Obsession: A shocking psychological thriller where love affairs turn deadly

by Amanda Robson

  Please, Heather, go away, I need to be alone, I think to myself but don’t say. Instead, ‘Can I give you a lift home or would you like to stay over?’ slips out politely.

  When Heather has, much to my relief, plodded upstairs to the guest room, I pour myself a nightcap. After a few sips I remember Carly’s bag of possessions and make myself go and check them, before I forget. As I pull her phone out of the bag I see she has been texting Craig. Voyeuristic, I read not just the outgoing text, but the whole chain.

  THREE

  ~ Rob ~

  The crunch of bones and his face crumples beneath my fist, blood coagulating on my knuckles. Blood spurting. Blood being absorbed by his paisley silk dressing gown. His paisley silk dressing gown, dated but dapper. Craig staggers backwards, holding his nose.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ he asks.

  Blood seeps out of his mouth through his teeth, moving towards me in spittle.

  ‘To you she was just another in your long line of whores. To me she is special.’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate. Really I am.’ There is a pause. ‘She said you had an open marriage.’

  ‘An open marriage?’

  Her lie twists inside me like a knife.

  Craig is cleaning himself up with his handkerchief. How could she lie about something as sacred as this?

  ‘I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t really believe her. I didn’t want you to find out. This whole business has ruined my life. Are you going to let a bit of sex destroy all that you have?’

  My fist tightens. It takes all my strength and belief in the Lord to stop myself hitting him again.

  ~ Rob ~

  I have parked my car and am marching towards Carly’s ward, body pounding through the hospital, thumping through every doorway. Just as I pass the nurses’ station, one of them stops me.

  ‘The doctor’s with your wife at the moment. Please could you just wait in the holding area over there until he’s finished? And then he wants to see you.’ She waves her hand towards a small sofa opposite the nursing station.

  I hover hesitantly. ‘Can I get you a coffee or anything?’ the nurse asks.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Sitting in the waiting area. Nothing to do but watch the nurses. Paperwork. Nurses always doing paperwork. And I am just sitting here. No television, no magazines, no newspapers. Nothing to do but watch two nurses filling in forms. Sitting in the waiting room, my anger towards Carly rising like a volcanic eruption inside me. I get up. I start pacing up and down, trying to contain it, taking fifty paces south, fifty paces north, repeatedly, like a caged polar bear. I hear footsteps in the corridor. I look towards the sound. A man with a beer belly and pointed shoes is walking towards me. As he gets closer I see that his pointy shoes are not shoes but brown shiny boots made of crocodile skin. Crocodile skin is illegal, isn’t it? Now I realise the man with the cowboy boots is Carly’s consultant. Almost as soon as I’ve worked out who he is, he is standing in front of me, looking at me anxiously. I watch him swallow slowly before he speaks.

  ‘Dr Burton, I have carried out a preliminary assessment of Carly this morning and I am going to admit her to the assessment area of the psychiatric unit.’ I nod my head in nervous acceptance. Dr Willis continues. ‘But before we admit her fully to the unit, she needs a series of further tests and as such I would rather you didn’t visit her today,’

  I stiffen inside. Carly is my wife. I have always been beside her to look after her.

  ‘Why ever not?’ I ask sharply.

  ‘We need her to be as calm as possible.’

  Calm as possible. His words cut into me.

  ‘Are you saying she’s not calm when she’s with me?’ I ask, white-hot anger burning inside me.

  ‘Family visits do tend to excite patients with severe mental health issues.’

  Severe mental health issues. Severe. The worst news. I feel overwhelmed. Devastated.

  ‘So you think it’s severe?’ I whisper, as if I can’t bear to hear the word.

  ‘Yes. Undoubtedly,’ Dr Willis punches back.

  I feel faint. I want to sit down. I want to be anywhere but here. My discovery of yesterday seems almost irrelevant now, but then I remember the sordid pornography I read in those texts.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I say. I cough in embarrassment. ‘Do you think overt sexual behaviour may be part of her illness?’

