Obsession: The bestselling psychological thriller with a shocking ending

She walks towards me, smelling of soap suds.

I try to form the right words. ‘It’s just that everything seems so heavy. So difficult. Some days I just feel as if I can hardly move.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asks.

Silence suppurates because try as I do, I cannot explain the vacuum I am living in. I cannot break through the loneliness of it. The fug in the room tightens around me. I am looking at my mother from inside a plastic bubble. A plastic bubble I cannot reach through.

~ Rob ~ (#ulink_f3c51d31-561e-5fb9-9412-fabd6f203d12)

Another week gone by. Saturday morning again. Getting up at 6 a.m. to look after the children so that Carly can have a lie-in. Carly, so exhausted recently. Thank goodness for CBeebies, even if its name sounds like baby dribble. I sit dozing on the sofa for hours, curled up with my offspring. Enjoying the warmth of them, the scent of them, as they watch TV. When Carly eventually staggers downstairs in her pink fluffy dressing gown I extricate myself and step into the kitchen to make her a cup of tea. She follows me. We sit at our antique pine table sipping Earl Grey.

‘Did you sleep OK?’ I ask.

‘No.’

She is sitting, head in her hands, tears pricking at the edges of her eyes.

‘I’ve been awake since four.’

‘Carly, you need help.’ I pause.

‘Because I can’t sleep?’

‘Because you’re depressed. You need to go and see a psychiatrist.’

‘Of course I don’t need a psychiatrist.’

‘You could just go for an assessment.’

‘Why should I?’ There is a pause. ‘Why do I need a psychiatrist when I’ve got you?’

‘I’m a GP. I only know a little about depression.’

‘Why do you think I’m depressed?’

I reach across the table to hold her hand. ‘Because the light has gone out of you.’

Tears begin to stream down her cheeks. She squeezes my hand so tight I fear she might break it.

‘Please, Rob. Promise me you won’t send me to someone. Can’t you see that it will destroy me?’

‘Why will getting help destroy you?’

‘Because … because …’ she stammers. ‘I need to cope on my own.’

I see a flash of determination in her eyes. The determination that I fear will be her downfall.

~ Rob ~ (#ulink_1eaad73c-d3df-5098-b8ba-823040bbec99)

I press the buzzer of Jenni and Craig’s now Craig-less mockGeorgian townhouse. Craig has moved round the corner, back into his parents’ house where his old bedroom is still intact; a mausoleum waiting for him, walls still covered with school team photos and a poster of Pamela Anderson after her first boob job, so old now that it’s curling at the edges. The door opens and Matt and John are standing in the hallway.

‘Uncle Rob,’ they say almost in unison, clinging to my legs. ‘We thought you were Daddy. Daddy’s coming round now.’

And then Craig is there behind me, and the boys have relinquished my legs and are climbing up their father’s body. He hoists them up, one in each arm. They wrap their legs around his waist and for a second my heart lurches in agreement with Carly, who insists Jenni is being selfish, splitting up the family. But when I see Jenni standing in front of me, thin as a rake, her large eyes circled by the black tell-tale rings denoting lack of sleep, my heart lurches again.

‘Hello, Craig,’ she says, voice clipped, managing a tight smile in his direction.

Her hands are trembling. I want to take her in my arms and protect her. As Craig leaves with his sons, he whispers in my ear.

‘Thanks, mate. Thanks for coming to stick up for me.’

Jenni and I are alone in her hallway. She bursts into tears and moves towards me. She clings on to me so tightly and cries so hard that I fear she will never stop. Her body pushed against mine feels bony, so different to Carly’s soft curves. I cannot help myself, I lean down and kiss the top of her head, putting my nose into her soft shiny brown hair. She smells and tastes of patchouli oil and honey. She doesn’t seem to notice my indiscretion, her body continuing to heave against mine. Her sobs increase. I reach in my pocket for my handkerchief and hand it to her.

After what seems like an hour, but may only be ten or twenty minutes – I don’t know because my arms are holding her so tight I can’t see my watch – Jenni’s sobs eventually begin to quieten and she pulls away from me.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘Come in.’

