Torn in Two

by J. D. Weston

  It always amazed Frankie how the ambient sounds of children become like white noise after a while. With the removal of the video game sounds, Frankie began to tune into the birds outside. They hopped about on a wooden feeder Tom had erected to entice them.

  “Peace at last.” Tom afforded Frankie a half-smile, as if letting him know that he was still human and understood the challenges of raising children.

  But the peace was broken once more as the television reverted to the last channel Tom had been watching before Jake had taken command of it. Frankie was grateful that it was just the weather program, and as Jake ran into the kitchen asking if there was any ice cream for dessert, a healthy-looking blonde woman told the region that the sun would be shining for the foreseeable future and to make sure everyone wore sun cream. It would be the hottest summer since records began.

  “They say that every year,” Tom mused. “Or at least every year we have a decent summer.”

  “They probably lose the records every year,” said Frankie, matching Tom’s cynicism.

  Frankie felt a tiny pleasure in the exchange with his father-in-law. A comradery that they had so often shared. A comradery that, in recent years, had been lost to the grief and hardship they had both endured with the loss of Jacqui.

  Placing a bowl of ice cream down in front of Jake, who was back in his seat at the table, Mary took her own seat and cleared her throat. A sign she was ready to talk. Frankie considered extending the conversation with Tom just to pull at Mary’s strings, but he knew deep down that the thought was only fuelled by procrastination. It would be a conversation Frankie would not enjoy. There would be tears. There would be insults. But as long as the result was a solution that was in Jake’s best interests, Frankie had to endure whatever they had to say.

  “Shall I turn the TV off?” Buying himself another minute of respite and time to plan what he would say, Frankie stepped through to the lounge.

  He dug his hand into the side of the couch where the remote usually hid. But as he pulled it out and found the power button, a familiar face appeared on the screen. Standing in front of the cameras holding a microphone, she appeared to be somewhere hot and in the hustle of a media frenzy full of other reporters, cameramen, and sound men. But she looked as beautiful as ever.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Penelope Pike, bringing you the latest in the disappearance of Kent teenager, Emma Fletcher, here in Athens.”

  Athens?

  Frankie let his hand drop to his side and listened to the report.

  “Three days ago, sixteen-year-old Emma Fletcher disappeared from this holiday villa that her parents had rented for their annual family break. Parents, Alan and Sharon, have had to endure severe questioning over the past three days by Athens police. In the absence of evidence, they themselves became the lead suspects in what a spokesperson said was a flawless abduction. But with no proof to charge the British couple and no evidence, the police have stated that the enquiry will go no further. Emma becomes one of hundreds of teenage girls who disappear each year from Europe. Alan and Sharon Fletcher urge anyone who was in the Varkiza region of Greece, just a few miles from the city of Athens, to come forward with any information. So if you were in the area three days ago, you can call the hotline that has been set up. Emma would have been wearing pyjamas and would have been barefoot. I’ll be providing regular updates and will be searching further into what is fast becoming a frightening reality for one British family.”

  “I heard about that.” Tom, who had entered the room in silence, watched as Penelope Pike handed over to the news studio. “I can’t imagine what that poor family are going through.”

  “I think it’s the father,” Mary called out from the table, voicing her ever-present opinion. “From what I hear, he and his wife were at each other’s throats half the time, and he was supposed to be looking after the girl when she went missing.”

  “Don't you think it’s strange that the police have given up searching after just three days?” Frankie’s question had not raised a single eyebrow. He marvelled at how the pair managed to stay up to date on the news and have their opinions so ready at hand.

  “Lack of evidence.” Tom’s voice had lowered to a growl as if he spoke from the very pit of his stomach. “Plus a severe lack of empathy, sympathy, and desire to find the culprit. They get so many of these cases, and after three days, the chances of-”

  “Yes, but there’s still a chance.” Frankie found himself fighting the girl’s corner. “She’s out there somewhere. Someone has her.”

  “Sadly, there’s not much any of us can do, Frankie. The reality is that if the Athens police force can’t find her, there’s not much else that can be done. Not by us anyway.”

  Tom’s words registered in Frankie’s mind but elicited no response. He stared at the television, entranced, hearing nothing, and seeing only the missing girl’s face as an image in his mind.

  “Frankie?” Tom reached out and touched Frankie’s arm. “Are you okay?”

  Sucked from his daydream by the touch, Frankie allowed his eyes to refocus. He turned to Tom, glancing at Jake in the kitchen, and whispered, “Tom?”

  “What is it, Frankie? Do you need to sit down?”

  “I need to tell you something.”

  Chapter Seven

  The floral scent of the lady’s perfume lingered for more than an hour after she had offered Emma consolation, a warm hug, and a shoulder onto which Emma’s tears had fallen.

  To her surprise, Emma’s thoughts moved past the what, why, and how, and settled on how she would move forward. She cursed herself as the thoughts came into her mind. What would she do? Where would she go? How would she survive? They all seemed such selfish thoughts at a time when her sole focus should have been remembering her parents, forgiving them, and even offering them a prayer. She considered the last interaction she’d had with her mother. Try as she might, the memory of watching her apply her makeup and do her hair ready for a night out with her friend faded to Emma’s own fate. No matter how hard she tried to cling to the thought, the question of her own future crept forward, stealing the limelight.

