Tortured Hearts - Twisted Tales of Love - Volume 2

by Robert Brooks

  The trouble is, it always does.

  I only have to pass a betting shop or see scratch cards for sale at the newsagents, to experience that familiar rush of adrenalin; a giddy high that’s just too difficult to ignore. You see I’m weak. Gambling is my addiction, my illicit mistress. When I’m caught in her embrace, I find it difficult to break free from her grasp; nothing else matters to me... nothing comes close to the thrill of her touch.

  Not even... Jane...My Jane... God how she’s suffered because of me.

  I can’t even remember the number of times I’ve emptied our savings account over the years; how many extra shifts she’s had to take on to help pay off what I’ve spent. I can picture the look of disappointment on her face even now. It’s the same pained expression she wore the time before last... and the time before that...

  “Does your wife know? What the hell’s Jane going to say when she finds out you’ve fallen off the wagon AGAIN? It’s not like you can hide THIS!” Paul grabs me by the wrist and violently shakes it. It hurts like hell, but I bite my lip. I wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much it throbs. He shoves my hand away, his face etched with disgust. “That poor woman, I don’t know how she puts up with you. So how much is it this time, Martin?”

  “Ten.” I mumble.

  “Ten grand? Are you fucking retarded?” Paul throws his hand on his hips and stomps towards the kitchen counter where he retrieves his glass of whisky. “Where are you going to get ten gees from?” He points his finger at me in an accusatory fashion. “And don’t think I’m going to throw any more of my hard earned cash at you again. Not after you promised the last time!”

  The small but prominent vein at his temple pulses angrily. He’s right of course. I can’t be trusted. Real gamblers never can be. They’re like drug addicts; they’ll say and do anything for their next fix.

  “Look, Paul, you don’t have to worry about me. I don’t need your help, alright?”

  Paul shakes his head in disbelief, “No of course you don’t, Martin. You’ve got it all under control as usual. That’s why you’re missing a pinkie... Don’t need my help? ... Who are you kidding?”

  “I said I don’t need your help, alright!” Striding towards the kitchen cupboard, I swing open one of the doors, and remove the brown paper bag hidden inside. As I toss the bag onto the table it makes a heavy clunking sound.

  “What the f...? Martin, what’s in the bag?” I glower at Paul, and he understands instantly. “Hell, don’t tell me it’s what I think it is.”

  Without saying a word, I remove the Smith and Wesson from the bag and place the snub-nosed revolver on the wooden surface.

  “Martin, you’ve got to be kidding me? Where’d you get it from?” I don’t answer, but continue drinking my whisky. “Oh hell, you bought it from one of your low-life mates down the pub, didn’t you? Jesus, Martin, it’s probably already been used in a robbery or a murder. If the police find you with that, you’re going to be in deep shit.”

  “More than I already am? Paul, get serious for a moment will you? I owe a bunch of Russian mobsters ten gees. If I can’t pay them, they’re going to be cutting off more than a few fingers.”

  “Then phone the police! Don’t think for one minute these people can do as they please. We have laws in this country to stop people from being extorted by the likes of them.”

  I snort with derision. He doesn’t understand; rich people never do. If I don’t pay up in full the next time I get a visit, I’m a dead man. “It’s too late for that. When they come next time, I have to be prepared for them.”

  “So you intend on shooting them?”

  “If necessary, then yeah. Why not? I’ve got a right to protect myself haven’t I?”

  Paul shakes his head again. I can see he’s having a hard time coming to terms with my predicament.

  “But what about Jane? Can’t you see you’re putting her life in danger too?” Paul drains the last of his glass and slams it onto the counter. “I can’t believe you’re putting her through this all again. Not after last time.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “For better or worse, richer or poorer...”

  “And worse and poorer is exactly what she got!” Paul reaches into his pocket and takes out his mobile phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling her. I have to tell her not to come home, it’s too dangerous. She’ll have to come and stay with me whilst you sort this out. I can’t believe you’ve exposed her to such danger. She’s your wife for Christ’s sake!” Paul punches in the number. I say nothing.

  Sweet Child of Mine.

  The muffled Guns ‘n’ Roses anthem echoes down the corridor. It’s coming from our bedroom.

  “What the... Martin, that’s Jane’s phone,” Paul’s face drains of all colour. “She doesn’t go anywhere without it.” Without a further thought, he hurries down the hallway. I slide the revolver off the table and follow him.

  As Paul reaches the bedroom door, he hesitates. He’s never been a brave man, and beads of sweat are already beginning to form on his brow. I’m holding the gun in my right hand, my injured left is wrapped around my wrist like they do in the cop shows on the TV. I gesture with the barrel of the gun for him to open the door. He nods his compliance.

  As Paul bursts through the door, he is totally unprepared for the sight that greets him.

  My wife, Jane, is lying naked, gagged and bound to the bed. A single bullet hole looks as though it has been bored in the centre of her forehead. Her blood, brains, and fragments of skull bone decorate the headboard like a Rorschach ink blot.

