‘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, 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 ~
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 ~
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 ~
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 yo
u 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 ~
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?
Even though Craig had the week off, something big must have been going on at the fire station because he spent a lot of time on the pavement outside the bungalow, speaking on his mobile. Whenever I glanced at him he looked agitated and busy, serious-faced and official. His job is such hard work. Leading firemen are given so much extra responsibility these days.
The organ. We stand and its rich, sweet sound emanates from the balcony above, clawing at my heart. Already I have to work against the tears that are tightening my throat. I clasp the handkerchief in my pocket with my sweaty grip. In my other palm the shake in my father’s hand increases. I turn to look at him again. He stands next to me, expressionless now, straight-backed and straight-lipped. The pallbearers walk slowly up the aisle, struggling beneath the weight of my mother’s oak casket. One of them stumbles a little, but almost immediately regains his balance.
The casket is placed.
My mother is in front of the altar, wedged between the choir stalls, encased in oak and covered in lilies and roses, her favourite flowers. Where is she now? Can she see us, is she already floating in ethereal soup, looking down? And what has happened to the body she has left behind? I feel sick just thinking about that.
‘Nana’s inside there,’ I hear Luke whisper to Mark. He points. Mark follows his finger, wide eyed. I wanted her to watch my offspring grow.
‘We are here to celebrate the life of Lesley Jane Tunnicliffe,’ the vicar starts with his exaggerated biblical lilt, vowels all over the place.
The atmosphere in the church stiffens. Everyone is listening. Does celebrating a life make death more bearable? I close my mind and push the vicar’s words away.
~ Carly ~
The Travelodge again. Lying in Craig’s arms, replete. I can’t get hold of any more MDMA. Bob has disappeared. Maybe he is lying low. Maybe the police have got him. I don’t think that Craig liked it. He said it made him feel wiped out, half dead, after the initial euphoria. But I found the euphoria fantastic. Euphoria, euphoria, euphoria. Bob, please be there next time. Please give me some more.
Craig is asleep, his breath rising and falling across my cheek. We have not had as much time as usual today as he was fifteen minutes late, and when you only have an hour, fifteen minutes makes a big difference. He stirs and sits up. He edges off the bed, steps towards the doorway to collect his scattered clothes. My stomach lurches with desire to take him in my mouth again as I did after the funeral, bringing him off in the bathroom in Jenni’s parents’ bungalow, no one knowing we were in there. On a high like badly behaved teenagers. That is what he makes me feel like. A teenager again, on a voyage of discovery. I get off the bed and step towards him.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks. ‘No, Carly. I have to go.’
He pulls away from me and starts to dress, quickly covering himself up with grey Gap underpants. I’ll get him something smarter for his birthday. Something more figure enhancing.
I go back and lie on the bed, watching him dress.
‘Why are you in such a hurry?’ I ask.
He puts his fingers to his lips.
‘No discussion. Something to do with my family.’
This is how we have agreed to cope with our deceit, by pretending we don’t have families.
‘Family. I didn’t even know you had a family,’ I say and smile.
He smiles back. Fully dressed, he comes and sits on the edge of the bed next to me. He leans across and kisses me gently on the lips.
‘Today was great. Thank you,’ he says.
‘Next week, I’ve booked a treat.’
‘Are you going to tell me or is it a secret?’
‘I have to tell you, or you won’t know where to go.’
He frowns.
‘Where to go?’
‘I’ve booked a hotel a few miles away for us for the whole night; we can have dinner in our room.’
The smile that was still playing at the edge of his lips disappears.
‘Carly. I meant it when we said nothing personal. No attachment. A sex-only partnership. Fuck buddies.’ He sighs. ‘I thought you agreed. Otherwise I would never have started this.’ There is a pause. ‘How can you expect me to do that?’
‘Was our bathroom blowjob nothing personal?’
‘It was ten minutes. Like a wank.’
‘Is that what I am, a sophisticated wank?’
He looks uncomfortable.
‘Surely sex this good must mean something?’ I ask.
He doesn’t reply. He looks agitated.
‘Do you have sex this good with Jenni?’
He stands up to leave, eyes flashing.
‘Leave Jenni out of this.’
~ Craig ~
Breakfast in our modern townhouse, sitting at our kitchen table. Eating Weetabix. Sipping Nescafé. The boys are plastering crumbs from croissants on the floor, on the table, and on their faces instead of eating them. Jenni is sitting next to me. I smell her scent; patchouli oil. I think Jenni is becoming very suspicious of my comings and goings. Her eyes have started to swivel too often as she checks my movements. Last time I came back from seeing Carly she made a very pointed comment about how often I was showering. Yesterday morning when I came out of the bathroom she was scrolling through my iPhone. When I asked her what she was doing she said it had buzzed and she was just checking whether anything important had come in. I checked my phone later and I know she was lying. No incoming messages of any kind.
Obsession: A shocking psychological thriller where love affairs turn deadly Page 5
