Deadly Obsession

by Nigel May

  It felt strangely satisfying. She felt somehow stronger, as if the expulsion of woe had been a mental boot camp for her soul, something that her body had needed to do, regardless of whether she had chosen to or not. Wiping the last teardrops away from her cheeks, Amy looked skywards again, as if to heaven beyond the clouds. Today she knew exactly what she needed to do. It didn’t include any of the players from the production she was currently starring in – the tragic tale of Riley Hart. No, today Amy needed to walk away.

  Walking into the bathroom, she turned the shower dial on the wall and watched as the jets of water burst into life. She let her nightdress, still sweat-soaked, fall to the floor and stepped into the water, ready to cleanse herself of all potential bleakness, if only for a few hours.

  * * *

  Having left a note for Grant at the hotel Reception, Amy hailed a cab and told the driver her desired destination. As the taxi pulled away from the kerb Amy looked through the window, slightly dirty from the polluted city air, at the snowflakes tumbling past. The snow was getting heavier. The TV report that morning had suggested that it wouldn’t last for long and would be unlikely to settle, but Amy enjoyed watching the flakes. It gave an added festive air to the many Christmas decorations already dressing the city.

  She focussed on the medley of people she could already see enjoying the early morning weather. Mothers, gloved hand in hand with their children, no doubt heading off to department stores in search of yet another Christmas gift, suited businessmen striding to their meetings, shop owners brushing away the flakes of would-be-mushy snow from outside their premises. The normality of it all was somewhat comforting and Amy let herself relax back into the softness of the back seat of the cab as she watched the outline of the city disappear behind her. Her eyelids felt heavy and she allowed them to close, the consistent hum of the motor acting as a lullaby in her ears.

  Amy must have dropped off, her fatigue taking her over. The next thing she heard was the voice of the cab driver informing her that they had reached her destination. She paid the man and asked if he could come back for her in two hours. She wanted some time to herself but she was aware that her destination was remote enough that she could not necessarily be guaranteed to find a cab later, especially given the time of year. The driver said he would be back at midday and she watched as he headed off.

  Amy had come to the village where her parents were buried. It was a place that she used to come to regularly but it was the first time she had been back since moving to London. It was a rundown yet peaceful spot not far from where her parents had raised her. There was something about it that seemed almost joyful to her.

  The cemetery surrounding the church was iced with a dusty frosting of snowfall, and it crunched ever so lightly underfoot as she walked to the plot where Enid and Ivor were buried. Her mind filled with happy memories of days gone by with her parents. Learning to ride her first bicycle, crying onstage when she’d played Mary in the nativity because she wanted to be one of the wise men as she liked their outfits more, country dancing for them at her school fete. Those days seemed to belong to another era now, one she could hardly relate to anymore. Yet a smile of happy reflection still spread itself across Amy’s face.

  Standing in front of their gravestones, Amy took off her gloves, placed her fingers to her mouth, kissed them and touched the two marble headstones, once for her mum and once for her dad. Her warm breath swirled in the cold air as she spoke, a simple, ‘Hello, it’s me’. No more was needed.

  Amy ran her hand across the top of the headstones, brushing away the small depth of snow that had gathered there. Kneeling down, she traced her fingers across the words engraved onto the front of the stones. ‘Forever In Our Thoughts, Joined In Peace’. For Ivor it read ‘Loving Husband and Father’, for Enid ‘Loving Wife and Mother’. Amy remembered how when the stones had first been placed, she and Riley had said that maybe one day they would be able to say that Enid and Ivor would have been loving grandparents too. It was such a shame that that would never happen. In her mind’s eye Amy could easily picture a baby boy, the image of his dad, bouncing on his grandfather’s knee, or a cherubic girl, ringletted and freckled, gazing into her grandmother’s eyes. Picture perfect but now a pipe dream. Three pieces of the family jigsaw were gone for good.

