Eternity is interrupted. I open the door to a female police officer with strawberry blonde sculptured hair who smiles at me and shows me her badge.
‘Sergeant Anita Berry,’ she says. ‘The ambulance service sent me. Can I come in?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say, my voice fragmented by tears.
She follows me up my noisy stairs, and I thank the Lord that I have been blessed with children who seem to sleep through anything, and a puppy who has responded well to cage training. All together in the back bedroom, fast asleep.
‘Do sit down.’
She sits on my sofa, and as she does she crumples the throw. She tries to smooth it.
‘Don’t worry. It always does that. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?’ I ask.
‘No, thanks.’
I hover in front of her, still standing. There is a pause.
‘Have you heard how your friend is?’ Anita Berry asks.
‘No. But I’m hoping no news is good news and that at least she’s stable.’
‘Look, Ms Rossiter, this isn’t a crime scene. Nothing has happened. I think the paramedic was just being edgy. Just to keep her happy, do you mind if I have a look around?’
‘Not at all. Of course not.’
Anita Berry stands up.
‘Just one thing though,’ I add. ‘We were drinking wine. I washed the bottle and put it in the recycling, and I’m afraid I washed the glasses. I just didn’t think. An automatic reaction. Do you want to take them with you anyway?’
‘No, thanks. I’m just here to see if she dropped any pills or anything.’
‘I didn’t see her do that.’
Anita Berry stands up with a shake of her layered hairstyle.
‘If you don’t mind I’ll just have a quick look around.’
‘It won’t take long. It’s a very small flat,’ I tell her.
I follow her as she inspects. A little look under the sofas. A re-arrangement of the throws. A quick inspection of the kitchen cupboards. Into the bathroom. A hearty rummage through the bathroom cabinet. Into my bedroom. A lot of interest in my dressing table, particularly my second drawer where I keep my mini-pills. And then a march towards the children’s bedroom.
‘The children and the puppy are asleep in there.’
Anita Berry stops in her tracks.
‘I won’t disturb them then. Everything seems in order.’ There is a pause as she smiles at me. ‘Thanks for letting me look round. I’ll leave you in peace now.’
I see her back down our noisy staircase to the doorway. As she leaves she puts her hand on my arm, eyes brimming with sympathy.
‘I hope your friend will be OK.’
‘So do I,’ I reply, biting my tears away.
By the time my father has arrived to look after the children, Carly, and I have managed to reach the hospital, you have been admitted to the Critical Care Unit, the same unit you started in last time. I walk through endless empty corridors to find you lying unconscious, wired up to so many machines that with my rusty nurse’s training I find it hard to decipher which machine is which. You’re breathing steadily and artificially, your skin like pale fabric against the pillow. Heather and Rob are sitting on chairs one on either side of you. Heather looks at me, nods, and turns her attention straight back to you. Rob stands up and kisses me politely on each cheek. He is Rob – but not Rob. A diminished version.
‘Have you any idea what happened?’ he asks.
‘She wanted to see me, to talk to me. She begged me to let her come round, so I agreed.’
His eyes dart towards Heather.
‘Let’s just step away for a few minutes,’ he says.
He takes my arm and leads me out of the ward, towards a seating area by the toilets. We sit down together. It is quiet here, away from the nurses’ station. It’s so late at night now, there is hardly any movement; not many staff, no visitors. The thin electric light in the corridor is turning everything grey.
‘What did she say?’ Rob asks in a whisper.
‘We’d only had a glass of wine each. We didn’t have time for much of a conversation. She just stood up to go to the bathroom and collapsed.’ I pause, my eyes filling with tears. ‘It was awful, Rob. I resuscitated her and called an ambulance.’ Another pause, longer this time. ‘I did everything I could.’
~ Craig ~
It was Jenni who blasted Carly’s news down my mobile as I stood in my parents’ hallway. In case I didn’t know. In case? How should I know? I stood by the umbrella bin and the coat stand, finding it difficult to know what to say to Jenni. If I sounded too upset she would be cross, if I didn’t sound upset enough I would be accused of not being empathetic. So I took a fine line between the two, sorry, but not too sorry. After which Jenni said,
‘Well, however sorry you are, you’ve got to take it on the chin, your ex might not make it.’
‘She’s hardly my ex.’
‘What is she then?’
