Obsession: A shocking psychological thriller where love affairs turn deadly

by Amanda Robson

  ‘The nurse says you asked to see me.’

  I pull my eyes from his boots.

  ‘Yes.’ I pause. ‘Now I’ve come round properly, and I’m gaining my strength, I want to tell you that I’m certain Jenni Rossiter tried to poison me.’

  The frown in his eyes tells me that he doesn’t believe me.

  ‘How?’ he asks.

  ‘She put something in the wine I drank just before I collapsed.’

  ‘Did you see her do this?’ he asked, leaning back in the thin plastic hospital chair.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how do you know?’

  His lips are thin and tight, as if he is trying to stop himself from treating me to a critical smirk. I feel like treating him to a punch in the nose to make him see sense.

  ‘How do you know this?’ he repeats.

  ‘I just do.’

  He raises his eyes to the sky, not bothering to disguise his exasperation now.

  ‘That won’t go very far with the police.’

  A headache is starting to splinter through my head, but nothing is going to stop me from dealing with this properly. So I ignore the pain, and say,

  ‘Dr Willis, no one has ever believed me about Jenni, and after everything that has happened you still won’t believe me now. But regardless of what you think of my medical condition, I have a right to speak to the police.’ I pause. Then I raise the volume of my voice a little. ‘I am demanding to see the police. I want you to get them to visit me.’

  I clench my fist and bang it onto the insubstantial swinging tray in front of me. My water glass falls over and spills onto my bedclothes, Dr Willis grabs some tissues from my bedside table and dries it up as much as he can. Then he steps away from the bed and looks down at me, eyes hard with concern.

  ‘I will call the police to come and see you. But this is what I think, Carly. We took a blood test when you came in and you were pumped up with your usual problems: Valium and alcohol. I think you took it before you went to see Jenni.’ He pauses for breath. ‘And you know paranoia has always been a large part of your problem. You can’t blame Jenni for that.’

  I shake my head. Tears of exasperation are pricking in the corner of my eyes. My cracking headache is getting worse. But still I push through, through pain and exasperation, and say in a loud strident tone,

  ‘Just because I’ve suffered mental illness doesn’t mean I have no rational judgement. It doesn’t mean that everything I say should be minimised.’

  ‘Carly, I’m not trying to minimise you.’

  I eyeball him as hard as my exploding headache will allow.

  ‘You may not be trying to – but you are.’

  ~ Craig ~

  Anastasia and I are going for a quick coffee after school drop-off and my stomach is full of butterflies. A feeling I rather like. I have never felt so young and innocent in all my life, even when I was. I feel fresh, untainted. As if my life is just starting. All because I’ve met Anastasia Donaldson.

  She mentioned coffee casually as we walked across the car park. I almost dropped Luke’s hand. Afterwards on the way home I started worrying about whether he’d heard us. I don’t want him mentioning it to Jenni. Anastasia and I are only friends. There is nothing for Jenni to know. So later on in the evening I was wily. At bath time (it’s always bath time now before Jenni gets home), I played a silly game – guess what Daddy’s doing tomorrow. Thankfully Luke hadn’t cottoned on.

  After the children have been dutifully deposited, Anastasia and I drive to a hotel she likes called The Old Coastie. It is perched on the coastal path, on the outskirts of Trethynion, away from prying eyes. It’s not that we’re getting up to anything, we’re not even flirting, but the school-gate mums are such gossips, so good at misinterpreting. She drives ahead in her Range Rover. I follow her in my car. We wind down country lanes for a few miles until we pull off to the left, into the long driveway of the hotel. Here the vegetation changes. The lane is lined with rhododendrons, so old they are as big as trees. It’s February now; they are bulging with heavy buds, waiting to burst into flower in the spring.

  We arrive. We park our cars next to each other beneath a gnarled old oak tree that stands in the corner of the car park. As we walk together towards the hotel my hand touches hers by mistake.

