Obsession: The bestselling psychological thriller with a shocking ending

‘The bad things that happen are not God’s fault,’ I replied.

She sighed. A stage sigh, long and contrived. She raised her eyes to the ceiling.

‘Whose fault are they, then? If God’s all powerful they must be.’

I was tired of this battle now, I wanted to go to sleep.

‘Most problems are caused by man,’ I said.

‘Volcanic eruptions? Caused by men dancing in the middle of mountains and pushing lava out? Earthquakes? Caused by men dancing underground?’

Once upon a time, I would have laughed at this, and pulled her towards me for a hug. But last night I couldn’t manage it. I lay in bed, turning away from her and switching off the light. The words to convey how I felt did not come to me. Perhaps they were never there, for my love of the Lord is deep-rooted and private. Not a showcase to be explained.

Sitting in my consulting room, even remembering our conversation makes me feel bad tempered. I hate it when Carly denigrates the Lord. I switch off my computer and leave, feet slapping across the surgery’s pine floorboards. My last few patients look up wearily as they listen to me telling the receptionists that I’m off to an emergency.

Along Stansfield high street, I move past banks, charity shops and nail bars. Past Costa Coffee, Iceland and the estate agents. Into Church Street, our one traffic-free street, past Carly’s favourite ‘bribery for the kids’ sweetshop, towards St Mary’s church to pray.

As soon as I enter St Mary’s hallowed hall, the Lord presses down on me. I kneel on the front row, in my usual place near the door to the vestry. It feels so different when no one else is here. I have the Lord to myself, his intensity towards me strengthens. I pray for you, Jenni, as I promised, and for your mother. I see your mother running towards you and embracing you. Can you feel it, Jenni? Can you feel it like I do?

And now I pray for Carly. My wife. My beautiful wife with her curvy figure and bell-like laughter. Two Carlys are stepping towards me. One has her head back laughing, the other is crying. Carly is crying inside. I’ve been so worried about her lately, slapping Matt, her constant mood swings. When I get home from work, she often looks as if she’s been crying. The thoughts crowding in on me start to piece themselves together. Dear Lord, if my wife is starting with depression, please help me to cope.

~ Jenni ~ (#ulink_f5462ba8-93e9-5709-b339-d1bb534199fc)

Once again, I’m ringing Craig on my mobile, determined to get through to him this time. I don’t want to FaceTime him because I don’t want him to see my eyes, puffy from crying. I don’t want him to see my hair that needs washing. I don’t want him to see my face. In an instant he will realise the depth of my displeasure. My thoughts are spiralling.

‘Where were you when my mother died, Craig?’

‘Where are you now?’

‘What’s going on, Craig?’

~ Craig ~ (#ulink_e23358e5-818d-5064-8024-24756e6badbf)

She always arrives at the Travelodge before me. She always wears her nurse’s uniform with something not very matronly beneath it. A body. A G-string. Something made of rubber, or satin, or bold-coloured lace. As soon as I see her I get a hard-on. Carly steps towards me and her piercing blue eyes become yours, Jenni. I remove her clothes and she pulls me languorously towards the bed, treating me to her vamped-up smile. Her smile frightens me sometimes. She pulls my clothes away greedily. She moans as I enter her. She is making too much noise. What is she doing? Does she think she’s starring in a porn film? But she feels as good as ever and I am off, thrusting and thrashing uncontrollably. When I have finished I pull out of her, and lie on my back on the bed holding her hand, exhausted. Knowing I need to get home. Knowing I keep missing your calls, Jenni.

~ Jenni ~ (#ulink_27b7a0c7-1d2a-5fa2-80eb-fbc1004d0d9e)

I try Craig’s mobile again. At least I’ve managed to tell him Mother has died. At least he’ll be here soon with the boys, for the funeral. But he’s been very busy. Very hard to get hold of lately. I try twenty times. Repeatedly. Twenty times I go straight through to his voicemail. I will ring for as long as it takes. I am pacing up and down my parents’ kitchen. Parents. I stiffen as I think of that word; for now it is only my father’s kitchen. His kitchen heavy with the aroma of the fish pie I am baking for him; his favourite. I wanted to give him a treat. But even he isn’t here right now, he has popped out to see one of his neighbours, something to do with the funeral details. Leaving me alone, longing to see my husband, longing to see my children. Longing for Craig, just to speak to him.

At last. He calls. His voice bursts towards me through my iPhone.

‘Jenni.’

Just hearing his voice helps the chaos in my head begin to subside.

‘Craig.’

I hear him breathing heavily as if he is walking quickly. I hear the sea-like hiss of traffic.

‘Where are you?’