Silence down the line.
Shortly after we terminated our conversation, the news of Carly’s situation had started to sink in. It is hard to imagine her downfall. The more I think about it the more I can’t believe what has happened to her. A strong, bold, poster-paint woman like Carly.
Later on, I pick up my boys for the evening. We go to McDonalds, as usual. Sitting surrounded by air conditioning and plastic, again, eating a Big Mac and chips with a supersized coffee whilst the boys chomp through a mountain of nuggets and guzzle a sea of ketchup. When they have finished eating, Luke looks up at me.
‘After tea, Mummy said I should ask you to come home and help bath us.’
‘Why?’
He shrugs his shoulders.
‘We wanted you to. She said you could.’
My heart pounds. Can I bear this? Sudden inclusion that she may denounce at any time? We tidy up our rubbish and meander back to my family’s new home.
When Jenni answers the door, her hair is tied back in a ponytail and she isn’t wearing any make-up. She looks about twelve; dappled with innocence.
‘Mummy, Mummy, Daddy’s come, like you asked.’
She steps away from the door and leads us upstairs, where the vacuum cleaner is standing in the middle of the living room next to a plastic box overflowing with cloths, gels and polish. The room smells of artificial orange blossom, which burns through my nostrils and infiltrates my chest, making me cough.
‘Sorry,’ Jenni says and opens the window.
Charlie is unleashed from somewhere, lolloping towards us. A wagging fur ball, gyrating with energy, pushing against me. Putting his snout under my arm, demanding my attention, forcing me to stroke him. I pet him behind the ears and he feels so smooth and silky that I cannot stop. Stroking him is addictive. I stroke him and stroke him, his hips, his flank, placing the side of my face on the side of his head to feel his fur against my cheek. The puppy is grunting. The back of his throat almost purring with pleasure. I look up. Jenni’s brown eyes are fastened on me.
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ the boys chant repeatedly, jumping with excitement.
Charlie has abandoned me. He is chasing the boys and barking. Everyone is laughing.
‘Come on,’ Jenni says, ‘I’ve run the bath already. Into the bathroom, everybody.’
The bath is overfull, exploding with bubbles, filling the room with the scent of honey and lemon. Naked already, the boys jump into it, pushing a tidal wave of water across the bathroom floor. Jenni scolds them lightly, so lightly they don’t notice. They sit in the bath, fighting with snowball bubbles. The puppy sits by the bath watching them. Jenni and I sit together on the floor behind the puppy. For a second I forget we are no longer a family.
‘Can Daddy stay and read our story?’ Luke asks.
‘That’s the plan,’ Jenni says.
The plan? What plan? I look across at her, surprised. If she has a plan this is the first I’ve heard about it.
Put those eyes away, Jenni. Don’t hurt me again.
The boys climb out of t
he bath. Jenni pulls the plug out as I swaddle them in towels. The water from the bath roars down the plughole, terrifying the puppy who tries to hide beneath Mark’s towel. We all stroke his head and laugh. Next it is Batman pyjamas, story and milk. At story time Jenni disappears. We put the puppy in the cage in the corner of their bedroom. He seems to be happy in there, close to them, surrounded by his puppy toys, one eye open, one eye closed, almost asleep. I read them The Tiger Who Came to Tea. They have always loved that. I read it again and again. At first they join in, chanting the words, laughing and giggling. Gradually they quieten and eventually they fall asleep. Luke is lying on his back, mouth open, arms above his head, face still flushed from the heat of the bathwater. Mark has curled in a ball, fist clenched. I kiss each of them on the forehead and creep out of the bedroom, closing the door, slowly, slowly, so as not to wake them, so as not to wake the puppy.
I head into the living room.
‘Would you like to stay for a drink?’ she asks.
A no-brainer of a question.
‘Yes please.’
I sink into one of the sofas. She has already opened a bottle of wine; it is waiting on the dresser with two glasses. She pours us a glass each, hands one to me and sits directly opposite me on the mirror image sofa. I sit sipping wine, trying not to listen to the Gregorian chant music she so likes. It has never been my favourite.
‘Last time I was drinking wine like this, Carly was here.’
Carly. I wish she hadn’t mentioned her.
‘It must have been dreadful for you,’ I say carefully. I feel as though I am walking on ice.