  The Old Coastie is very sophisticated. Far more sophisticated than the sort of places I usually go to with Jenni. Jenni likes vegetarian cafés with small wooden rackety tables that serve chopped-up salads full of ingredients I do not recognise. If it is my turn to choose we visit a chain that serves pizza or good value steak. Or the Old Boathouse. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth remembering my last conversation with Jenni there.

  Anastasia and I step into The Old Coastie holding hands. Holding hands feels comfortable. The first thing I notice is how peaceful it is. It’s only 9:30 in the morning and not many people are here, just an elderly couple on a sofa by the open fire, and a young woman drinking a latte and reading the newspaper. At this time in the morning I would expect it to be quiet, but there is something settled about the room, about the cracked leather chairs, the long polished table laden with newspapers and glossy magazines, something that tells me this is always a place of peace.

  We sit on a sofa by a large bay window that looks out across manicured gardens leading to the sea. A chilly February day, the sea looks icy pale, uninviting and distant. We order coffee and American-style cookies. Anastasia insists on the cookies. She says they are mouth-watering here. We still seem to be holding hands.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Craig,’ she says, ‘I need someone to talk to. It’s very kind of you.’

  Her brown eyes are so much smaller than Jenni’s. So much brighter. So much less plaintive.

  ‘You’ve had problems and overcome them,’ she continues. ‘So many people don’t understand what I’m going through.’ There is a pause. ‘I just feel so lonely. So abandoned. I really wanted my relationship to work.’

  One sweet tear rolls from her eye, down her soft caramel cheek. She catches it with her finger and pushes it away.

  ‘That’s how I felt when Jenni left me,’ I say.

  ‘Jenni left you? For how long? How did you get her to come back?’

  ‘I really don’t know. Happenstance perhaps. Anyway,’ I shrug, ‘it’s your turn. I want you to go first. Tell me what happened. Get if off your chest.’

  I feel your body brace itself; your leg is pressing against mine.

  The coffee arrives with its plate of accompanying cookies. We stop holding hands, as if we suddenly realise we are, and know that we shouldn’t. The waitress pours the coffee. We thank her. She walks away.

  ‘Come on, Anastasia, tell me what happened with your husband. I’ve been to hell and back. You don’t need to feel embarrassed talking to me.’

  ‘I know I don’t need to, but I do.’

  She puts her coffee cup down on the table and turns to look at me. She may be heartbroken but she has determination in her eyes.

  ‘Ok then, here goes.’ She takes a deep breath, and then, ‘Ted’s a bond dealer in London. Works all hours. But he set us up to live here. He bought a pied-à-terre in London and we hardly ever saw him. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. He was going to work three days a week from here. But he couldn’t do it. It was impossible, or so I thought. I wanted to sell the house here and move back to London – but he wouldn’t hear of it.’ She pauses. ‘I expect you can guess the rest?’

  ‘Another woman in London?’

  ‘Well, yes. But worse.’

  ‘Worse?’

  ‘I found out yesterday that he’s having a baby with her.’

  ‘Pea-brained idiot.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s what I thought.’

  Our eyes meet and for some strange reason we both laugh. When the laughing has subsided we both eat a cookie to cheer ourselves up. They are addictive. As soon as I’ve finished the first, I reach for the next.

  ‘The thing is,’ Anastasia says, ‘if I’m ho
nest with myself, I had felt for a long time that I didn’t know him any more.’

  ‘What was it like when you did know him?’

  ‘It feels so very long ago that I don’t remember clearly.’

  I sit looking into her eyes, trying to be sympathetic, but I am not sure it is working. As Jenni often reminds me, empathy is not my strong point.

  ‘Actually,’ Anastasia says, ‘maybe he was right to find someone else. We weren’t good together. Ted was very critical, very controlling. I want someone better. Someone who accepts me for what I am, someone I can have fun with.’

  ‘That’s what I want as well.’

  ‘I thought you said you were happy with your wife?’

  ‘I said we’re still working things out after my affair.’

  She stiffens slightly.

  ‘You mentioned that before.’ There is a pause. ‘Why were you unfaithful?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shrug my shoulders a little. ‘Maybe I was already bored of Jenni but I hadn’t really realised it.’ I pause as I think about it. ‘So maybe it was a cry for help.’

