Obsession: The bestselling psychological thriller with a shocking ending. Amanda Robson
everyone in Stansfield knows about Bob.’
I was so taken aback that I think I must have been standing with my mouth open. She moved towards me and stroked my face.
‘You’re a very naughty girl,’ I said as I started to pull her clothes off; her thin skimpy nurse’s uniform, her lacy bra, her black G-string. ‘In fact I think you’re the worst behaved nurse in the world.’
‘I know I am,’ she said, standing in the dingy room in the Travelodge naked, ready for sex.
Carly always looks ready for sex. It is part of her charm, her allure. ‘And I’ve got some medicine to give you,’ she said as she walked across the bedroom, proud breasts jutting and erect. She shook the powder from the bag into one of the white china coffee mugs, rubbed some on her right forefinger, and walked towards me again. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’
I could feel myself straining against my underpants, against my trousers. I removed them to relieve the pressure and started to peel off my shirt.
She was in front of me. She was kissing me. Rubbing MDMA on my gums.
You are a bad girl, Carly. I’m a man who doesn’t take drugs.
‘You’re a bad girl, Carly,’ I almost hummed.
‘I know I am,’ she whispered as she kissed me.
I buried my head in her generous breasts. We clamped together, on the floor, on the bed and my orgasm came slowly. It was tumultuous. Was it the MDMA? Or was it the way she played with me?
Jenni, I love you but I just can’t help it. Carly is so naughty, and you are so good.
I’m sitting in my surgery, at my battered wooden desk, the desk that I have owned since I was a student, inputting the data from my previous patient. I am surrounded by familiarity and thanks. Thanks is one of the things, even after so many years of practice, that I most appreciate about being a doctor. People are grateful for my help. The telephone on my desk starts to buzz, making me jump a little. I pick up. One of the receptionists’ voices comes through.
‘Jenni Rossiter on the line. I tried to stall her but she says it’s urgent.’
‘You’d better put her through, then.’
A voice blistered with tears cuts towards me.
‘Is everything all right?’ I ask, knowing that it isn’t.
‘She’s gone. Half an hour ago.’
Jenni’s mother. My heart sinks. What she has dreaded for so long has finally happened. And now that telling me is over, I hear her tears flow wholeheartedly, no holding back, every sob searing into me as I listen.
‘Does Craig know yet?’
The sobs increase. ‘I can’t get hold of him.’
‘Do you want me to try?’
‘No. No. I’ve tried everything. I’m sure he’ll ring me back soon.’
The crying continues. It sounds as if someone is rubbing sandpaper across the mouthpiece of the phone.
‘Jenni, do you want me to come over?’
‘It’s too far. I’m at their house in Chessingfold.’
‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’
‘Dad and I were both with her, holding her hands. We’re here at home. She’s upstairs in bed.’ Silence. She blows her nose. ‘Rob, I keep thinking that if I go back into her bedroom she’ll just wake up and smile at me and it’ll all have been a bad dream.’
‘It’s natural to not really accept what’s happened at first, it’s part of the initial coping strategy.’ My voice sounds so trite. So inadequate. Computerised words tripping off an automated tongue. I change tactic. ‘Tell you what, Jenni. Forget that. I’ll go down to the church and pray. Would that help?’
‘Yes, yes. Oh, thank you, Rob. Thank you so much.’
What would Carly say if she heard us? Carly and I have had so many arguments lately. Ever since we met, we have always had arguments. Discussions. It’s one of the many things I have always enjoyed about our relationship. But recently Carly becomes very agitated when I don’t agree with her. Her agitation is tinged with a voice so harsh it almost sounds like hatred. Religion is one of our major flashpoints. She knew I was religious when I married her, so why does she react like this now? I asked her that last night when we were getting ready for bed, and she replied,
‘Because you care too much about it.’
I was puzzled. ‘Surely caring is good? How can you care too much?’ I asked as I was getting undressed.
‘If you care too much about one thing, you ignore all the other things that matter around you,’ Carly replied, pulling her blue baby doll nightie over her head. The one she always looks so cute in.
‘And is that what you think I’m doing, just because I believe in God?’ I asked, defensively.
‘You need to keep it under control.’
Her eyes were tight, metallic.
‘OK. OK. I promise.’
Her eyes loosened a little. She stared at me, childlike and innocent, mouth slightly open. A Botticelli angel, mouth so small and round and perfect. But then her mouth stretched unpleasantly, and our discussion began again.
‘If there is a kindly God, why is he so unkind?’ she asked me.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Carly. God isn’t unkind.’
Irritated by Carly’s attitude, I stepped into our en-suite. As I brushed my teeth, Carly’s shallow words punched into my head on repeat. If there is a kindly God, why is he so unkind? If there is a kindly God, why is he so unkind? Irritated, I brushed my teeth too vigorously, and my gums started to bleed. When I returned to the bedroom Carly had settled on her side of the bed, snuggled beneath the duvet. I sidled in next to her and cuddled up next to the back of her baby doll body. She stiffened at my touch. She untangled herself from me, and propped herself up on one arm to stare at me.
‘If God isn’t unkind, why do so many bad things happen, then?’ she asked.
‘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,