by J. D. Weston
Frankie dropped the matches back into the drawer among the wrappers and saw something else, something that, in his opinion, was far more interesting.
He reached down and picked up a little book. There was a ribbon marker in place, so Frankie opened it.
It was a pink, leather-bound diary, and in the top corner of the page was a little symbol of a lady’s handbag.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The boom of Darius’ attempts to escape the room thundered along the corridor and echoed in the stairwell.
In the gritty bathroom, a small mirror had been fixed to the wall above a small grimy sink. It was covered in lime scale and cracked, and the single bulb in the bedroom offered little in the way of light. But still, Emma calmed her shaking hands and tidied herself as best she could.
Tears had smudged the eyeliner the lady had applied, but with a few gentle wipes of her finger, Emma managed to make herself look presentable.
An image of her running out into the street in her pyjamas played out. In her mind, she would fall at the feet of passers-by then cower at the mercy of society. But the scene was weak. It wouldn’t do. All people would see is a victim, a helpless vagrant instead of the strong, independent young woman Emma had become.
She raised her head and stared back at the girl before her, resolute and determined. But trembling hands betrayed her confident appearance and the smell of her unwashed body lingered with every move she made.
A boom thundered from down below, increasing Emma’s heart rate while she tried to calm herself.
“Compose yourself. You can do this.”
With both hands gripping the edge of the sink, Emma studied herself in the mirror. Beyond the makeup that masked the grime, and far deeper than the shallow presentation of a girl that once was, were two eyes lined with a fear that, no matter how hard Emma tried, she could not disguise.
They were the eyes of her mother.
So many times Emma had seen them. Not the strong alpha female she tried to be, but instead, a scared girl who had nowhere to turn in a marriage that day by day, week by week, had torn layers from her life, leaving only a shell of the person she had once been.
It was then Emma finally understood. Her mother had used the same techniques to mask her own insecurities. She would never be seen outside without at least a base layer of makeup on. And her fastidious attention to her clothes were not simply an aging mother clinging to her beauty. They were a shroud over a woman coming to grips with a choice.
The arguments had been frequent. Emma had heard them from her room and wondered if she would wake up to find one of them gone. But each time, she would sit at the breakfast table and her parents would play out a charade, as if nothing had happened, and neither one of them had spoken about leaving.
“It’s all a charade.”
The realisation that her subconscious began to compare her mother to the lady hit her with a pang of guilt. Her mother, who had once been so strong and confident, had allowed herself to perish to give Emma a stable family. She tried to shake it from her mind. Her mother had been good, kind, and loving. Emma couldn’t have asked for a better mother.
Another boom from Darius. Emma pictured him covered in her own dirt, his loathsome face screwed up in anger and humiliation as he kicked out at the door.
“But Mother had been a victim.”
Emma returned her thoughts to her two idols.
The lady was cold and hard. She was confident. There was no way she would be a victim. There was no way she would let a man break her down like Emma’s father had. She would fight and she would win.
“She’s a survivor.”
Straightening, Emma admired herself one final time. Pulling back her shoulders and pushing out her chest, she straightened her legs, lifted her chin, and looked back at what the world would see as a confident young woman.
“You can have anything you want.”
There was no surge of power, no warmth like she felt when she had stood naked in front of Darius, when she had teased him until he could bear it no more. But despite the lack of trembling legs and excitement, the power was there. The only reminder of the girl Emma had left behind lay in the depths of her mother’s eyes that stared back at her.
“Mother.”
Gripping the sink, Emma strived to picture her mother and father as they would be. Silent and still. Would they be buried in Athens? Or maybe they would be sent back to Britain? Would they be together?
But no image presented itself and Emma thought of the story the lady had told her, cold and hard shining through in the eloquence of her delivery.
Then doubt came, as if it had waited for the very moment to stir her confused mind, prodding her heart with teasing fingers.
She shook the thoughts away and peered one last time at her reflection, summoning all she had.
Snatching the keys off the sink, Emma returned to the small bedroom. Lifting the mattress to retrieve the two hundred euros she had spotted earlier, Emma found a single cockroach. It paused as if watching Emma’s next move.
But it didn't see the red heel that crushed it before it had time to run. Tiny bones and shell crumbled beneath Emma’s foot. The grinding sensation was lengthened by Emma twisting her foot to make sure it was dead.
Pleased with her new found confidence, Emma snatched up the cash, rolled it, and clutched it in her clammy hand before taking the mobile phone, glancing around the room, and then approaching the single locked door.
There were three keys, all of which seemed to be many years old given the corrosion and lack of shine on the metal.
The first slid into the lock but didn't turn. Even by wiggling it up and down, Emma couldn't make it move.
She tried the second key as a loud boom thundered from below. The noise did little to frighten Emma as it had before. Instead, it reassured her that Darius was still trapped.
Beyond the door was Emma’s freedom.
The second key didn't turn, leaving her just one more try. Somehow, she knew the final key would work. Whether it was the way it slotted into the hole without resistance or the way it felt in her hand, Emma couldn't tell. It just felt right.