  ‘Help?’

  ‘Yes. To get our relationship back on track. Or a catalyst for escape.’

  She sits finishing off her now cold coffee, contemplating me.

  ‘So you really think an affair is a cry for help?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know – but it’s a good excuse.’

  ‘Is it indeed,’ she says and starts to giggle. ‘I never thought of it like that.’

  I’ve never met a woman like this before, who shrugs off my bad behaviour and laughs.

  ~ Carly ~

  The police are here. When I was younger, we used to call them the pigs. There are three of them. Two men, one woman. Surrounding me. Standing around my bed. A nurse is here, fussing around the pigs. Helping them. Pulling chairs up for them to sit on. Offering to fetch them cups of tea. It’s a good job I’ve got my own room, otherwise all the other patients would be craning their necks. The female pig has beautifully cut hair. She must go to a really expensive hairdresser. In my normal life I would want to find out where. The police have introduced themselves, and shown me their badges, but I’ve already forgotten their names. I think the woman’s name begins with A. They are sitting too close to me, crowding me, making me feel claustrophobic. The darkness of their uniforms shrouds them in seriousness – crime and death hover around them like vultures. Why did we ever call them pigs?

  ‘You wanted to talk to us about what happened to you,’ the female officer says, leaning towards me.

  Jenni, I told her everything. Do you hear me? Everything that you did.

  ~ Rob ~

  Carly, when I arrive to visit you, you are sitting in your armchair, dressed in the new wrap-around dress that Heather brought in for you yesterday; cornflower blue to match your eyes. Freshly washed curls feather your oval face. You always were a looker, Carly, weren’t you? Adding colour to wherever you went. You still do that now. Despite everything. Despite your illness.

  Your face lights up as soon as you see me. You stand up and move towards me. You cling on to me so tightly I can only just breathe. I wrap my arms around you, and stroke your back to comfort you.

  ‘Carly, you’re doing so well,’ I tell you. ‘Dr Willis is very pleased with you. He thinks seeing the police has been cathartic. You’ve moved on in leaps and bounds in recent weeks.’

  ‘It’s been so hard, so hard,’ you are whispering. ‘I can’t wait to come home.’

  ~ Craig ~

  Anastasia and I are friends, and I don’t mean on Facebook. Since we became friends, I keep finding myself singing a song in my head. An old, old song that I once knew by heart many years ago. A song my grandmother used to like, trumpeted out by Fats Waller. A silly song no one ever sings these days. ‘Let’s sing again, let music in your heart …’ It’s just stuck in my head and it’s so long since I felt like singing anything. I sing it at odd times. On the way to the school drop-off. On the way to the supermarket. Yesterday I found myself humming it in bed.

  ~ Carly ~

  ‘Come on, Carly, please lie on the couch. Relax. In whatever position suits you best.’

  I kick off my shoes and lie flat on my back as usual, arms by my side, staring at the ceiling, at the off-white gloss paint. I close my eyes. The first chords of ‘Fingal’s Cave’ cut into the room. I try to lose myself in it, try to let it wrap around me.

  ‘Breathe in deeply,’ Dr Willis instructs. ‘Hold it. Hold it. And now let it out. Slowly, slowly, keep pushing, push the anger out.’

  I breathe in and out slowly, slowly. In. Out. Slowly, slowly, until I am almost asleep. But the second Dr Willis turns the music off, I sit up.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ I say.

  He frowns a gentle frown; a ripple across his forehead.

  ‘Again? But, Carly, I need you to relax.’

  ‘I thought talking was good.’

  He suppresses a sigh.

  ‘We’re making good progress, Carly. I spoke to Rob about it. About the way you’ve come on since the police visit.’

  ‘That’s what I want to talk about. You told me they found nothing. No evidence. I want to know more detail.’

  ‘OK, OK Carly, I should have explained it a bit more thoroughly, but I didn’t want to confuse you until you were feeling well enough to cope.’ He pauses. ‘Are you sure you’re up to this today?’

