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

  ***

  The limo crunched slowly over the granite chippings and came to a halt fifty feet from the edge of an old, disused quarry. The circular edge of the quarry dropped away before them, almost sheer, for two hundred feet, where it met the cold, deep water filling the bottom. Jamie had been gazing out the window and he looked up as the car stopped. “So what are we doing here, Dad?”

  “We talk, where no-one can eavesdrop, and then we go back to the house and never mention it again, son,” said Jack De Marco, rolling his neck as he leaned back on the rear seat. “We always get business out of the way first.”

  “Well, before we start, I need a quick piss.” Jamie climbed out of the car and jogged over to a small tree. He unzipped his jeans and relieved himself.

  Reggie Clay, the right hand enforcer of Jack De Marco, wiped the condensation from the limo window and watched the steam rise between Jamie’s legs. He turned back to the boy’s father. “That was fucking close, Boss.”

  “Nah, never in doubt, Reggie, they had nothing without that Latvian bitch and her tapes.”

  “But what happened to the tapes, Boss?” asked Reggie, as he looked out again at Jamie shaking himself and zipping his flies.

  “Now that’s what I can’t figure out, Reggie. I thought you’d got them, she told you where they were?”

  Reggie rubbed his temple with his right hand, and looked back. “I swear she wasn’t lying, Boss, but they weren’t there. And it was too late to ask her again.”

  The car door opened and Jamie climbed in and sat opposite. He listened as his father continued, “I don’t like loose ends, Reggie. You need to find them, before they turn up in the wrong hands.”

  “Find what?” asked Jamie.

  “Tapes, Son, that little Latvian bitch made tapes of my meetings.”

  “You mean Vladana? The maid?”

  Reggie looked at his boss, who nodded, then turned back to Jamie. “Yeah, she was got at by the filth, she was their star witness. She had evidence on your father, about the business, but she never gave them the tapes, can’t understand that...”

  “I don’t believe it!” stammered Jamie. “She was...”

  “Yeah? Fucking believe it, Son” interrupted Jack. “That fucking piece of Latvian trash. I should’ve known better than to hire her, but she was only sixteen at the time, so I thought she couldn’t have been the filth. Nice lookin’ girl, though...the boys enjoyed her, eh, Reggie?”

  “Yeah, Boss, we enjoyed her. She was definitely shagging one of the boys before we grabbed her, never found out which one though, but we all had a good time with her in the end.” Reggie looked outside again, then turned back grinning. “Right here, actually, just before we threw her over the edge.”

  “You killed her? Right here?” The surprise on Jamie’s face was incredulous.

  “Course, Son, this is a part of the business I ain’t taught you yet, but I reckon you’re old enough now.” Jack de Marco leaned over and patted his son fondly on the knee, and then winked at him. “The boys had their fun and then chained the little bitch up and gave her a shove. She’s just down there, about one hundred and fifty feet below the surface. Your inheritance is safe now.”

  “Quite a few down there now, eh, boss.”

  Jack De Marco glanced up. “Shut up, Reggie.”

  “My inheritance? What’re you talking about, Dad?”

  “You, Son, I’m talking about you. If I’d have gone down, the Old Bill would have taken everything with their new seizure laws, the houses, cars, boats, bank accounts, the businesses, the fucking lot, everything. Your fucking inheritance!”

  Jamie closed his eyes for a moment, deep in thought, and then opened them again, smiling. “My inheritance, well then, it’s time to celebrate?”

  “Fucking right it is!” grinned Reggie.

  “Can I drive home, Dad? I’ve nearly passed my test.”

  Jack De Marco laughed. “Course you can, Son, course you can. Fucking chip off the old block, eh Reggie!”

  ***

  Jamie jumped out of the back of the limo, as Gus, the driver, opened his door to swap places. Jamie leaned back against the car and looked up at the grey clouds, a tear forming in his eye. Birdsong filled his ears as he took a deep breath, and then whilst pursing his lips, exhaled slowly.

  He waited for the rear door to close and then climbed in behind the wheel. He started the car and gunned the engine as Gus took his seat beside Reggie. Jamie moved his left hand to the centre panel and pressed the central locking button. The door locks clinked shut.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Jamie? You know I don’t like being shut in.”

  Jamie pressed another two buttons and the dividing, bullet-proof glass screen slid up, while the windows locked shut. An eerie silence descended on the car as Jamie looked in the rear view mirror at his father.

  Jamie switched the intercom on. “So you had Vladana raped, chained and thrown in there?”

  “What the fuck is this? What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” screamed his father.

  Reggie moved to the glass screen and thundered his elbow into it. It didn’t budge. “FUCK!”

  “And my mother... is she down there too?” Jamie’s voice was cold. “You say she left without saying good bye, two years ago, but she came to me before she disappeared, said she couldn’t take it anymore. Since I can remember, I’ve laid awake listening to her scream and cry out in the night, and she always came into my room when you finally fell asleep. She’d be cut and bleeding and I’d cuddle her. Is she down there too? IS SHE?”