  ‘Yes. Definitely.’ There is a pause as he readjusts his comb-over. ‘But I think aspects as sensitive as that need to be addressed at a much later stage. At the moment we are just treading water.’

  Treading water myself, I walk slowly away.

  ~ Carly ~

  My body is trapped in a hospital bed, with linen so clean that it cuts against my cheek. I am living in a world of white and grey that smells of antiseptic, wired up to so many machines that I cannot move. Watching and waiting. Watching. The patient next door and the patient across from me are both sitting up in bed to eat their breakfast. The patient opposite is banging the top of a boiled egg so hard that I imagine it is a head and she is trying to kill it. A tray of food hangs across my bed, but I can’t free my hands to eat it. Waiting. To see Rob. To see my family. I close my eyes and the sweet gentle fingers of sleep push towards me.

  Pinprick brown eyes pierce through a face of leather – a face of leather that is too close to me, asking me questions. Words ejaculate from my mouth. Words about Craig. About the size of his penis and the way he made me come. About the Travelodge. Time has gone into freefall.

  The drugs trolley rattles down the ward. We are all panting for it. The lights are out and everybody is talking loudly. Morning bustle. Curtains opened by a starchy nurse with a smile like vinegar. Lunch. Afternoon tea weak as water served in green pottery cups. Rich Tea biscuits.

  Visitors. Pippa staring at me, wide-eyed. My mother holding my hand, face permed with a frown. And Rob. Always Rob. Holding my hand. Kissing me on the cheek. Smelling of home.

  ~ Rob ~

  Jenni is sitting opposite me at her kitchen table, engulfing me with her candy-store eyes; fudge brownie mixed with vanilla.

  ‘You made quite a mess of Craig’s face,’ she says, her voice matter-of-fact, not critical.

  ‘I know,’ I say, remembering the feel of his nose crushing beneath my fist. ‘And what worries me most is that I’m not even sorry.’

  Her eyes darken for a second.

  ‘He came here for a clean-up. And to tell me the truth before I heard it from you. He might as well not have bothered. I already knew.’

  Her words run through me like an electric current.

  ‘Already knew?’

  ‘Yes. I sensed it ages ago from the look on Carly’s face when she spoke to me about Craig’s affair.’ Jenni’s face is laced with sadness. ‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you and your family to be hurt as well.’ She pauses, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Rob. Really I am. I just didn’t want you to go through the hell I’ve been through.’

  If Jenni knew, how could I have not noticed? What else have I missed? Is it because of my lack of empathy that Carly became so ill? Should my preoccupation with the surgery no longer be a matter of pride, but a source of regret?

  Jenny leans across the table and takes my hands in hers.

  ‘For me it was the worst pain,’ she says. ‘Worse than anything. Worse than losing my mother.’ There is a pause. ‘I can’t forgive Craig.’

  She starts to cry, as if my pain has opened her wounds again. Her tears sear into me.

  ‘Can you forgive Carly?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, Jenni, I hope so,’ I reply. ‘If I can’t, it will be the end of me.’

  ~ Carly ~

  I am dressed. Nowadays that passes for progress. Dressed and walking in the patients’ garden, surrounded on all sides by the four wings of the hospital; buildings so tall that the gardens don’t get enough sunlight. Benches and grass. Fleshy-leaved bushes. Willow trees. Several patients sitting outside
in their hospital dressing gowns, sitting alone at separate benches, staring at the air in front of them. Air that smells fresh and sweet. It has been raining and a thrush pecks at the grass, hunting for worms. I look up. A plane scrapes through the sky miles above me, leaving a chalky trail in its wake. I envy the people in the plane their freedom to go where they want. The captive freedom of being in transit. I sigh inside. I ask myself, how long have I been here?

  Weeks.

  Weeks that feel like years.

  I look at my watch. Almost visiting time. Time to go inside and wait. Along a magnolia corridor with no windows, shoes clicking across plastic tiling, all the way back to my room. My room is too small to put many clothes in; it contains a wooden plank disguised as a bed, and a chair that looks like a hand-me-down from an old people’s home. Plus the flowers that Rob bought me last week.