I follow her through the rest of her tiny hallway, through the dining area of her open plan living room, into the seating area where she collapses into a small floral sofa. Feeling guilty about our physical contact which I fear Carly would not understand, I clear a few toys off the sofa opposite and sit down, as far away from her as possible. The room is in disarray; littered with Duplo and jigsaw pieces, soft toys and scattered dressing-up clothes. The glass coffee tables (not sensible with toddlers) are covered in crumbs and finger marks, empty plastic beakers and coffee cups. The curtains are unopened. I spring up and open them. Jenni blinks her red-rimmed doe eyes as the sunlight hits them.

When I am sitting down again, arms and legs crossed to signal my formality, Jenni sniffs and then says, ‘Rob, why are you here again?’

Almost a reprimand. But not, because of those soft brown chocolate-drop eyes. Fudge brownie, mixed with vanilla.

I uncross my legs, lean forward and say, ‘Craig asked me to come. He wanted me to tell you, on his behalf, just how sorry he is, how much he loves you, and that he will never ever do it again.’ I pause. ‘He wanted me to ask you to give him a break.’

~ Jenni ~ (#ulink_d709a73c-00f4-5fb7-a2c0-f0f397f6a61c)

I sit at the front of the Eucharist service, with my father who is staying with me, praying for the strength to forgive Craig. My father has advised me that I need to move past this, because life is short and we must appreciate people while we have them. Bereft of my mother, he would say that. But what would he have said if she had been unfaithful? Mother or Father, unfaithful? That wouldn’t have happened, would it? If only my mother were here, so that I could talk to her. Why do you have to take people away so completely, Lord? Why can’t they at least just talk to us from Heaven, even if we can’t see them and hold them any more?

I have taken to having imaginary conversations with my mother as I go about my chores; as I clean the bathroom or drive to the supermarket. And every morning, lunchtime and bedtime I pray to you, Lord. But so far the peace of forgiveness has not settled on me. Memories of happier times dance on the periphery of my mind. Craig and I bringing our first child home, swathed in the shawl my mother had knitted for him. Wrapped together in love, slow dancing at a Christmas party. Walking in the park; feet crunching across burnished leaves. But Carly is walking across my memories, destroying them. I am trying to stop her but I cannot. I must pray harder. I know, Lord, that you reward those whose prayers are genuine. I must make my prayers work. Carly and Craig. I picture them lying together, dying together, slowly, in pain.

Retribution, not forgiveness. Oh how my prayers have failed, Lord.

~ Craig ~ (#ulink_5abb16b9-5ff6-58a8-99dd-ff1bbeaa1817)

I miss Jenni so much. The warmth of her body beside me at night. The steady rise and fall of her breath. Her slim frame curved around mine. I miss the quirky things she used to tell me about her day, about the children. Without her I can’t even concentrate on my favourite TV programme. I save up things to tell her, like I used to, until I remember she does not want to listen any more.

And the children. I cannot bear to think about the children. Seeing them every other weekend is difficult. They treat me with distant politeness, as though I am a stranger.

So this week on Tuesday morning, when Jenni interrupted my breakfast by texting me about Relate, it was a no-brainer. And now on Friday evening, an hour before I need to leave for our first appointment, I am ready to go, wearing my interview suit, grey silk tie and a pink shirt, shoes so highly polished I can see my reflection in them. Mum said I had put too much aftershave on so I have doused it off with a sponge, and now I am pacing about my childhood bedroom. The bedroom in which so much has happened. I had my first girl in here, one heady weekend of my youth when my parents were away. It was where I used to sing, too. Sixteen years old with a second-hand karaoke machine, singing my heart out, psyching myself up for band auditions that never happened. I used to really care about it. These days, I don’t feel like singing any more.

I look at my watch. Fifty-nine minutes before I need to leave. I might as well go and sit in the lounge and watch TV with my parents. That seems to be all my elderly parents do these days. Prepare meals and tidy up, drink tea and fall asleep in front of the TV. I have so little to do at the moment; half the time when I’m not on shift, I join them. Today, as usual, I find them semi-comatose in front of the early evening news. The lounge is too hot; stifling, and as soon I am sitting down with them, I join them in sleep. When my iPhone alarm goes off I pull myself into wakefulness. At last it is time to leave.

Jenni is waiting for me outside a primary school, in the centre of town. A primary school between the police station and the post office, the place Relate use for their evening sessions. Jenni, mouth in a line. Jenni, wearing her best suede boots and the coat I bought her last Christmas.

‘Thanks for coming,’ she says, without curving her lips.

‘That’s OK,’ I say.