It turned with ease, pulling with it the bolt that had barred the way.
Darius gave one last boom on the steel as Emma reached for the door handle, raising a smile on her face in silent victory.
Maintaining her strong posture, shoulders back, chest out, legs straight, and chin up, Emma took a deep breath. She spared a thought for the girl she was leaving behind and one for the family to whom she never had a chance to say goodbye. Then she opened the door.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A few drunk, sun-seeking holiday makers were ambling along the beach road when Frankie parked his car close to where Sophia had parked earlier that day. Easing the seat back as far as it would allow, Frankie kicked off his boots, plugged his phone charger into the cigarette lighter, and lay back.
But sleep was far away.
Thoughts of the past few days turned over in his mind and merged, interlacing like Tom’s fingers had at the kitchen table when he and Mary had delivered their news. Mad at himself for not calling Jake, Frankie considered calling Tom. Maybe if he kept them up to date with how he was getting on like a normal son-in-law, the gaps in his presence might not be so visible. Maybe there was a way it could work out where Frankie could carry on doing what he was doing and Tom and Mary would drop the whole custody issue.
But Jake would be the hardest to convince.
Shifting in his seat to stretch his legs out across the passenger seat, Frankie picked up his phone. He considered heading to the Fletchers’ house. He was sure there would be room. But Frankie preferred the silence and the freedom of thought.
He browsed the images folder on his phone and found a recent shot he’d taken of Jake at the zoo. The boy’s smile was both infectious and hereditary. It may have been Frankie’s son staring back at him from the photo, but it was Jacqui’s smile.
He found h
imself flicking through the folder of images until he reached the more recent shots, where he found the images he’d snapped of the pink diary. Thirty-one photos. One for each of the last thirty days. Plus one of the inside cover where, scrawled in the round, bubble writing adopted by many teenage girls was the name Emma Fletcher.
A certain unease crept over him as it had when Frankie had been inside Angela’s apartment. Violating people’s privacy was not a part of the job he enjoyed. But barely a case had passed when he didn't have to do it in one form or another. The feeling never went away. It didn't get easier with time and experience. As he began to read through Emma’s personal thoughts and feelings from her first day on holiday, he couldn’t help imagining her writing the very words he read.
He imagined her sitting up in bed with the lamp switched on. Sharon had mentioned that she had been wearing pyjamas, so the image melded to include them. She would tap the pen against her teeth, considering what she might write, perhaps remembering her fondest moment of the day, but contrasting them with something she hadn't enjoyed. The image was clear in Frankie’s mind, allowing him to empathise. He found the last entry. It had been written the night she had been taken. But Frankie flicked back a few days to get a feel for the girl’s mindset and the events that had led up to the incident. Then he continued reading.
We landed today. It’s so hot. I wore jeans on the plane and had to change into a dress as soon as we arrived at our villa. Mum made us stop for supplies before we got here. I think she just wanted to get some wine. I hope she doesn’t drink too much this holiday and if she does, I hope she lets me have some. I had idyllic visions of Mum, Dad, and me sitting in the garden, all getting along like a normal family. But deep down, I have this sinking feeling that they will spend two weeks bickering, Mum will try and keep me close to her as an ally, and Dad will disappear when we’ve gone to bed and find a bar, or lose all our holiday money on a fruit machine.
I hope it doesn't end up like that. I’m not sure how much longer I can try and hold them together.
The town is nice. It’s called Varkiza. But typical of Mum and Dad, it’s not exactly Ibiza. There doesn’t seem to be many people my age, but the weather is nice and the sea looks beautiful. Hopefully we can go to the beach tomorrow. Fourteen days to get the perfect tan.
Aware that the light from the phone would alert any passers-by to his presence, Frankie checked around the car for signs of people. He found none. Then he leaned back into the seat to read on.
Day two - I love this place. There aren’t many people my age, but I did see a cute Greek boy. I think he spotted me too. I’ll keep my eye out for him. His skin looks amazing, so tanned and smooth. That goes to show what a Mediterranean diet can do.
We ate at a really nice fish restaurant on the beach road and we sat outside. Mum had a few glasses of wine but Dad had just as many beers. I wasn't allowed any, but it didn't matter because they actually sat beside each other. It felt like we were a real family. That was enough for me. It was probably enough for Dad too. He went out as soon as we got back to the villa which was nice as mum and I had a chat. I think I ruined it though. I asked her why she doesn't let me have any wine and her eyes rolled. It’s always the same old argument. I'm eighteen! It’s so unfair. All my friends drink and all their parents let them go out, but she wraps me up in cotton wool, afraid the world will take me away from her.
Once again, the chat ended in tears. We’re okay now. I won’t push it, not while we’re on holiday, but when we’re home, things need to change. She knows I’ve never had a boyfriend, and part of me likes the idea that when I do meet someone, he’ll be the love of my life instead of some drunken one-night stand like Debbie had. But another part of me wants to go out and at least practice talking to boys. I know everyone talks about me behind my back. I just want to be normal. It looks like the next two weeks will be dedicated to holding my parents together, tanning, and staring at Greek boys from the safety of my beach towel. It could be worse.