  I sit in my chair by the window, stomach tightening in anticipation, trying to read a self-help book on depression. But I can’t concentrate. The self-help book tells me that lack of concentration is a symptom of depression. But how can depression self-help books be of any use if patients can’t concentrate enough to read them? I close the book, distracted by every sound that passes in the corridor. Every scuffle of feet, every word, every whisper could be my family.

  The door is opening and they are finally here. I stand up and Rob is taking me in his arms, smelling of antiseptic and aftershave, wrapping his arms around me and comforting me. Making the world go away. My mother is waiting behind him for her turn.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, I’ve made a tank for you,’ Matt says, holding out two cardboard boxes stuck together, one painted red, one blue, powder paint flaking off in scabs.

  I disentangle myself from Rob to accept my present.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, placing it on my bedside cabinet.

  ‘Mine’s a Dalek,’ John says holding his model out.

  Silver foil and pipe cleaners. I put it on the bed as there is no room on the bedside cabinet.

  ‘Fantastic.’

  Two more ornaments for the ward’s TV lounge.

  Pippa stands in front of me, blonde hair falling in ringlets on her shoulders, hands on hips.

  ‘I’ve been too busy looking after everyone to make models,’ Pippa says with a shrug. I almost cry. Everybody else laughs.

  ~ Rob ~

  Bone-achingly exhausted, I fall asleep at the start of the Sunday church service as I am praying, nodding off in the kneeling position, my forehead resting on the pew in front of me. The movement of the congregation standing for the first hymn wakes me and I open my eyes to find that the children have gone to Sunday school, leaving me at the front of the church without them, inhaling the scent of incense and hymn books.

  By the time we reach the sermon it washes over me, the vicar’s words running together, floating above me. The congregation blurs. Kindly mid-life faces. Tired, bent, elderly people. Never enough youngsters, not even now with our trendy new vicar to attract them. Madonna and child look down from the high window behind the altar. The vicar’s voice continues. Because I have missed the thread of what he is saying, for once I am bored. I am not usually bored, you know that, Lord, don’t you? Usually the vicar’s words push towards me with relevance and energy. But not today. I reach for the bible on the shelf in front of me. It falls open at a well-thumbed page: Corinthians 13. Wedding special. Jenni’s favourite. Everybody’s favourite.

  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

  Love never fails.

  I look up. The vicar, dressed in one of his finest vestments, a robe of white silk embroidered with gold, is beginning the Eucharistic prayer. Refreshed from my catnap, and my reading, I pay attention now as he moves towards communion. My love for the Lord, for his sacrifice, is burning inside me with a deep-rooted energy, sustaining and emboldening me. I am longing to eat and drink the body and blood of Christ. To imbibe my share of eternity.

  When my turn to take communion finally comes, an usher standing at the end of my pew, inviting me to come forwards, I find myself moving into the aisle behind Jenni, who turns to me and smiles.

  Too friendly, Jenni. Too friendly.

  I lower my eyes and walk behind her to the altar – step by step towards communion. Behind hair of polished chestnut, behind slender shoulders, step by step between the choir stalls, the choir singing a psalm and watching us.

  When we finally reach the altar, Jenni kneels to my left. I kneel next to her. Hands knotted together and clasped to my chest, I close my eyes and pray. Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to take the sacrament. I feel you, Jenni, praying next to me. I feel your love for the Lord and the pulse of your breathing in time with my own. I open my eyes and turn my head to look at you, kneeling next to me, accepting a wafer in your palms and slowly, slowly, reverently, reverently, lifting it to your mouth. Your red cherry mouth.

  At the end of the service, weaving out through the tardy congregation who are laughing and chatting, enjoying their weekly greetings, trying to move towards my children who will be waiting at the church exit, Jenni, you sidle up to me from nowhere.

  ‘How’s Carly?’ you ask.

  ‘Not too bad, thank you.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very positive.’

  ‘Well, I need to be patient.’

  ‘How’s that going?’