  Amy spent the next ninety minutes in quiet contemplation, tidying up the area around the graves as best she could, pushing away leaves and stray twigs. She ventured into the church, firstly to escape the bitter winter’s air for a few warming minutes – the snow may have stopped but the air was still icy – secondly, because she wanted to offer up a prayer. To pray for a solution to her woes, to give her the inner strength to find justice, at least for Laura if for nobody else. She was alone in the church. It felt light years away from the mayhem and the madness of all that had surrounded her over the past few months. The club, the casino, the arguments, the revelations – everything seemed to fade into the background. Albeit momentary, it was hugely welcome. Amy lost herself in its tranquillity.

  Amy checked her watch. It read ten to twelve. She needed to head back to the front of the church. The taxi would be here soon. She couldn’t risk missing it. She’d barely heard any kind of transport drive by since she’d first arrived.

  Pulling her coat tight around her, Amy walked through the gate at the front of the church and sat on a bench situated on the pavement. It had done her good to visit her parents’ graves. There was a calm weaving its way through her body that she hadn’t experienced for some time. Whatever the days ahead were going to throw at her, she was sure that it wouldn’t break her. She wouldn’t let it.

  The roads were eerily quiet, the only sound around coming from the flittering and tweeting of a robin redbreast, dancing its way around the graveyard, no doubt in search of a much-needed winter’s meal.

  Amy looked at her watch again. Five to twelve. As she stared at the face, a loud crack of noise filled the air. She jumped, startled. What was it? A car exhaust perhaps? Kids messing around with a new toy? But there was no-one in sight. There was something about it that sent a horribly familiar chilled ripple of fear through her veins.

  Again the noise sounded, this time a corner of the wooden bench she was seated on splintered as something impacted with it. There was no doubt in Amy’s mind as to what it was. Somebody was shooting a gun and unless she was very much mistaken, they were shooting it right at her. A third shot and another splintering of wood no more than six inches from her leg proved the point.

  Despite a stupefied feeling of momentary paralysis, Amy knew that she was a sitting duck and needed to run. To hide. This was no random teenager with an air pistol firing off a few arbitrary rounds. This was someone who wanted her blood.

  Or maybe they didn’t. Three shots and not one had hit her. Maybe they were a warning, a sign to back off. Either way, Amy wasn’t sitting there waiting for shot number four.

  Running as fast as her legs would carry her she sprinted from the bench, back through the gate and into the church. As she did so, she could hear the sound of a motorbike starting behind her. Looking around as she moved into the sanctuary of the building, Amy saw a leather-clad biker disappearing off out of sight. Amy was sure that whoever it was had been responsible for the gunshots. Had they followed her here, to the place where her parents were buried? To somewhere so private and personal to her? The thought made her see red. She could feel her skin prickle with rage. Somehow this had to end, but she couldn’t walk away now. If she did, then whoever was behind all of this would win. And that was something she couldn’t allow.

  Amy was still sheltered in the doorway of the church when her taxi driver turned up some fifteen minutes later. He wound the window down as she approached the car. ‘Sorry I’m late, love, there was some sort of roadblock on the main road getting out of town. I bet you’ve been bored stupid waiting. It’s as dead as a doornail round here.’

  Amy climbed into the back seat, her eyes still scanning in all directions. ‘You ha
ve no idea,’ she said ...

  42

  Now, 2015

  * * *

  Genevieve Peters had managed to do a lot of things in her relatively short life, but she could count the things that she was embarrassed about on one hand. And there was only really one of them that shamed her to her very core.

  Her one continual grown-up pitfall of shame. The one embarrassment that kept raising its ugly head, Kraken-like from the deep on a never-ending roundabout, was her drinking. Every now and again it would spiral out of control. And here it was again. For such a strong woman, how could Genevieve allow herself to be so pathetic time and time again?

  Shame gripped her as she stumbled into the front of her shop and picked up the keys that had been posted back through the letter box by Grant because she’d been too pissed to even stand. She nearly threw up as she bent to retrieve them.