‘It was. It was awful. She must have taken so many tablets before she arrived to be so ill. I mean, she’s still in a coma.’ There is a pause. Her brown eyes darken. ‘It really makes you think, someone almost losing their life like that.’
‘What has it made you think, Jenni?’
She shakes her head a little, almost imperceptibly, and shrugs her shoulders.
‘That life is too short. We must make the best of it.’
Her chocolate eyes are sparkling and dangerous.
‘I don’t feel I’m doing a very good job of that at the moment. Losing my wife, losing my family,’ I tell her, trying to stop the tears I feel welling up in my eyes.
I swallow in an attempt to push them back. She is looking at me anxiously, looking as if she wants to say something.
‘I think we should try again,’ she tells me.
I think we should try again. Did I hear that properly? After so many problems? After selling our house? Am I fantasising? Am I dreaming?
‘Did you hear me, Craig?’ She puts her wine glass down, pulls up from her sofa, and walks towards me. She is standing in front of me with her hands on her hips. A vision from heaven. Eyes to drown in. Cherry red lips waiting to be kissed.
‘I think we should try again,’ she says. ‘But I want you to understand, Craig, if you ever stray again, I’ll kill you, and I’ll kill your lover.’
I am drowning in those eyes. I am kissing those lips.
~ Jenni ~
Rob calls my name and I walk down the corridor to his consulting room, past the nurses’ room, which used to be Carly’s territory, past the children’s toy corner and the store cupboard. I knock on the door and enter as soon as he invites me. He swings his chair around.
‘Jenni, are you all right? You don’t need to book an appointment like this. I would see you anytime. Surely you know that?’
I sit in the patients’ chair opposite him.
‘I just wanted to keep things formal.’
‘Formal?’
A frown shadows his face. I hand him a letter. He opens it and reads it, then looks back up at me. His face is shocked.
‘But why are you handing in your notice?’
‘I’m moving away – with Craig.’
‘With Craig?’ he stammers. ‘But I thought …’ He hesitates. ‘You said you’d never go back to him.’
‘He’s still my husband. The father of my children. After everything we’ve all gone through, I’ve realised I believe in the sanctity of marriage.’
‘But,’ he exclaims. ‘You always said the opposite. You believed in fidelity, and he’d breached it.’
We sit looking at each other, silence pressing against us. After what seems like forever, he opens his mouth again.
‘It’s since Carly’s collapse, isn’t it?’ he says.
I do not reply.
‘Has Carly’s illness been your retribution?’ he tries again, tapping his fingers on his desk, not far from her picture. ‘Is that what this has all been about, retribution?’
‘Rob, I knew you’d be upset. That’s why I wanted to keep things formal. I don’t think any of us can cope with more emotion. Craig and I move away next week.’ I put my hand on his arm. ‘But we’ve been through so much together, let’s make sure we keep in touch.’
FIVE
~ Rob ~
You lie on your back, mouth open, intubated – the breathing dead; paler than pale. Heather and I are sitting together, watching your chest rise and fall. As I watch you, Carly, the past feathers my mind. We are tumbling together across bed covers, laughing. I am running my fingers through hair that feels like silk and smells of cinnamon, burying myself in your breasts, in your warmth, in your life. I reach for your hand and hold it, but it lies limply in my palm. Your eyes open for a second. A trick of the light, of the shadows that surround you. I lean across to watch you more closely. A cruel, cruel trick of the light.
Back to the surgery for the afternoon clinic, pushing you from my mind as much as possible. Somehow at the surgery I override the memories and continue. I walk through the waiting area, nodding at the receptionists as I pass. Moving past row after row of elderly people with grey hair and grey clothing, past young mums with out-of-control toddlers they are trying to placate, worried middle-aged patients with frowns and spreading bellies. One of my patients smiles at me and I nod my head politely as I scuttle through the waiting room, trying to ignore the sound of coughing and sniffing, the undercurrent of bored chatter. Hating myself for keeping the sick waiting.
I open the door of my consulting room and Sharon is there, placing a cup of tea and a biscuit on my desk. A crumbly shortbread in a plastic package.
‘I thought you might need it,’ she says, turning to me. ‘How is she?’
‘The same.’
‘Do you think I’d better stop asking?’
‘If there’s any news I’ll tell you. How about that?’