  ‘That depends which way you look at it.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean, Rob?’

  You put your hand on my arm, and lean towards me. Put those eyes away, Jenni. The children find us. Pippa and the Gospels, bouncing around our feet, demanding to go to each other’s houses.

  Put those eyes away, Jenni. And those cherry red lips.

  ~ Carly ~

  I am up and dressed, sitting in my chair, feeling so much better, so much better than I ever imagined possible. Although my consultant, Dr Willis, counsels me to go slowly.

  ‘Slowly. Slowly,’ he says to me, dragging the word to make his point.

  My family’s visits are like liquid gold. Pippa continues to amuse everyone by pretending to be in charge of the household while I am gone. Maybe it is more than pretending. Pippa Burton, aged eight now, calls herself the housemistress, Rob laughs as he tells me. One evening when he returned from the surgery she had collected all the dolls, soft toys and figures she could find from around the house and placed them in rows on her bedroom floor. She was standing in front of them, waving her index finger and lecturing them on sharing chores and time-management.

  ‘What do you think she’ll be when she grows up? A monster or a management consultant?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ I ask, and laugh as he takes me in his arms and kisses me.

  ‘Carly, I can’t wait to have you back. I miss you.’

  There is a split second when I know from the look in his eyes that he means it, just a small moment before my doubts move towards me again.

  ‘Pippa will add me to her collection, put me in her room and lecture me,’ I say, continuing the joke to distract me from the darkness that still hovers over me.

  ‘Pippa lectures everyone. She’s even been to advise her headmistress lately.’

  ‘What did she say to her?’

  Rob’s face furrows a little as he pushes to remember, then, ‘She told her to tighten up school security,’ he said.

  ‘Why did she need to do that?’

  ‘She thinks if the school gate is left open too long at pick-up and drop-off, the reception class who don’t know any better could run away if they wanted.’

  ‘What’s made her worry about that? Do you think she’s been thinking about trying to escape?’

  ‘She’s just a busybody.’

  ‘Don’t say “like her mother”.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to!’

  A pretty busybody with her blonde curls and a heart-shaped face. Last time I saw her she said to me, ‘If you’re not home in time
for my birthday, Mummy, I will sue the consultant.’

  Sue the consultant? Where has she learnt to speak like that? From school? From the television? The boys are terrified of her.

  Every time I see the boys, tottering towards me down the ward, carrying chocolates and flowers, paintings from school, full of news, full of Luke and Mark’s puppy, my heart breaks in two. They sit either side of me on my bed and snuggle up. I pull them towards me and place their cheeks against mine. I inhale the feel of young skin. The scent of new life.

  ‘When you come home, can we have a puppy too?’

  ‘Sorry, boys. I’m allergic to dogs.’

  ‘Is that why you’re in hospital?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ Matt asks.

  ‘You have an illness, like flu, only it’s in the head,’ John informs me. ‘That’s what Daddy says.’

  ‘Daddy should know, he’s a doctor,’ Pippa says. ‘He’s right, isn’t he, Mummy?’

  ‘Daddy’s always right.’

  Pippa stands in her command position, hands on hips, head on one side.

  ‘Don’t exaggerate. Tell the truth or you’ll never get better, Mummy.’

  My stomach tightens. So many truths. So many issues. So many private sessions with my consultant in his room at the end of the corridor.

  White noise. Vanilla scent. Dr Willis sitting opposite me. Listening. Listening. Listening. When I stop talking, he questions me again. About Rob. About Craig. About Jenni. A barbed wire contortion of problems, knotted together like a fist. Sex addiction. Alcohol addiction. Confidence issues. Issues about Rob and Jenni. Bitch-whore Jenni.

  Jenni. Jenni. Jenni. Deep breath. Say her name again. Jenni. You need to let her go. That is what Dr Willis and I practise most. Letting Jenni go. I lie on the couch in his consulting room and inhale and exhale. Every time I exhale I let her go. I have her picture in my wallet taken on a day out together a few years ago. I look at it every night and every morning. Dr Willis, I am doing well.