  To the outside world she was supposedly the mean super bitch, dressed immaculately with a poison-dart sharpness and a business sense which had catapulted her to the top of her game. A woman who could be seated alongside Anna Wintour, Naomi Campbell and Alexa Chung during Fashion Weeks in Milan, New York, London, and do it with pride. But she knew the truth. Underneath it all, she was a mess. A drunken mess. It wasn’t a wagon that she chose to fall off very often but when she did, Genevieve could fall faster than a gangly-legged newborn deer. That did not make her proud. And the last few times she had fallen had all been caused by one thing. Or more to the point, one person, Riley Hart. He was behind her latest dive into insobriety. She knew that, even if he was seemingly pushing up the daisies.

  He’d been at the epicentre of her last major drunken incident too. God, incident, that underplayed it somewhat. If that incident had ended as Genevieve had originally planned then baby Emily may have ended up without a mother as well as a father. At least for a couple of decades while mother dearest resided at Her Majesty’s pleasure ...

  * * *

  Emily Peters was eight months old and had many of the things that any child could want from life. A beautiful crib, soft blankets, regular feeds. What she didn’t have was the love of a father figure, or, of course, the extra cash flow that a second parent could bring into any family.

  Sure, Genevieve had managed to keep her fashion business going more than successfully, even while she’d been secretly pregnant and if anything, business was better than ever, but she couldn’t help but smart every time she saw or heard or read about how well Riley Hart was doing. He was the father of her child, yet he wanted nothing to do with her and was determined that the world shouldn’t know.

  At first he had paid Genevieve for her silence, splashing out on rather beautiful if somewhat useless gifts like a rocking horse, a star in the night sky and a jewelled jack-in-the-box. Totally pleasant but equally pointless. Genevieve’s mum called it ‘fatherhood from afar’. Riley never called round to visit. At first Genevieve had been happy with the arrangement, determined to show Riley, as she could any man, that she was a survivor, a strong-minded female who was in control of everything in her life, including the unexpected and the unplanned. But rocking horses and stubborn feminism did not pay care assistant bills or buy never-ending supplies of nappies and baby food. Genevieve needed cold, hard cash.

  She’d tried asking for it on many occasions, turning up where she knew Riley would be – whether it be at work or play. Monthly child support payments weren’t too much to ask. Not from a man who was at the forefront of his chosen industry, even if that industry was snuffing out the lives of all those who put themselves in his way. He could afford to pay, that was for sure, but the more Genevieve asked, the more belligerent Riley appeared to become. He would not be held to ransom. That was clear. Any payments would be on his terms, as and when he chose. As the months went by his choice was swinging from once in a blue moon to not at all.

  A few weeks before the shootings at the Kitty Kat Club, Genevieve decided to take matters into her own hands. She’d been drinking in her office at the back of Eruption again, alone and brooding over the fact that she was desperate for Riley’s cash. His financial input would make motherhood, even her warped left-of-centre style of it, so much easier.

  The answer, as it often did, seemed to be sitting so clearly at the bottom of her whisky glass. She would fight Riley in the only way he would understand – with the threat of violence. Chancing her luck that Riley would more than likely be at the club given the early evening hour, Genevieve rooted around in her drawer, pulled out her gun and hailed a cab to the Kitty Kat. She’d heard from Lily Rich that Amy was enjoying a holiday with her friend Laura, so now was the perfect time to find Riley on his own. In her mind it was a case of do or die. Either he’d pay the cash or he’d pay with his life. Any consideration of the consequences of Emily growing up fatherless should Genevieve succeed with her plan was drowned in an ocean of alcohol.

  She arrived at the club to find Riley in his office. The timing was indeed perfect. He was alone, the cleaners clearing away the stains from the night before already gone and the staff for the night ahead’s entertainment still hours away. Riley was never pleased to see Genevieve lately as her arrival would always signify one of two things – she was either here to discuss all things fashion with Lily, or she was here to see him. From the stagger of her drunken walk and the sneer on her face, Riley guessed she was not in the mood for discussing oversize hats and sky-high heels.

