Page 8 of Savage Obsession

My flight was a red eye, changing at Milan. I haven’t slept for over twenty-four hours, and I could check in to a hotel and catch some sleep, but I just want to get to my ex-wife’s house as soon as possible. Bleary-eyed and cursing the doddery old folk in front of me, I queue up at the bureau de change and buy some Polish currency. A grand’s worth should do, for now. I stumble out of the airport and flag down a taxi before switching my phone out of flight mode.

I bark out the address, then check for any updates, either from Kristian or Julia. There’s nothing from either.

I could phone Julia, but I’ll be there within half an hour, so it hardly seems worth it. Instead, I try Kristian. He doesn’t answer, the first time in as long as I can remember. I take that as a sign he’s still pissed off.

Am I fired? It certainly sounded like it. Difficult to imagine any other outcome, given I disobeyed a direct order. That’s a cardinal sin, and men have died for less. For all I know my boss and oldest friend might have already ordered a hit on me.

I survey the passing scenery, such as it is. Drab, grey, glistening in the chilly mid-morning drizzle. Does the weather here never improve? All I ever remember of Poland is the cold, the damp, the fucking depression of it.

Fields give way to an urban environment, and if it were possible that’s even more sombre than the farmland. Squat, industrial buildings, down-at-heel neighbourhoods, shops displaying wares that even the most poverty-stricken of Tenerife residents would turn their noses up at. Is everything here grey?

We sweep past the streets of my old neighbourhood. Smarter than average, at least the houses here are well-kept, neat, home to the more prosperous of Warsaw’s citizens. I recall our neighbours tended to be lawyers, financiers, the occasional doctor. And mobsters, of course.

“This the place, sir?” my driver asks, slowing down in front of an end-of-terrace home with a swing in the garden.

I remember erecting that swing just before I left and holding Lily in the seat as she whooped with delight.

Does she still use it?

“Yes. Thank you.” I hand over a five hundred zlotych note and exit the vehicle, leaving the driver stammering his thanks.

He pulls away, and I stride down the front path, pausing to observe the pile of junk outside the front door. Four black bags, golf clubs, and what looks to be a brand-new Nintendo Switch.

I briefly consider letting myself in. I still have a key. But instead, I lift my hand and knock.

Julia opens the door within moments. “It’s you. I hoped…”

“Have you heard from her?”

She shakes her head and steps back to invite me in.

The hallway is brighter than I remember. She’s painted it white, laid a new carpet and hung a large mirror on one wall, which makes it seem more spacious. Julia was always good at making the best of what she had, with one notable exception.

Me.

We somehow brought out the very worst in each other. Not in bed, that was off-the-scale good, and of course, our beautiful daughter made everything else seem worthwhile, for a few months at least. The rest was toxic. One screaming match after another. She’d throw things, I’d retreat in sullen silence.

By the time I finally left, we could barely stand the sight of each other. The sex was non-existent, and even Lily was subdued. That’s what finally did it for me.

I wanted a clean break, but not from my kid. Who does that anyway? A child is for life. So, I sent money, Lily needn’t want for anything. As I earned more, I sent more. Julia has never asked me for anything. She didn’t need to. And I sent cards for Lily, at Christmas and on her birthday. Presents, too. A doll, a bike, one year I arranged for a firm to build a tree house in the back garden. I wonder if it’s still there. Then I realised I’d no idea what a growing girl might want so I started a bank account for her instead and put cash in there each year.

I know that’s the money she’s using now. Julia said she took her bankbook, so I naturally checked the account and found she withdrew a thousand zlotych on the day she disappeared. I do a quick mental calculation. That’s about two hundred in Sterling, two hundred and fifty in euros.

I take off my overcoat and sling it over the newel at the foot of the staircase. I regard Julia properly for the first time.

The years have been good to her. She was always a stunner, but now, she’s…simply beautiful.

“You look well,” I observe.

“You, too. Good flight?”

I nod. “You having a clear out?”

“What?”

I jerk my chin in the direction of the door. “The bags outside.”

“Oh, yes,” she mutters. “Just some old junk.”

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