by Marian Phair
Melissa moved round, pushing in front of him, leaning back against the bonnet of the limousine. She lifted her dress, exposing herself to him. Enrico was losing his erection. Melissa reached out, taking his penis in her hand; she rubbed its head against her moist vulva. She pulled Enrico’s head down to hers and said softly in his ear, “Wouldn’t you rather have the real thing?”
His answer was to pull at the bodice of her dress and she felt it tear under his hand. His mouth came down on her breast, nibbling and sucking at the nipple. Without saying a single word to her, he hoisted her onto the bonnet, spreading her legs as he did so. Holding her open with one hand and his penis in the other, he entered her savagely.
Dr Samuel Morrison drove up to the house and parked his Jaguar at the steps of the veranda, taking them two at a time. He let himself into the house. Melissa’s telephone call had been short and nothing could be gleaned from it. It had unsettled him; he had to find out what happened to Amie for himself. Everything depended on him keeping tabs on her to the end. Calling out Melissa’s name as he entered, he tried again, still getting no response. He went in search of her, the house seemed empty, but surely someone was here!
Using the lift he went up to Melissa’s rooms, where he found the sleeping Peter, but no sign of Melissa. She was nowhere in the apartment.
He checked Amie’s rooms, again drawing a blank, and then made his way downstairs. Melissa was not in the library, or the lounge. He went into the dining room, seeing the packages on the table and her empty glass. Melissa’s cigarettes and lighter were on the table beside the bar, so he knew she was around somewhere. Where the hell was everyone! He would see if the chauffer was around, Enrico would know, since he lived on the premises. He left the house, going round the back of it and noticed there was a light on in the garage. “Well someone’s about” he muttered to himself.
Dr Sam was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes, when he stepped through the garage door. For a moment he stood rooted to the spot, watching the scene played out before him.
Melissa, her eyes closed, was lying spread-eagled on the bonnet of the limousine, with Enrico Garcia, massaging her breasts and thrusting his huge penis back and forth inside her, faster, and faster, as he was reaching his climax. Melissa was raising her hips up to meet his thrusts, begging him not to stop. She cried out as wave after wave, her climax rippled through her body. Enrico’s followed, his buttocks clenching and unclenching, as he pumped his seed into her.
With a howl of rage, Dr Sam ran across the garage and dragged Enrico off Melissa, taking him completely by surprise and knocking him to the floor. Pulling Melissa off the limousine, he slapped her hard across the face.
“You dirty whore,” he said, “You would open your legs for any Tom, Dick, or Harry.”
He was so enraged he hit her again, back- handing her across the mouth, his signet ring splitting her lip. Flicking out her tongue Melissa tasted the salty, iron taste of blood pouring from her split lip.
Enrico got to his feet, yanking his trousers up over his bare buttocks and shoving his flaccid manhood into them he made a dash for the garage door, leaving Melissa to her fate.
Melissa stood with her back against the garage wall, fear lending her courage. “At least he HAS a cock, he can satisfy a woman, unlike you with your ‘needle-dick’,” she taunted him, “I will make sure I have his cock in me every chance I get and I will love every minute of it and I will make bloody sure he loves it too.” She knew she had hurt him with that remark, which was her intention and she wanted to hurt him even more.
“You don’t own me, don’t ever forget that,” she spat out her words at him,
“You’ve blackmailed me into playing your sick little games, and it’s gone on long enough. I played out your silly sex games, but it ends here, I am not afraid of you anymore, nothing you do or say, can hurt me now.” Melissa wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.
Dr Samuel Morrison stood trembling with rage, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He loved her so much, yet he wanted to kill her!
He could not bear to think of her with another man, not even her husband, let alone a greasy spic’, which is how he saw Enrico Garcia.
“You frigging whore, I got rid of your unwanted babies for you.” He hissed at her through clenched teeth. His rage building up inside him, he could not get the image out of his head of the two locked in a sexual embrace. He could still hear crying out to Enrico, not to stop.