Considering Emma’s diary entries, Frankie lowered his phone and a clear picture of their family began to form. He’d already seen that it was far from idyllic from his own encounter with them. But Emma’s thoughts filled in the gaps and added the colour his imagination needed.
He clicked off his phone, pulled his jacket over his shoulders, and settled in, allowing his mind to wander back to his own boy, and wondering what Jake might write if he had a diary. There would be ill-feelings, that’s for sure. It was clear that Jake was angry at Frankie, but he hoped that those days they spent together made up for a lot of the bad stuff.
Frankie cracked a window open to enjoy the cool breeze on his face and the peace and quiet of the tiny town. Only the gentle waves lapping against the beach less than a hundred yards away could be heard.
With Jake in his thoughts, Frankie closed his eyes, allowing ideas of a special weekend with his son to fill his mind as sleep encroached. His subconscious carried him away to a spot he knew like the back of his hand, where a small stream led into a vast lake surrounded by mountains. It had been Jacqui’s favourite place, outside a tiny village in the middle of the Lake District. She had remarked how it was like one of the great painters had created it with its perfect sky and perfect colours. As they lay in the shade of an old tree, they had made love and secured the place as their own. She had said the name of an artist, but it escaped Frankie.
His mind now was focused on taking Jake to that spot his mother had loved and picturing the fun they could have on the banks of the lake. Tiny buildings dotted the far shoreline and people in canoes explored the parts unreachable by land. In the centre of the lake, a speed boat pulled a wake-boarder. Their laughter and screams reached Frankie and Jake on the breath of the warm summer breeze.
The sound of the boat engine grew nearer as they turned to give the boarder another run. But as they turned away, the engine grew louder. The further away they went, the louder the engine became. Until the noise was cut altogether. Men’s voices, urgent and gruff, replaced the shrill, distant shrieks of fun.
A loud bang roused Frankie from his slumber. He opened his eyes and searched around the car, thinking that somebody may have been sneaking up to steal something.
But nobody was there.
Sitting up, he looked further along the empty beach road. The bars had long since closed for the night and he could find no sign of drunken holiday makers.
Then he heard the familiar sound of laboured footsteps in the sand. Something moved in the darkness ahead of the car, white against the dark, inky sea. Men’s voices grew louder. There was one in particular, far deeper and more aggressive, conjuring an image of a broad man, hardened by a lifetime at sea with tanned but weathered skin to suit. He was shouting more than the others as if he was in charge.
The engine started up once more and the vague white shape of a boat faded into the night. But in its place were the silhouettes of two men carrying a heavy cool box between them. Frankie was ready to pass them off as tourists who had spent the day on one of the many Greek islands and whose captain had dropped them off late and drunk.
But as they emerged from the darkness heading towards the road, another man stepped out of the shadow behind them. The man with the melted arm.
“Constantine.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Disappointment came like the slice of a razor across Emma’s heart.
There was no bustling street beyond the door. No passers-by from whom to seek help. Only a sky full of stars and the pitch dark of the night. Even the moon shone its light elsewhere, somewhere far away.
Braving her new found confidence, Emma stepped down from the building to find gravel underfoot. Unsteady in her new heels, Emma held onto the door, peering left and right and forward, but never back, where she’d surrendered all she had known for a chance at a life of her own.
The girl she had left behind was once a more pitiful memory, destined for a life of submission and, in Emma’s mind, she would be locked in tha
t room for an eternity with Darius.
They deserved each other.
With no lights to guide her, the darkness was so thick there was no way for Emma to know which way to turn. Each direction was as dark as the other, and when she turned left, her subconscious suggested right. But when she turned right, there were doubts that fogged her ability to make a decision. Still clinging to the door, she straightened her legs, pushed out her chest, and lifted her chin.
“Forward it is then.”
Her new confidence seemed to ease the decision, but her feet fell afoul of the uneven ground and trepidation that still lingered. She bent, pulled off her shoes one at a time, and winced as the sharp stones found the soft soles of her feet. With her heels in hand, she moved forward, venturing into her new world with a cloak of power shielding the frightened little girl beneath.
Step by step, Emma made her way forward, inching over the gravel and seeking patches of loose dirt to plant her feet between the small stones. Counting the steps she had taken as a measure to distract her from the pain and the anxiety, Emma reached one hundred. Smiling to herself at having reached such a milestone, she stopped and turned back to face the way she had come.
But the darkness had fallen over the building like the shroud that hid her fear from the outside world. Not a corner, an edge, or even a shine of broken glass could be seen of the building. Her world was thirty feet of gravelled ground in any direction. Beyond that there was nothing to be seen.
“What have I done?”
Allowing her anxiety to get the better of her, Emma turned once more, thinking she must be looking in the wrong direction. But each way she turned, there was no building to be seen.
She turned so much that she no longer knew which way she had been facing. Cursing herself out loud, she spun around, frantically searching the ground for familiar places where she had placed her feet.