

  The first shot enters her shoulder next to the end of her clavicle, spinning her in her chair so that the second takes her in the opposite armpit. And I was aiming for the head to make it quick, too! The third hits her slender, swan-like neck below her ear and the fourth finally smacks into her temple and does the job properly.

  No more little affairs, my love. Now you’re mine forever.

  I walk slowly around the table, smiling with my deep love as the tumult fades away into the background around me, people running screaming for the door, parents covering their kids and pushing them under tables.

  A ‘happy birthday’ balloon, discarded and forgotten, bobs up to the ceiling.

  I lean down and kiss those full, ruby lips, trying to ignore the iron tang of the blood running across them, and leave calmly and quietly.

  I hope they haven’t clamped my car.

  ***

  SJA Turney is an author of Roman historical fiction and historical fantasy. He lives in rural North Yorkshire with his family and barking mad dogs, researching the depths of the classical world. He can be found on twitter @SJATurney. To find out more about his work, visit his website at www.sjaturney.co.uk

  The Reunion

  By Paul Murphy

  “All rise.”

  A quiet buzz hung in the air, as every person in court three of the Old Bailey stood. Lord Chief Justice McKenna entered from a concealed door behind an old, ornately engraved, oak gantry. He walked slowly along the gantry, to sit high above the large room. He looked down from behind his desk at the accused, Jack De Marco. His gaze swept over the fifty-five year old man, standing before him, in a sharp Saville Row suit, the gelled back hair, dark but greying, and the smirking lined and tanned face. A cold anger fired the bottom of his stomach but he suppressed the feeling, keeping his face a mask of neutrality.

  He then turned to the jury and eyed each member slowly. His gaze finally reached the foreman, and he nodded and spoke firmly, his voice carrying clearly across the room. “Foreman of the Jury, you will please stand.”

  The judge briefly looked back at the accused, and then up to the gallery, where De Marco’s son and colleagues sat smirking. He closed his eyes and took a long breath, deep in contemplation. The trial should have been straight forward, the evidence was there for all to see, but sloppy police work with that same evidence, a missing witness and contradicting witness statements, had given the defence barrister legal weight to draw breath and squeeze his client free from the grasp of the law. Much crucial information had been kept from the jurors and with what information and testimony they had been given, would and could lead a jury to reach only one conclusion, not guilty.

  Lord Chief Justice McKenna sighed inwardly, fear for the still missing key witness nagging at his heart, a seventeen year old Latvian girl, and returned his gaze to the foreman of the jury. “Have you reached a unanimous verdict?”

  “We have, Your Honour.”

  The Lord Chief Justice closed his eyes and asked his next question, knowing full well the answer. “On the count of embezzlement, how do you find the defendant, Jack De Marco, guilty or not guilty?”

  The foreman looked relieved, as the London underworld stared at him from the public gallery. “Not guilty, Your Honour.”

  A cheer swept across the room, with de Marco smiling broadly and punching the air with a neat upper-cut.

  “Silence in the court!” bellowed Lord Chief Justice McKenna, his eyes flying open and glaring around his domain. He turned back to the foreman, “and on the count of money laundering, how do you find the defendant, guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty.”

  One by one, four more charges were dismissed, and the room erupted.

  “Order... order.” The banging of the gavel had little effect and Lord Chief Justice McKenna shook his head and closed his eyes again. “Release the defendant.”

  ***

  Reporters were swept out of the way as bullet-headed heavies, in suits and dark glasses, created a clear passage down the crowded main stairs of the Old Bailey. High above them, a shard of glass embedded in the wall, left as a reminder of the IRA car bombing in 1973, caught the sunlight and reflected rainbow prisms on the bald heads below.

  Jack De Marco walked casually through the mayhem, down the marble stairs; his seventeen year old son, Jamie, by his side. He waved regally to the waiting paparazzi, offering a dazzling smile as he crossed the massive vaulted front hall, and came to a halt outside on the steps.

  As the clamour died down, De Marco turned back to the building and looked up to the low rain filled clouds, scudding across the winter sky. He then turned and raised his arms to silence the crowd before him, as a light drizzle began to fall. “Way above us, Ladies and Gents, on top of this fine building, sit the scales of justice. Now, you press boys and girls know me, a lover of the law, an` all that...”

  Laughter rippled around the crowd as he continued, shaking his head slowly. “Well, the scales tipped proper this time, an innocent man walks free. The bastards tried to fit me up, but their lies were seen through, the planted evidence dismissed for what it was, and justice was served. So, now that that’s over, I’ll be having a holiday with my boy, here, then getting back to work!” He placed an arm around his son, Jamie’s, shoulder and squeezed, smiling at him.

  “What about the case, Jack? Now you’ve been proved innocent?” asked an overweight tabloid hack.

  De Marco looked up. “I expect my lawyers will be suing for wrongful arrest, Fatso. Now that’s it, piss off. Go and hound some poofter of a pop star, or one of th
em orange, big titted slags that you’re so fond of, or whoever it is you print in your rags. Oh, and one final word, I don’t want to see any of you twats following me around, if you know what I mean.” He tapped his nose and the smile vanished. Jack De Marco glared at the faces who were hanging on each word, as he growled his final words. “I need some family time, so show some respect, or I’ll fucking teach you some!”

  Nervous laughter followed as De Marco turned and crossed the pavement, his arm still draped over Jamie, with reporters scurrying out of their way. He climbed into the rear of a black stretched limo, followed by his son and several minders, and the car pulled away into the London traffic.