Sharon’s hazel eyes are filled with pity, which makes me feel uncomfortable. I never envisaged a life that would make me eligible for it. She bustles out. I sigh inside and press the buzzer for my first patient.
My first patient is suffering from anxiety. However hard I try to help her, she can’t contain it and so I have to refer her on. Most of my elderly have arthritis or heart problems, or both. And one, a particular favourite of mine, a square-faced octogenarian lady with a feisty laugh and sparkling eyes, has a severe bout of bronchitis, which she is susceptible to from time to time. I treat a young woman for a UTI. And then anxiety again. So I prescribe diazepam, anti-depressants, paracetamol, beta-blockers, amoxicillin, trimethoprim, simvastatin, keeping my computer notes up to date between patients. Their problems are turning my attention away from my own.
At lunchtime, Sharon brings me a sandwich from the shop over the road; soggy ham and tomato on brown, with another cup of tea. Her eyes are still heavy with sympathy, still making me feel uncomfortable. Then it’s time for home visits. The day draws on as I drive around Stansfield, visiting people who are dying of cancer. The last one is a middle-aged spinster with colon cancer who has chosen to stop taking chemotherapy and let her end come naturally.
She opens her eyes as I enter her bedroom. Against all the odds, despite the ravages of cancer, she still looks pretty. Her hair has grown back, and although no longer shiny, it curls around her piercing eyes and high cheekbones. She i
s propped up on a frilly pillow surrounded by a floral duvet and the scent of stocks. She loves the scent of stocks; I brought her some last week.
Just as I am about to check her heartbeat with my stethoscope, she says to me: ‘I didn’t expect it to be this bad. I feel as if I’m rolling off a cliff.’
‘So do I.’
‘You’d better hold on tight, then. For Carly’s sake.’
‘You know about Carly?’ I ask.
‘Bad news even reaches a mausoleum like this.’ There is a pause. ‘What are her chances?’
‘Slim.’
‘Better than falling off a cliff, then. Hold on to her, Rob,’ she whispers. ‘Hold on to her and she won’t fall off like me.’
‘I promise you I will hold on tight. Tighter than tight.’
I place my stethoscope on her chest. She winces at the coldness of the metal. I listen to the beat of a heart that will not beat for much longer. Just a matter of time before it stops. At the moment it’s a bit fast, almost fibrillating, but not too bad. As I remove the stethoscope, she reaches for my hand. I take her hand and sit on the edge of her bed holding it. She smiles, a half smile, and closes her eyes. She looks so still. I bend across and kiss her on the forehead. A gentle kiss to wish her safe passage.
Back home. Heather has fed the children, supervised reading and bath time, and has them sitting in a line on the sofa, good as gold. They are shiny and clean, watching Fantasia. There is always a film addiction, something they want to keep watching and watching, making my life a little easier.
‘Daddy, Daddy, please can we stay up to watch the end of this?’
‘Yes, you can.’
I flop on the sofa to cuddle them. Matt and John wriggle onto my knees, one on each leg, wrapping themselves around my torso like ivy. Pippa snuggles up by my side and I put my arm around her. I inhale baby shampoo. I inhale Badedas. Heather, relieved of responsibility, puts her head back, closes her eyes and falls asleep. Her once clear skin is now dappled brown like potato peel. Her hair, once streaked with brown and grey, is now a garish ghostly white. For a second, in my mind’s eye, I think I see Carly sitting next to her, kicking off a pair of killer heels, flopping back in the sofa to guzzle a large glass of wine. Heather turning to look at her daughter fondly. I tear my eyes away from them, used to many such mirages when I am at home, and try to concentrate on ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’ from Fantasia. The music is evocative. Too evocative to be accompanied by Mickey Mouse, who steals the Sorcerer’s hat, imbuing him with magical powers. In his dreams he can control the world, the stars, the tides, the seas. When he wakes, his world is flooding. He tries to control it, but he cannot. The water rises and rises. The more he waves his wand, and the more he tries to clear it up with his broom, the more it rises. The graphics are so clear, so intense, the water looks as if it will burst into the sitting room and drown us. At last the sorcerer reappears, and puts everything right in an instant. How I pray for that. Dear Lord Jesus, how hard I pray for that.
Obsession: A shocking psychological thriller where love affairs turn deadly Page 17