“If I had only known then what you were really like, I would never have rid you of your bastards,” he said, beside himself with bitterness and rage.
“I will tell the world about ‘precious’ Melissa Proctor.” He threatened her, spittle flying from his mouth and settling on his beard. “How do you think your public will react, when they learn the idol they pay to watch on the silver screen, is nothing but a dirty whore, who ‘murders’ the babies she carries, each time she finds herself pregnant, by whoever is shagging her at the time, you tell me that, you bitch.” He stood panting after his tirade.
Melissa taunted him, “Go ahead, tell them, and while you’re at it, you can tell them, that the last baby you aborted from me, was your own child.”
He was advancing towards her, when her words stopped him dead in his tracks. She saw the look of disbelief on his face and then he gave a half-laugh.
“You don’t fool me with that remark,” he said, “I always wore a condom and after what I saw tonight, I am glad I did, who knows what disease I could catch from a whore like you.” He felt his confidence coming back, he would make her pay for what she had done to him, and make her pay dearly.
“You were not wearing a condom when you raped me, you bastard,” She spat at him, “Think on that. Have you known me to have a period since that time? You have been at it like a rabbit with me, just about every day. You should know, after the last abortion, I went back on the pill.” She could see her words had hit home and she was glad.
It had never occurred to him until now when she mentioned it; it had never been ‘the wrong time of the month’. It was, as she said, they had sex at every available opportunity, since that day, at least twice a week. He felt bile rising up into his throat, threatening to choke him. He took one look at her bitter twisted face and knew she was telling the truth.
Melissa moved away from the wall, as Dr Sam fell to his knees, pale and shaking. She stepped past him, knowing it was finally over between them and in a way she felt sad about it. He looked so pitiful, kneeling there on the dusty concrete floor, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked old and defeated. He never looked up as she left the garage.
Melissa went past the Lotus and up the veranda steps, her feet feeling leaden. She was so tired, her face hurt where he had slapped her. She gently touched her fingers to her swollen lips. The blood had dried on them forming a brown crust. She needed a nice long soak in the bathtub, but most of all, she needed a drink.
Dr Sam slowly got to his feet his eyes falling on the pornographic magazine on the floor. It had fallen open at a page, depicting a woman bent over the bonnet of a car, with a man entering her from behind. With a sob of rage, another picture entered his mind, Melissa and Enrico Garcia, enjoying each other’s body, over the bonnet of the limousine. It was over, he had lost her. If he could not have Melissa, he would make sure no other man would ever enjoy her again. The seeds of murder were sown in his mind.
He sat behind the wheel of the Jaguar, as it sped along the winding country road towards Tarragona. His fury at Melissa’s betrayal, being slowly replaced by his need for revenge, as the car ate up the miles; he sat coldly planning her murder.
By the time he reached his clinic, a plan had been formed. He would use her last scene on the film set, to be rid of her for good. He had to figure a way to get past security, to gain access to the car, used in the ‘death’ scene.
He would need time to fix the steering wheel and to cut the brake cable, without getting caught. It would have to be don
e the night before the final shoot, when all the last safety checks had been done. Damn! He had to figure a way of doing this.
It came to him in a flash, he would enlist help from the inside, and he knew the very man to approach for that. He smiled secretly to himself, yes, he thought, sometimes it pays to be in my line of work.
The young mechanic on the set owed him, big time and for a price and a bit of ‘friendly persuasion’ he could get him to work on the car. It was perfect, no one would give a second look at a mechanic, supposedly going about his business and there would be absolutely no risk to himself. He would make sure nothing could be traced back to him.
He parked in the little side street, to the rear of his premises and made his way on foot, letting himself in through a small side door. He crossed the courtyard to the steps, taking them two at a time to the door of his clinic.
Ellen Rodriquez, his practice nurse, had collected his mail. It lay in a neat pile on her desk to be dealt with after the Christmas holiday.