  ‘I need to talk to you, Riley. You need to hear what I have to say,’ slurred Genevieve, trying to steady herself in the office doorway. ‘You and I need to talk ...’

  ‘Come back and see me when you’re sober, Genevieve,’ said Riley, barely looking up at the work from his desk. ‘But I’ve already said everything that I need to. I’ve made that clear.’

  His nonchalance and disregard towards her incensed her inwardly. She could feel her fingers twitching towards the gun housed in her trouser pocket.

  ‘What’s clear is that you and I have a daughter and that you don’t give me any money to help raise her. I want cash, Riley. You pay me regularly or I tell the world it’s your baby. And I know you don’t want that. So we do this my way or you get what’s coming to you. The law is on my side. Legally you owe me. Plus it’s the principal of you owning up to being a father.’ Her voice was loud yet trembling, a lethal mixture of anger and fear. She knew what Riley was capable of. Who was to say that he wouldn’t turn on her?

  ‘Since when have I have ever done anything legally? And keep your fucking voice down,’ barked Riley, his eyes looking beyond Genevieve, fearful that someone might hear. ‘If Amy or anybody finds out then you’ll never get a penny. I swear, Genevieve, don’t fucking push me ... you’re more than capable of bringing up that child on what you earn. Plus you really wouldn’t want to piss me off, would you? It would be so awful if something unforeseen happened to your home, your business, or if some accident was to tragically befall someone close to you. If your poor assistant suddenly lost an argument with a passing car, for example.’

  Genevieve had guessed that Riley would resort to making threats. ‘You don’t scare me,’ said Genevieve, her wobbling voice suggesting otherwise. ‘And besides, that’s not the point.’ It wasn’t all about cash for Genevieve. Sure, the money would make things easier, but making Riley cough up was more about gaining his respect. Making him learn that he had to take responsibility for his actions, listen to her demands. And gaining some self-respect as well.

  ‘Amy. That woman,’ scoffed Genevieve. ‘It’s all right for her, she’s been handed all of this thanks to you. Obedient little wife, playing with the musical toy given to her by her oh-so-rich husband.’ She circled her hands, indicating the club around them. ‘She’s never had to do a day’s work since meeting you. She just takes the money, organises her little dance nights and lets you fuck her when you’ve got time. She’s not got a clue has she? About what you do? Who you are? Who you’ve been shagging? What made all of this? Silly little bitch.’

  ‘You still
here?’ Riley’s tone was deliberately dismissive. The last thing he needed was some kind of lecture about how his marriage worked. One of the main plus points about his love for Amy was the fact that she just saw him as a human being, not some monstrous gangster. The divide between his personal and his professional life was something that Riley had always strived to keep as wide as possible. Besides, he wasn’t sure that Amy would have been able to handle it. She wasn’t like Genevieve – his former lover was an armour-plated piece of work. Strong. At this precise moment, far too strong and gobby for her own good.

  ‘I’m going nowhere, Riley, not until we sort this out.’ Her voice began to crack, emotion rising to the surface like oil on water. ‘You need to listen to me. You need to look at me. We’re equals you and I, Riley. We know how life works. You don’t piss me off. You can’t afford to. I mean it ... you don’t fuck with me.’

  It wasn’t until the word ‘fuck’ that Riley finally looked up from his desk again at the woman stood in front of him. He was a feared criminal for Christ’s sake. Nobody messed with him, not even the mother of his unwanted child. She needed telling. ‘Look, I’ve had enough of—’ His voice stopped suddenly as Genevieve pulled the gun from her pocket and aimed it no more than two feet away from his head. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he asked slowly.

  ‘You need telling, Riley. I’ve tried to be nice. I’ve asked time and time again. I want you to support Emily. Not with gifts like some sporadic drop-in dad. Not that you ever have dropped in. I want regular money. Decent pay outs. She’s not going away and neither am I. She’s your daughter. You need to start paying a lot more or … or else …’ The wobbling of the gun clutched in Genevieve’s sweating hand escalated as she spoke. She could feel herself spiralling out of control.