  I’m sitting up on the couch, back straight, arms folded. I fix my eyes into his.

  ‘More than,’ I insist.

  He takes a deep breath.

  ‘Well, it was a three-point investigation. First, they re-interviewed Sergeant Anita Berry, the police officer who visited Jenni’s flat the night you were brought into hospital. Second, they ran a background check on Jenni.’ He pauses. ‘Finally, they had their forensic team re-run a test on your blood, the night you came in to us. And …’

  Raising my hands and eyes to the ceiling, I finish his sentence for him.

  ‘They found no evidence to suggest Jenni poisoned me,’ my voice is tense, stretched.

  ‘That’s right.’

  I sit looking at him. At his confidence. His slimy comb-over. At his bow tie. My anger is solid. Contained and immovable. No one believes me while I’m incarcerated in here. He leans towards me. I know what he is going to say.

  ‘Your treatment won’t really move forward until you fully accept what has happened.’ There is a pause. ‘The sooner you accept you attempted suicide for the second time, the sooner we will be able to confront your issues and the sooner you will be able to go home. You want that, don’t you?’

  My anger is my power, my energy.

  ‘You know I want that, yes,’ I tell him.

  ‘Come on, Carly, let’s try again. Another relaxation therapy.’

  He puts the music back on. I lie back and prepare myself to tolerate it. My anger is my power, my energy. I will keep it buried deep inside me, and use it to escape.

  ~ Craig ~

  I shouldn’t be fucking Anastasia. I promised myself, I promised Jenni that I would never be unfaithful again. But when I am with Anastasia the rest of the world disintegrates; I see nothing but her.

  It is not just that I’m fucking her, I’m fucking in love with her. I know I should stop but I cannot. I need more time. I will sort my life out so that I can be with her properly. I will let Jenni down gently. Everything will work out. Everything will be all right. One day. I will take control of my life. One day I will do everything right.

  ~ Jenni ~

  Rob asked me to return to Stansfield, Carly, to visit you. It’s a long way to come, a big ask for me these days, taking a day off work, getting up early to catch the fast train, making sure Craig is organised to look after the children. He has seemed so distracted lately. Less argumentative towards me about my love of the Lord. Less critical of my vegetarian diet. A bit scatter-brained. I hope he isn’t about to be ill. I had to be very clear with him about the children’s routine while
I was away. But despite how much trouble it has been to get here, I’m glad I’ve come, Carly. Rob says that because of your paranoia towards me, it’s very important you see me before you are released from hospital.

  Your eyes are smiling at me like they used to, before you were ill. I hold your hands. They feel warm in mine.

  ‘I needed you to come,’ you tell me, ‘because I wanted to show you that I’m better. Really better this time. I know I’ve been delusional, and my delusions being about you must have been very difficult for you. But …’ You pause, and press your blue eyes into mine. ‘I really am through it now.’

  Your candyfloss hair shimmers in the dead electric light of the hospital. For a second it makes you look ephemeral, like a ghost. Whatever you say about how much better you are, you’ve been so ill for so long, I can’t help but be suspicious that you’re being overly positive.

  ‘What’s made such a difference?’ I ask, trying to suppress the concern in my voice.

  ‘My drugs have been more carefully balanced. Aeons of CBT with the man who practically invented it. So you can’t get better than that. And I just feel right.’ You smile and raise your forearms in the air. ‘My illness is no longer part of me. I have stepped away from it. It’s as if a switch has suddenly been pressed in my mind and I’m free. Everything is back to how it was before my depression ever began. As if my depression never happened.’

  ‘I’ve read that people who are cured often say this,’ I reply.

  ‘Yes, well, that’s what’s happened. I mean, I’m still on a cocktail of drugs, including Prozac, and probably will be for the rest of my life. But what’s wrong with that? They’re simply balancing my brain biochemistry. My serotonin. The world seems a different colour to me now, Jenni.’

  ‘What colour was it in the first place?’ I ask tentatively.