Ignoring it, he entered his office, securing the door behind him. Going over to his desk, he reached for the telephone, putting his plan into action.
In his mind’s eye, he pictured himself being called upon as the doctor on set, bending over Melissa’s beaten, bloody corpse, with a suitable expression on his face. The thought gave him pleasure, revenge would be sweet.
He pictured his signature on the Death Certificate, writing under the cause of death………ACCIDENTAL!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Amie stood at the empty taxi rank, shivering in her thin clothes. It was freezing cold after the warm Spanish sunshine. She stamped her feet and blew her warm breath into her hands, rubbing them together before cradling her arms and tucking them under her armpits, trying to bring some warmth back into them.
Twenty minutes had passed with no sign of a taxi and she was the only person waiting around in the cold. Picking up her luggage, she decided to walk to the village, Sidney had told her was just a little over a mile away, rather than stand around in the freezing cold.
The sign post at the end of the road, pointed right to Belfast. Amie took the left hand fork, to her destination. She could not be certain there would be buses running, so close to Christmas, but there must be some form of transport, that would take her to the convent.
As she walked, it felt as if she would never get there. The suitcase was heavier than she thought; she had to keep setting it down, stopping for a short rest, to catch her breath. At least she felt warmer now she was on the move. To keep herself motivated, she played a little game as she went. Carrying her suitcase in her left hand while she covered the distance to a telegraph pole, then pausing for a few seconds to rest and catch her breath, then carrying it with her right hand, to the next pole, until finally, she reached the village.
The first building she came to, according to the sign over the door, was O’Reilly’s public house. It was probably the best place to ask for information.
Amie climbed the two short steps to its entrance and opening the door was greeted by a blast of heat from the log fire, burning brightly in the hearth across the room from the bar.
Heads turned in her direction and conversation stopped, while the locals eyed the stranger in their midst. Amie set her luggage down beside the door, aware of the eyes following her. She went over to the fireplace and held her hands out to the heat, trying to get some life back into them.
A voice said, “Here lass, you can have my seat, get yourself warm, you look done in.” Turning her head Amie saw an elderly man clutching a pipe in one hand and a glass of ale in the other. He inclined his head towards the stool he had just vacated, beside the fire. With a smile of thanks, she took up his offer and sat for a while gazing into the fire, grateful for its warmth.
The conversations were taken up again around her, now that their initial curiosity was satisfied. Coming over to her, the landlord asked if he could get her anything to drink.
“I would dearly love a cup of tea,” she told him, “but I guess that is out of the question, seeing as this is a public house, so, it will have to be orange juice, thank you.” Amie rose from the stool and went to follow him to the bar, but he waved her back to her seat.
“I will bring your drink over to you, you just sit where you are,” his glance going from her swollen stomach, to her ringless fingers.
The heat from the fire was making her drowsy, and she moved the stool further back from it, noting that the old man who had given her the seat, was sitting nearby and studying her closely. Amie felt like a specimen under a microscope.
“You’re not from round these parts, are you?” he asked her, removing the pipe from his mouth, and cupping it in his hand, “I know most of the folk within a forty mile radius of this place. I was a postman for thirty years before retiring, and I know I have never come across you before,” he told her between puffs on his pipe.
“I used to live on Craig Island, on upper Lough Erne, but recently I have been living and working in Spain,” Amie told him, making polite conversation.
The landlord returned and to Amie’s surprise, he was carrying a tray, which he set down on the table beside her.
“Help yourself lass,” he said, “the missus fixed you up with this.” On the tray was a large delft teapot, a small jug of milk, a sugar bowl, a mug and a side plate containing two slices of buttered soda bread. Amie reached for her purse, smiling at him, in delight. He waved the money she offered him aside. He lifted an empty beer glass, out of the way and moved the tray closer.