  “Oh, dear God...” Paul collapses to the floor, and loses what was probably once a very expensive meal on my bedroom carpet. As he raises his head, there are tears in his eyes. “Why? Why Jane... why her?”

  Without answering, I hit him on the back of the head with the revolver.

  *****

  When Paul stirs back to consciousness, I am already binding him to a kitchen chair with a roll of plumber’s tape.

  “For better or worse, Paul, that’s what she promised,” I hear myself muttering under my breath.

  “Martin, what the fuck did you do?” Paul doesn’t look too good. His head’s bleeding and his eyes are glazed and bloodshot. Perhaps I hit him a bit too hard? I finish binding him, put the tape on the table and sit on the chair opposite.

  “What did I do?” I snort. “I’m not the one who’s been fucking his brother’s wife for the last year.” Paul hangs his head. His silence is confession enough. “What? You think I didn’t know?”

  Slowly Paul raises his head. His dark eyes bore into me. “Martin, Jane loved you. We both did, but you don’t make it easy Bro’.”

  “Oh, it’s Bro’ now is it? Do you realise you haven’t called me that since we were kids?” I reach over to the table and pick up the revolver. It feels heavy in my hand. “So that’s your excuse? I didn’t make life easy for you both? Next you’ll be telling me that the only reason you began having an affair with my wife was so I didn’t feel bad about how much money you’ve given me over the years.”

  “So that’s why you trussed her up, gagged and murdered her, because we were having an affair? Martin, you don’t do that to someone you’re supposed to love.”

  “No, Paul, you don’t.”

  “Then why did you do it, Martin? Help me out here, Bro’ ‘coz I’m really trying to understand.”

  I don’t answer him, not immediately anyway. Instead I check my watch. “In about twenty minutes, that Russian heavy will be coming around to collect his ten grand.”

  “But you don’t have it.”

  “No, but I have this,” I hold up the Smith and Wesson.

  “So, you’re going to shoot him?”

  “Yes, Paul, I’m going to point the gun between his eyes, and pull the trigger.”

  Paul stares at me, an incredulous look on his face. He’s only now realising that he’s never really understood me at all. “So where do I come in
to all of this?” he asks.

  I force a smile. “Well, my dear brother, in the next few minutes, I intend to put a bullet in your head, also. Then, when my Russian friend eventually turns up, I’ll shoot him and his finger-munching dog, before phoning the police.”

  “Ah, I see,” Paul forces a grimace. “Let me guess... When the police arrive, you tell them that the mobster wanted his money, when you couldn’t pay him he murdered your wife and then your brother...”

  “... Before I managed to wrestle the gun from him and kill him too. I take it I’m still the sole beneficiary in your will?” Paul’s pained expression tells me I am. “Good. Then I will inherit your considerable wealth, pay the Russians what I owe them, plus a consideration for the loss of their man, and then move away from this shit-hole. I believe the weather in Vegas is pretty good this time of year?”

  Paul shakes his head. His red face looks as though it’s about to explode. “Sounds like you have it all planned.”

  I offer a solemn nod.

  “So let’s get on with it then. Take that gun, put it to my head, and blow my brains out, just like you did with Jane, you murdering bastard.”

  I say nothing. The Russian will be here soon and I don’t want him to hear any gunshots; it may alert him to my plan. I need to get on with it. I point the revolver at Paul’s head, cock the hammer, and...

  What am I waiting for?

  “Come on, you fucker, pull the trigger. Murder me like you did Jane!”

  Again I hesitate.

  I have to do this. Without Paul’s money, I have no way of paying off the Russians. Come on, you pussy, shoot. He fucked your wife. I look into my brother’s eyes expecting them to burn with hatred. All I see is disappointment. He’s my brother. The man I’ve known all my life. The one person I’ve been able to rely on, depend on, for the entire length of my miserable existence. Shooting my wife in the head wasn’t easy, but I did it anyway. I loved her, yes, but I love myself more. And yet... there is something that I love even more still.

  “What’s wrong, Little Brother? Lose your nerve?”

  “No, Paul,” I open the gun and remove five of the bullets. “Far from it.” I snap the gun shut and spin the barrel. “Do you know why I gamble, Big Brother?”

  “Because you’re an idiot?”

  I begin to laugh. “Sure, I’ve lost everything I’ve had several times over, including the woman who loved me. And yes, I’m an idiot, but that’s not why. The reason I do it, Paul, is because it makes me feel alive. When I gamble I feel on top of the world, nothing comes close, not even sex. The greater the risk, the greater the buzz. Gambling is the one thing in my life that I truly love.”

  “And you’re telling me this, why?”

  In the blink of an eye I put the gun to his head and pull the trigger. The gun clicks harmlessly, the chamber is empty. Paul looks at me wide-eyed, almost panic stricken. And then he exhales; a huge sigh of relief.

  “So what now, Martin? You torture me by playing this sick game until the gun goes off?”

  I shake my head. “No, big brother. You’ve been good to me over the years, and believe it or not, I do love you.” I can feel my heart thumping wildly in my chest, my pulse is racing. “But there’s something I love even more.”