‘Just leaving the fire station.’ Breathing, breathing, quickly, quickly. A rise in the volume of the traffic.

‘Sounds quite noisy.’

‘A lot of traffic here tonight. There must be a jam on the bypass.’

My eyes settle on the wall clock by the back door.

‘Weird time to be leaving the fire station. What happened?’

He hesitates.

‘I just went in to do some extra paperwork.’

‘Where are the children?’ I ask anxiously.

‘Rob’s got them.’

‘What about Carly? I thought she was helping?’

‘Carly’s out tonight.’

‘Well, she’s been so helpful I expect she needs a break.’ I pause. ‘I’m missing you so much, Craig. And the boys. When are you all arriving?’

‘The day after tomorrow. I’m missing you too, Jenni. I love you to pieces.’

The love in his voice is reassuring me. Pushing my fears away.

~ Jenni ~ (#ulink_72db0313-5d3a-54a9-8648-5820eed00cde)

The funeral. Lilies and roses and sadness, in my parents’ local church. A church with a spire, on the green near the duck pond in Chessingfold, the South Downs village they retired to. I tried to persuade Dad to bring her body back to Stansfield, but Dad was adamant; their life had moved on. I sit next to him, holding his hand, which trembles in mine. Rob has given me an emergency Valium from his brown leather doctor’s bag and it has filled me with an artificial sea of calmness which I’m not sure I like. Carly says she loves Valium, and that she takes it from his bag sometimes when she knows she’s going to binge on alcohol. She says it gives her an extra buzz. Carly is always wanting to shock me. To shock everyone. Today she won. I don’t think she should deliberately mix alcohol and Valium, and I told her that. So she put her head back and laughed at me, telling me I was a prude, mocking me. Whatever she says,I still don’t think I should drink today. I want to be calm. I do not want a Carly-type buzz.

My father has coped quite well so far. Better than I expected. But then Rob says the bereaved often cope well to begin with, as they’re numb to the situation. He says the grief and pain will come later. He makes it sound as if grief follows a pattern, which surprises me, as I would have thought grief was individual. After all, we are all individuals in the eyes of the Lord.

As for me, I feel pain already. My body aches as if my mother has been cut away from me with a knife. How will I feel when this pain increases?

After the funeral, Dad is coming to stay with us for a short while, so I will be with him when his pain hits, and I will do everything I can to help. But will everything be enough? I turn to look at him. Pain upon pain. Whatever Rob says.

Today in church, it’s myself, Dad, Luke, Craig and Mark in the front row, as you would expect. Craig has one boy either side of him; he’s clutching their hands, his shiny black hair freshly cut, shorter than ever. My fine-looking man who stands out in a crowd. The boys are already bored and wriggling. I wasn’t sure whether they should come. They’re too young for funerals but who could I leave them with? And anyway, my father wanted them here. Carly, Rob and Heather are here to support me, sitting on the row behind. Behind them in abundant numbers are the expected army of mourning relatives. Relatives treasured. Relatives tolerated. Relatives we try to ignore. The main one I hope to avoid afterwards is my mother’s sister, Rosie. The black sheep of the family. In her case our bugbear is her behaviour with men. Carly laughed when I told her.

‘There’s always one, isn’t there,’ she said.

I suppose it’s hardly surprising that I’m not looking forward to the post-funeral small talk. I don’t suppose anyone ever does. Perhaps it won’t be as bad as I expect. People say the funeral is cathartic, so maybe that means that in the end I will enjoy my relatives’ company. One of the things I can’t understand is how so many people have found time to come to her funeral, to show their respect, when they never seemed to have time to visit her in her lifetime. Sometimes I think respect is a little out of line these days.

Craig looks across at me and smiles. A smile of love. A smile of encouragement. Despite my dark, grief-fuelled suspicion as to why I couldn’t get hold of him, he has been marvellous since Mum passed. He took a whole week off work to come and stay in my parents’ bungalow with the children and help organise the final funeral arrangements. No one realises just how many minor details have to be attended to until they go through something like this themselves. Craig can’t wait to have me back home. He keeps putting his arms around me and telling me how much he’s missed me. I feel so safe in his arms, so special, so cherished. How could I have doubted him?

Having the children in the house in the run-up to the funeral seemed to do my father good. It distracted him. Every night he bathed them and put them to bed as I cooked supper. Shrills of laughter and the thunder of tumultuous splashing moved towards me from the bathroom, making my heart sing a little. After bath time, leaving the bathroom floor so wet we could have been flooded, Dad spent so long reading to them that by the time he emerged to eat, my carefully prepared food was almost dried out. But I didn’t have the heart to reprimand him. In the scheme of things, what does a bit of overcooked food matter?