  Even memories of her father, who had skulked in the kitchen when her mother had left for the evening, had been overrun by unshakable selfish thoughts.

  Embittered at her inability to pay her parents the respect they deserved, Emma hugged her knees, pulled her scratchy blanket around her, and sank into self-pity.

  So far into a world of mourning, Emma hadn’t heard the wheels of the rolling suitcase being pulled along the corridor, or even the clunking of the padlock and sliding of the steel door. It wasn't until the lady put her hand on Emma’s head, smoothed her hair, and issued a few, softly spoken, kind words that Emma roused as if from a deep sleep.

  “How are you feeling?”

  But all Emma could manage was a vague stare in her general direction, her eyes blurred by tears.

  “Would you like some water?”

  Before Emma could respond, the lady moved to the doorway and issued a command to the man who had locked her up.

  “Who are you? I don't understand why I’m here.”

  “Dear, Emma.” The lady stepped into the dark corner of the room, the corner with the bucket that Emma was keen to avoid. “We aren’t here to hurt you. Nobody has hurt you so far, have they?”

  Emma shook her head.

  “We had to make sure you were safe. We had to get you out of there.”

  “But my father-”

  “I wish I could tell you more. Honestly, I do.”

  “Just tell me how they died. How am I supposed to believe anything you say? I don’t even know you. Why can’t I just leave?”

  “You will, in time.”

  “So tell me how they died-”

  “I will. Soon. But right now, it is important that you are kept safe. These walls, this door, they are not to keep you in. They are to keep you safe, Emma.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “Emm
a, you have to trust me. You have had some very bad news. But right now, you need to be a grown-up.”

  “I am a grown-up.”

  “Good. I need you to be strong. The time for grieving will come. But right now, it’s the time for survival. Here, I have something for you.”

  She reached into her clutch and pulled out a photo. Emma remembered it being taken on holiday a few years before, but she couldn’t remember if it was in Spain or France. Her dad was standing behind Emma and her mum with his hands on their shoulders.

  “I can't grieve. I can’t even think of them without my mind wondering what I will do. I’m so selfish.” Dropping her head into her lap, Emma expected tears, but none came.

  “Emma Fletcher, stop that at once.”

  Emma lifted her head, confused at the switch in tone.

  “A young woman needs to be strong. Do not wallow in self-pity. Don't let the actions of others guide who you are to become. You have been dealt a hard hand. But you know what? I’ll let you into a secret of life.”

  “Go on.” Half listening, half slipping into the pity and remorse that beckoned her, Emma stared in the direction of the lady but saw only shadow. She let her head fall once more.

  “Life is all about balance. When life deals you hard times, good times will follow. But only if you’re strong. Only if you make it happen. I’m here to help you, Emma. We all need a little help sometimes. A push in the right direction.”

  The words offered little comfort but were enough for Emma to raise her head, wipe her eyes, and clear her throat. A bottle of water was delivered by the man, who looked between Emma and the woman then retreated without uttering a single word. Emma sipped at the water then swallowed two large mouthfuls before replacing the cap and setting it down beside her.

  A possession that she would keep safe in her new world.

  “Why don't you come and sit in the chair, Emma? I’ve got a small surprise for you.”

  Strangely, Emma found it hard to leave her spot with her blanket and her water. She felt safe.

  “Can’t I stay here?”

  “No, Emma. This is a special surprise. Please. Trust me. You can bring your blanket and you can have all the water you can drink.” The lady offered a hand to help Emma to her feet. But standing dizzied her. She stumbled a little, catching her step before the lady needed to help.

  The chair the man had carried in for the lady was hard and uncomfortable. It looked as if it might have once been part of a set that had been on display around someone’s dining table. At some point in its life, it had been separated and had spent however long in the darkness.

  Warm, soft hands found Emma’s neckline, pulling her hair back off her shoulders and stroking it, as if the woman’s fingers were a comb.

  “Is that nice, Emma?” The lady’s fingers began to massage her scalp.

  “Mum does that.” Considering her words, Emma faltered and went to correct herself, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

  “Hold it.” Halting the ensuing sob that was building in Emma’s throat, the lady helped her through the tangle of words. “Move past it. Be strong, Emma.”

  “How can I move on? How am I supposed to do anything now? I’m stuck here. I don't even know where I am. I don't even know your name. I’m alone.”

  “You’re alone for now. But for how long depends on you. It depends on your strength. The decisions you make now will affect the rest of your life. Make the right decisions now and in a year’s time, you’ll be some place far from here with everything you ever wanted. Your mother and father will be a happy memory. But make the wrong decision now and the opportunity will slip away. The longer you pity your position, the longer you take to adapt and be strong, the harder that will be. And the memory of your mother and father will be one of bitterness. You will resent the position you are in and you will blame them when, in fact, the fault will be your own.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Be strong, Emma. Show yourself to be strong and do not let people see your weakness. Right now, you are wearing pyjamas, your eyes are sore from crying, and you scream weakness. But when I am finished with you, you will step out into that world and take anything your heart desires. If you want to make your parents proud, this is the path you must take.”