  Without another word, I put the gun to my own head, and slowly squeeze the trigger.

  ***

  AJ Armitt lives with his wife and three children in Manchester. He currently has one book in circulation ‘Entwined – Tales from the City’ and is writing a sequel. He can be found on twitter @AnthonyJArmitt

  Scarlet Charmer

  By Gordon Doherty

  Scarlet charmer the gold threaded calligraphy read on the side of the stick. I pressed it to my lips – chapped and narrow. One swipe on each and then a perfecting touch around the edges and they were luscious and full. There! Frump to vamp in a heartbeat. He liked it when I wore makeup that my mother would have dismissed as 'slutty'.

  I turned away from the mirror and looked back over my shoulder, hands on hips, pouting: cupped perfectly in a knee length summer dress, scarlet to match my lips, hair pinned back in curls - just the way he always wanted me. Well you have to give them what they want, especially on such a special occasion as this, surely?

  Then a shadow passed over my thoughts as I realised I could still see it; the dark smudge around my right eye, a knot of black and blue that just refused to be hidden. I plucked a brush from my makeup bag to begin dusting around the bruise. There’s only so long you can go on covering things up, I affirmed, running my tongue over the three, jagged half teeth he had left me with just a week previously. And that was just the start of it, I shuddered. Without looking away from the mirror, I reached into the dresser drawer and pulled out the shiny, weighty object, then slipped it into my stocking top. Sometimes, you’ve just got to blow the lid off.

  The oven timer chimed, jolting me from my own reflection. A feisty tang of spiced meat and sauce beckoned me downstairs to the stove and I took care to decant it neatly on top of a bed of spaghetti. I placed the plates opposite each other on our dining table. We'd be eye to eye for this one - maybe not at first, as usual, but he'd look up from his plate eventually, that was for sure.

  I heard his keys clicking in the front door, and then the babble from the street floated in momentarily before the door slammed. Now it was just the two of us.

  ‘Gina? Where are you?’ His bark echoed through the hallway.

  I sat primly on the edge of my chair as he stomped through to the kitchen, his face a knot and his eyes quick to burn into the empty wine glass by his dinner plate. I reached for the bottle, chiding myself for the shiver of anxiety that wriggled across my skin. Nothing to fear I recited as the claret spilled around the pristinely polished bowl of the glass. He wouldn't raise his hand to me until after he had eaten and swilled the wine.

  I glanced up as he settled onto his chair. He was late, again. Those two hours in between his finishing time at work and now had doubtless been spent at her flat, squeezing every last drop of hope from our marriage as he rutted with his secretary. He still reeked of her cloying perfume.

  And if only it was just straight-up, uncomplicated infidelity, I mused, my gut shrivelling in disgust at what I had found on his computer the previous night. He and his mistress were a troubled pair indeed.

  ‘Mmmm,’ he grunted as he gulped at his wine, eyes never leaving his plate. He jabbed and thrust his cutlery like a butcher going to work, heaving the first forkful into his mouth as though disposing of offal. But then he stopped before the second forkful. And he looked up and right at me. Fear and anticipation crawled across my shoulders.

  ‘Gina, this is wonderful,’ he said, eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘What's in it?’

  It felt like a cutting insult. I clenched my jaw. How dare he say something so . . . nice! His face had softened, just a little. I saw the boyish charm through all the wrinkles for just a moment; a look that said 'I know I'm a bit silly, but I'm all yours.' But then he reached for the bottle to top up his glass – his first already drained. So this moment of calm was simply the all too familiar alcohol-induced mood lull. The hatred returned to my veins like neat acid.

  I let him continue to shovel the food away. I didn't even pretend to eat. No need as he wouldn't notice. Never did.

  ‘Yes it is wonderful, darling,’ I purred like Rita Hayworth on the cusp of bagging her man. ‘Now, do you want to know something?’

  He grunted. I didn't bat an eyelid.

  ‘I was going to leave this morning; I had my bags packed, tickets booked to go to Vancouver, to be with Jackie.’ A fierce tingle of self-pity scratched behind my eyes and in my nose, but there would be no tears - they had run dry years ago.

  He slowed for an instant; I could see his eyelids ripple as if he had at least considered looking up.

  ‘I didn't though,’ I mused, gazing out of the window to the jasmine scaling the back wall. I felt alone in the room all of a sudden. 'No, but it reminded m
e of something. I thought of my father reading to Jackie and I when we were girls. He'd make sure we were asleep before he'd stop. Sometimes my eyes were closed even though I was still awake. But that was what I wanted, so I could remember him kissing my cheek. Then every night he'd say it: I’ll do anything to protect you, Gi-gi.'

  I was stirred back to reality by a serrated belch from across the table. My eyes snapped round on his unkempt form like a hammer stroke.

  ‘He read me the story of Socrates once.’ My voice rasped like a blunt saw and I felt my blood run cold. This was it – this was really happening. ‘He died after drinking hemlock. Do you like the taste of hemlock, Darling?’

  Silence froze us.