Page 30 of Savage Obsession

“What time we setting off in the morning?”

“As early as possible. Have you checked ferry times?”

“Obviously,” I bristle. Am I planning the route or not? “There’s an overnight car ferry from the Hook of Holland to Harwich that has dog-friendly cabins. I booked us on it.”

“The Hook of Holland? That’s near The Hague, yes?”

“Yes. The ferry is at eight twenty-seven in the evening, check in no later than seven-thirty.”

“I reckon that’s at least an eight-hour drive from here,” he replies. “We leave at first light.”

I worked that out for myself. “Goodnight,” I mutter.

“I really had no idea.”

I speak the words into the silent darkness, sure he can hear me by his breathing. He’s awake, I know it.

Sure enough. “We’ve been through all this. Spare me any more lies.”

Indignation rears. Who does he think he is, calling me a liar? I sit up and glare at him. “I shot the slimeball, didn’t I?”

“Eventually,” he concedes, still not turning over to face me. “Pity you didn’t get around to it earlier. While Lily was still at home, and it might have done some good.”

“If I’d had the first inkling…”

“Yeah, right. Go to sleep, Julia.”

I punch him on the shoulder. “Where do you get off, pretending to be parent of the century? You fucked off and left me to it. I brought our daughter up on my own.”

“And look where that got us. And I didn’t leave you to it. I sent money, a lot of money, every month.”

“There’s more to being a parent than flashing your wallet.”

Now he rolls over and sits up, too. “Better than flashing your tits at every passing paedophile. If you hadn’t been so busy bouncing on his cock you might have realised he actually fancied your little girl.”

“You’re disgusting!”

“What’s disgusting is you giving house room to that perverted freak. Were you really that desperate?”

I lose it. Totally and utterly lose it. How dare he suggest I was neglectful? That I didn’t care? I’ve done nothing but care since the day he walked out. I’ve struggled to bring up our daughter single-handed, sat up with her at nights, nursed her when she had chickenpox, saw her through her first day at school, the transition to secondary school with all the preteen angst that goes with it. I’ve been there, doing my level best, day in and day out, and all he can do is preach.

My hand moves almost of its own volition. I take a mighty swipe at him, all the pent-up fury, frustration, and sheer terror of recent days behind that blow. My slap catches him full across the left cheek, sending him backwards against the headboard with a clatter.

For a moment he just lays there, staring at me in disbelief. I’m almost as surprised as he is. I’ve never hit anyone before in my life, never as much as thought about it. Until he marched back into my world with all his pig-headed arrogance, taking over, yelling at me as though he’s some sort of great authority on child-rearing, I was an ordinary, law-abiding citizen. Now, I’m a murderer. Now I wipe my fingerprints off lift buttons and drive across the continent to meet with international cyber criminals on remote Hebridean islands. My daughter is missing, she could be lying in a ditch somewhere. I’m sick with worry, and all he can do is sneer at me. The bastard. The brutal, callous bastard.

I raise my hand to hit him again, but this time he’s ready for me, and quicker.

He snatches my wrist in mid-swipe and holds me there.

“Don’t,” he growls.

Our eyes lock. Venom, antipathy, all the festering acrimony and rage of the last ten years hovering between us like a living thing, writhing and twisting and spitting its fury. The resentment, the disappointment, the missed chances, and wasted hope. The lost years…

“Baz, I…”

“Julia, what the fuck…?” His voice has dropped another octave. He lifts his other hand to cup my jaw, his fingers gentle now. “How did we get to this?”

“I don’t know.” Tears stream down my cheeks. “I never…”

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