  The cold fury in his father’s eyes told him the answer.

  He slammed the car into gear, wound the steering wheel until it locked, and put his foot down. The rear wheels spun, and so did the limo. Finally it came to a halt facing the drop. Jamie straightened the wheel, turned and glared through the glass.

  “What you don’t know, Dad... Ha! That’s a fucking joke... is that Vladana was my girl friend. Yes, the police picked her up and questioned her, they threatened you with her, didn’t they, to see if you would talk? She told them about the tapes, but she would have kept quiet if I’d have asked her to. So she wasn’t got at by the police, you paranoid bastard, she was helping me find out about Mum. We thought you might give something away about where she went, but you didn’t, and now I know why. She only became a witness when we couldn’t find out more about Mum and thought the police could.”

  Jamie turned and thumped the steering wheel as rage boiled away inside him. Seething, he glared in the mirror. “I knew you’d got to Mum, I just didn’t know how. Let me tell you something else, about Vladana, you evil bastard. We’d been together for six months and she was pregnant with your fucking grandchild. But you... you don’t give a fuck about anyone else, do you? You’d have kicked her out anyway, if you’d of known. And now she’s down there, with Mum.”

  “Jamie... For fuck’s sake, we can sort this out.”

  “And as for my inheritance? Don’t give me that bollocks! You just wanted your money safe, in case things went wrong and you got banged up. You really don’t know shit, do you? I took the tapes, Dad. Where did you think they went? In the end I destroyed them, to keep you out of prison after Vladana went missing. Deep down I think I knew they were both dead, so I needed you here, in this car, so I could find out the truth. I had to know for sure and I had to know where, and now I do.”

  Jamie let out the clutch and the car shot forward, gaining speed rapidly, racing toward the quarry’s edge.

  “Look around you, Dad, and say good bye to this world, because it’s time.....”

  “Jamie, noooo,” screamed his father, pure fear on his face, as Reggie thumped frantically at the dividing glass again.

  The limo shot out into the air, and then down towards the cold, black water below.

  “.... It’s time for a family reunion, you bastard.”

  ***

  Paul Murphy lives near Brighton, with his wife and four children. He is currently finish
ing an historical fiction novel "Wolf of Rome", the first in a series of action adventures set around the time of the Emperor Augustus. He can be found on twitter @PaulMurphy1234.

  Flowers are Forever.

  By Rachel Dove

  The funeral had been a dignified affair.

  Outside the village church, the sun had shone, the birds had sung, and the bees had gone about their business. A wonderful day for a funeral, people had said. A good send off, they had murmured.

  George had never understood this. Why was weather being nice for a funeral a good thing?

  As far as he was concerned, midnight clouds should have roared with thunder as the heavens opened their floodgates and released their wrath; an artillery of elements that bombarded the gatherers in a display of lamenting fury at the travesty of the person’s passing.

  The comforting cacophony of the sounds of the summer had however been a welcome reprieve: a world apart from the dismal echoes of the church organ, the garbled, but reverent tones of the mourners and the tearful but dignified sniffing from the deceased’s nearest and dearest. Outside in the church grounds, a further contrast; the black sea of mourners had looked distinctly at odds with the bright sunny day.

  He guessed that half the sombre faces in the crowd had already planned the remainder of their day. He sighed and a thin smile creased his features. He would probably have done the same in different circumstances.

  Later, at the wake, friends and family had milled around, speaking in respectful, muted voices. Some had sobbed in quiet corners, others had recalled funny memories of the newly departed to responses of laughter and fond, nostalgic smiles. Food and drink had flowed in the tidy, detached house. It had been neat and homely, but most of all, welcoming.

  She had loved his house and taken great delight in restoring it. She had scrubbed, painted and titivated every inch of their home, and the house had been beautiful for it. It had been a great labour of love.

  Now that she had passed, the house seemed to sag on its foundations. It seemed worn, faded, each bright corner subdued into a jaded memory of the life he had loved, lost and wished for thereafter.

  Could an abode mourn, he thought?

  On the day she had died, his heart had broken, the pieces splintering and piercing each nerve ending with such acute pain that he felt he would never breathe again. He had waited that night and several nights since to follow her to the next realm. He had willed his body to give up the battle, to release him from the pain and send him to her.

  It never happened.

  His traitor heart still pumped. It was broken and tired, but it still beat with mocking regularity. He glanced down at his chest, watching as it rose and fell.

  In... out... in... out.

  Each breath seemed either unaware or indifferent to the fact that she was gone.

  George sat on the porch in her favourite rocker, numb and empty. He nursed a cold cup of tea he could not bring himself to drink.