“It’s on the house,” he told her, “ it’s hard to beat a drop of tay, at any time of the day, and the missus makes the best soda bread in these parts, ain’t that right Michael?.” The old postman agreed with him, then held a calloused hand out to Amie.
“The name’s Michael Mulligan and this is Tim O’Reilly, the landlord of this illustrious establishment. They all shook hands.
“Amie Richardson,” she told them, introducing herself.
Michael Mulligan proceeded to tell the landlord that Amie was from Craig Island in Lough Erne.
“So, you are a Fermanagh girl.” Tim O’Reilly said, looking at Amie from under his bushy grey eyebrows, a twinkle in his brown eyes, and a half smile playing round his lips, “and from Craig Island, you say?, Sure I know it well.” He was quiet, for a moment or two, staring pasted her, his eyes taking on a dreamy quality. He was back on the shores of Lough Erne, pushing his boat out into its waters, in the twilight.
Michael took up the conversation, “Craig Island, isn’t that in the upper Lough, where you told me Jimmy and your good self, fished for eels?” said Michael, addressing his question to Tim, “that would have been after the accident and you went to live in Antrim town, with your sister Mary.” Michael looked up at Tim watching his face.
Amie did not know if he was asking Tim O’Reilly a question, or stating a fact. Her heart felt lighter being in the company of someone who actually knew that part of the country.
“Aye, that would be the one.” Tim replied, breaking his reverie.
“Do you know many people from around those parts?” Amie asked him, wondering if Tim had known any of her family.
“Aye indeed, sure I lived not too many miles away from Craig Island, in a place called Wattle Bridge, a wee bit outside of Newtownbutler, if you know where that is?,” he asked her.
“Indeed I do,” Amie replied, “maybe you knew my family? my grandmother Daisy Williams…..
“Holy mother of God!” His words cutting her off in mid-sentence, “are you telling me you are the granddaughter of Jimmy Williams?”
Tim O’Reilly stared at Amie a look of disbelief on his craggy face.
She nodded her head at him asking, “Did you know my grandfather then?”
“Aye, and your grandmother,” he said, “She is one of the finest women in the whole of Fermanagh.”
“Was,” Amie corrected him, “she died of a heart attack a few months ago.”
“I’m sor
ry to hear that lass. My God it’s a small world, and it’s shrinking every day.” Tim pulled up a stool, seating himself down next to Amie.
“Throw another log or two on the fire Michael and give it a bit of a stir, while I take in what this lass is telling me, it’s a bit of a shock alright.”
Amie sat looking at Tim and sipping her tea, between mouthfuls of delicious soda bread. Tears came into Tim O’Reilly’s eyes and ran unashamed down his weather beaten cheeks. So, this lovely looking lass sitting beside him around the fire, was old Jimmy’s granddaughter. Tim studied her face, while trying hard to compose himself, clearing his throat and swiping at the tears on his face.
“Yes, I can see a lot of your grandmother in you, you have the same wayward curly auburn hair,” Tim told her.
Amie could only remember Daisy’s hair as being grey. She had seen a black and white photograph of her grandmother as a young woman. In it she was wearing a smart looking suit and a hat, which covered most of her hair. She was standing outside a church, holding a bunch of flowers, a huge grin on her pretty face.
“Your Grandfather Jimmy was a fine man. He took me under his wing, after my own father died, when I was a slip of a lad.” Tim gave a deep sigh, and took his handkerchief from his trouser pocket, blowing his nose into it. He gave it a good wipe, the tears welling up again.
Amie poured a second mug of tea, from the large brown teapot, giving the task her full attention, allowing Tim O’Reilly to recover his composure. She felt uncomfortable at his emotional reaction, when he discovered who she was, not knowing what to say to him.
“Your grandfather taught me to catch eels,” he told her, “I would go out with him every day on the Lough. We would rise early, then, after a mug of Tay and a bite to eat, we would set off in the boat to lift the eel line. Jimmy would do the lifting, while I rowed the boat.”