  “I feel so helpless. I don't have anything. I don't even have money.”

  “Did I tell you I would help you?”

  Emma nodded. “Yes. Yes, you did.”

  “Then I will help you. But first, you must help yourself. Sit up straight.”

  As if her subconscious acted on her behalf, Emma found herself straightening in her chair while the lady paced back and forth in front of her.

  “Good. Now, shoulders back, chest out.”

  Emma did as the lady commanded.

  “Close your legs. You’re a lady now. Bend them ninety degrees and lay your hands flat on your thighs. Imagine you’re holding an egg between your thighs.”

  Emma adjusted her posture, feeling a sense of feminine confidence begin to take seed inside her.

  “That’s right. Now lift your head. You are proud. You are strong. You are Emma Fletcher. Nobody can hurt you.”

  The lady stepped from the room. Turning to see her, more out of defence and insecurity than curiosity, Emma’s eyes followed her as the man arrived carrying a long mirror. He carried it into Emma’s room and waited for the lady’s instructions.

  “There.” The lady gave her instructions with confident authority, pointing at the bare brick wall. “Place it against the wall just there.”

  He lowered it to the ground and the lady checked that Emma could see her own reflection.

  “Good. Now leave us and do not return until I call for you.”

  She watched as he left the room like a scolded child, peering back with a childish peek over his shoulder before skulking away along the corridor. It was only when the doors at the far end of the corridor slammed shut that the lady continued.

  Leaving no room for Emma to ask any questions, the lady set to work. The time, her soft, gentle voice had gone, it seemed. Instead, the lady found her harsh tongue and turned it onto Emma.

  “What are you doing? Sit straight, legs together, head up, and chest out, young lady.”

  Emma snapped into position exactly as instructed. Her inquisition teased at her in the mirror, but she found it hard to keep her eyes from admiring the lady’s presence. The way she carried herself was, dare she even think it, attractive.

  “Look at yourself, Emma.” Letting the harsh tone dissipate, the lady drew upon her kindness once more, unbalancing Emma’s fragile state. “Look at the way you sit. Look at how beautiful you are. Even when inside your world has fallen apart and you cling to the slightest of affection, you glow with something that every man desires.”

  “I don't feel beautiful. I feel wretched. I feel lonely.”

  “Hush now.”

  The woman stopped to unzip the expensive looking leather suitcase. She opened the case wide. Inside the lid was a series of pockets that held makeup and hair brushes. In the larger compartment hung three dresses on hangers.

  “It’s a wardrobe on wheels?” said Emma.

  “My dear Emma.” The lady stood tall, straight, and proud, beaming down at Emma with nothing more than adoration. “No matter what the occasion or whatever disaster befalls us, there is never a reason for a lady not to look her best.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Do you mean you’ve been lying to us all these years?” Mary’s face curdled. Her angled features turned bitter. “We’ve been caring for your son while you’ve been out God knows where doing what?”

  “Finding people, Mary.”

  “Finding people? That’s not even a job, is it? It’s not one that I’ve heard of anyway.”

  “It’s what I do. It’s what I've always done. Even in the military, it was what I did. I’m good at it.”

  “And who pays you?” Tom, more intrigued than his wife, who failed to see the v
alue in Frankie’s chosen occupation, showed a genuine interest.

  “Whoever wants someone to be found. Sometimes it’s the police. Sometimes it’s private. Sometimes it’s a company or insurance job.”

  “And why would they come to you and not to the police?”

  “Because I’m not the police, Tom.” Frankie sighed. “I’m not held by the same restrictions. I don't have a reporting line. And anything I do is not going to start a media riot.”

  “So what you do is illegal?” Tom’s face squeezed into a disapproving expression, coaxing more of an explanation from Frankie.

  “Not illegal, Tom, no. I do have Jake to consider, regardless of what you think. But the line I tread is broader than the lines the police walk.”

  “And that girl’s parents called you?” said Mary. “Emma Fletcher? Her parents want you to find her.”

  “Not her parents. A sponsor. Financial aid.”

  “Well, I don't see what use you’ll be.”

  Unperturbed by his wife’s scoffing, Tom voiced his opinion and, for the first time, the discussion developed a hint of light. A promise of positive.

  “I think that’s something to be proud of, going off and doing what the police failed to do. Finding people, if that’s what you call it, it’s a good thing.”

  “It’s better than security.” Warming to his father-in-law, Frankie offered a little more.

  “And it’s more rewarding I’ll bet. No. No, I think you're wrong, Mary. If that’s what Frankie does, we should be more supportive.”

  “What are you saying, Tom?” asked Frankie. “Do you think I should take the job? Does it change any of this?” Gesturing at Jake in the kitchen who was tipping his bowl up to get the last of his ice cream, Frankie held his hands open as if to put the ball in their court.

  “I don’t know, Frankie.”

  It wasn’t often that Tom would stand between decisions. He was a man that was more likely to say nothing than to offer something for the sake of having his voice heard. The indecision cast a cloud over the light that had begun to shine.