  Through tear-filled eyes, he gazed at the well tended, sweet smelling garden. Roses, lavender and chrysanthemums formed a colourful border to the neat, green grass. George could not imagine tending this garden without his wife. She had loved it so much.

  His gaze fell upon the calla lilies in their coned splendour, and he smiled. Many years ago, they had been the central feature in his young bride’s wedding bouquet. She had grown and arranged her own bouquet along with the rest of the wedding flowers. Watching her walking up the aisle towards him that day, her eyes sparkling, George had never been so happy. Their love had filled him that day and every day since. The fragrant scent of the surrounding flowers reminded him so much of that love.

  Those flowers had been her passion, her therapy, her spark, and even her babies once they discovered that having children was a blessing they had not been granted. George sighed. In spite of the upsetting news, his wife had never stopped smiling. On returning from the doctor’s office, she had changed her clothes, donned her gardening gloves and got straight to work.

  Many emotions and feelings were planted alongside the blooms on their land, and George had to find a way to keep them alive, somehow. Maybe, even plant some more flowers in the well-tended soil?

  Annie watched him through the window. She felt his pain like a thunderbolt to her heart. She knew what an effort everything must be for him, how he must wonder how the world could have the audacity to turn without the one he loved being a living, breathing part of it.

  Annie understood exactly how he felt, because she had recently lost her husband too.

  Looking at the window sill she saw the flower arrangement was askew. With a little effort, she made them look perfect. She loved calla lilies. It was a crime to leave them like that. Satisfied with her work, she headed towards the porch.

  George was still sitting in his rocking chair. She bent down and sat on the small table beside him, gently reaching over and placing her hand over his. George flinched and looked at where she had touched him.

  “George, I know how you feel. I feel it too, but it will get better, trust me. Your memories and family will see you through.”

  George started to weep, big fat tears of relief, sorrow and loss. Annie placed a hand on his shoulder and comforted him, speaking softly in soothing tones. Through the corner of her eye, she noticed something growing in the garden. She turned and smiled sadly at the bright light which now filled the centre of the lawn.

  “I have to go now, George, remember how loved you are, always. And try and look after my flowers. They sure looked after me over the years.”

  George sniffed and nodded, smiling through his tears at the beautiful, fragrant garden.

  Annie let go of his shoulder and stood. She walked towards the bright light with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. At the last moment she turned, her gaze lingering on her grief-stricken husband.

  “I love you, George. Goodbye, my love.”

  With tears streaming down his cheeks, George looked up at the garden and forced a smile. “Goodbye, my Annie. I love you, goodbye.”

  ***

  Rachel Dove is a wife, mother of 2 very boisterous little boys, frustrated writer, avid reader, blogger, teaching degree student, book reviewer for the Kindle Book Review and bad housewife. She is currently working on her first novel, and can be found on twitter @WriterDove .Her two blogs: frustratedyukkymummy.blog.co.uk and thekindlebookreview.blogspot.com

  Russian Roulette.

  By AJ Armitt

  I nervously shift my weight from one foot to the other whilst my brother, Paul, pours the remaining drops of the Scotch whisky into the two empty glasses. He replaces the bottle on the table with a heavy thump and then glares at me with barely concealed contempt.

  “So, Little Brother... NOW are you going to tell me what happened to your finger?”

  I hold up my bloodied left hand. It’s crudely bound with a dirty bandage. It was the only one I could find immediately after my ‘accident’. My little finger throbs like a mother-fucker, which is a little odd. Odd I suppose, in the sense that it’s no longer there. The last time I saw it, some hired muscle was feeding it to his bull-mastiff as an aperitif.

  I take a large slug of the whisky and cradle the glass in my injured hand. “I had a visit from a Russian mobster.”

  I try not to wince as Paul’s eyes bulge in disbelief. “Russian mob...? What the fuck, Martin? What’ve you got yourself into this time?” He shakes his head and throws me that look. It’s the same disapproving frown I’ve had to endure most of my adult life. I’m almost expecting him to tell me how much Mum and Dad will be disappointed in me. I hate it when he does that.

  “Look, it’s not my fault, okay. It was Carter... the little weasel sold my debt on.”

  “Harry Carter? The Bookie? Jesus, Martin! You told me you’d quit all that shit after the last time I bailed you out!”

  I turn away from him. Paul’s right of course, if it hadn’t been for him, I’d have been in this position long before now.

&nbs
p; Fortunately for me, Big Brother’s a banker, and a reasonably wealthy guy. He’s also an overprotective prick. A few tears and promises from me, and he can’t help himself. All I have to do is tell him how sorry I am, visit a support group, and presto, his wallet opens faster than a whore’s legs on payday.

  The problem is; I’m running out of chances. He swore he wouldn’t help me the last time I did this. He left me to stew in my own misery for a week before reluctantly paying off my debts.

  I promised him it wouldn’t happen again.