Obsession: A shocking psychological thriller where love affairs turn deadly

by Amanda Robson

  ‘Carly, was all this really necessary?’

  You lower your eyes and look at your feet.

  The judge enters from a door behind his seat at the front of the court. He sits high up in the middle, the focal point of the room. We all stand up as he enters. When he sits down, we all copy him. He looks across to the clerk of the court.

  ‘Please bring the jurors in.’

  I look across at you, Carly, watching the jury enter, eyeing them with a distant, diffident air. Running your fingers through your short wavy hair. You do not look afraid or intimidated. Just bemused. Interested. You have a calm surety about you which will take you a long way. As I look at you, sitting there in sugar pink, bathed in candyfloss innocence, I smell it all again.

  The acrid smell of death that will never go away.

  ~ Carly ~

  I spend hours layering my face with natural make-up. Mum has chosen me tasteful, low-key clothing; Brora, Monsoon, M&S. Nothing too flashy. Nothing too figure-hugging. Everything pastel. I sit in the dock, concentrating on the trial and on my facial expressions, my body language trying to remember what Mr Hockerman said about ‘demeanour in the box’. Demeanour, typical Mr Hockerman, who uses a word like that these days? I sit, feet apart, hands in my lap, shoulders wide, flattened back. I do not glare. I do not frown. I do not put my hands to my mouth.

  It is too hot in this court. Sweat pools at the base of my spine, behind my knees, on my forehead. Lakes and lakes of it. I cannot draw attention to it by wiping it away, so I must sit, shoulders back, allowing it to pour off me, embracing it as part of me. Part of my heat. Part of my energy.

  I watch the judge sipping water from his glass, his Adam’s apple descending as he drinks. He is flicking through the papers in front of him, boredom brushing across his face. Every time he speaks, the jury turn their heads towards him with staring eyes, heads stiff like a row of puppets.

  Hours have melted into days.

  Endless transportation between the Old Bailey and the holding jail they’ve put me in for the trial, rattling about cuffed in my cubicle. Endless time spent watching the jury; listening, fidgeting, yawning, taking notes. Their sharp intake of breath when they were shown your photograph, Jenni. Oh, the fascination of the charcoal crust of death.

  The closer we are to the end of the trial, the more the hours are stretching. The tighter the knots in my stomach. The sweeter my smile. The more I mimic your cow eyes, Jenni. For they move towards me, still. I will never forget them.

  ~ Rob ~

  You sit in the dock swathed in violet silk, your hands clasped in front of you. The jury are sitting, backs straight, eyes fixed on Miss Sally Jennings, the prosecution barrister who is about to sum up. The air is so heavy it presses against my lungs as I breathe. Sally Jennings is thin and aggressive, everything about her pointy and scratchy; her face, her fingernails, even her hairstyle. A chin-jutting, pugilistic woman who I know Mr Hockerman QC doesn’t like.

  ‘Carly Burton is very bright,’ she starts. ‘Very manipulative. Carly knew Jenni was dangerous when she invited her to the bonfire party. It seems she was the only one who did – it’s fair to say that Carly was two steps ahead of everyone, even the police. And now it is known that Jenni did indeed kill her husband and his lover in a similar way to how Carly alleges Jenni tried to poison her. So Carly, a woman who hadn’t been believed by the police, decided to take the law into her own hands and deliberately gave Jenni petrol rather than paraffin to light the bonfire. She then made herself scarce and waited for the flames to erupt. It is obvious that Carly wanted Jenni out of the way because she thought Jenni was chasing her husband, Rob. The practice manager Sharon has corroborated in her witness statements that Jenni was indeed chasing Rob.’

  I watch your face blanching at the mention of Sharon. Sharon giving evidence against you.

  ‘So Carly had both motive and opportunity,’ the silk continues. ‘The only feasible verdict is guilty.’

  ‘No,’ I hear you articulate more loudly than you are allowed. But the judge shows you some mercy, he doesn’t reprimand you in public.

  Miss Sally Jennings sits down and Mr Hockerman stands up. He adjusts his glasses. Mr Hockerman swallows and turns his head to the jury, shoulders raised.

  ‘The evidence shows that my client, Carly Burton, suffered acute clinical depression which wore her down and led to a sexual affair which she deeply regrets. She was thrilled to be reconciled with her best friend Jenni, and exceedingly supportive when Jenni’s husband died last July. Carly is a loving nurse, wife and mother, who has been devastated by her friend’s death. She made the fatal mistake of giving her dear friend petrol instead of paraffin to light the bonfire. The family were tragically storing spare petrol in the shed in a similar canister. Carly simply got the canisters mixed up. This is a mistake for which she has already paid dearly; she has paid by losing her best friend. By being away from her family for so long. It is a mistake that has cleft her life in two. It is the responsibility of the court to release this woman and give her back to her family, all of whom are longing for her to come home.’

  You try to stop yourself from crying by biting your lower lip. You don’t manage. A tear escapes and runs slowly down your right cheek. You flick it away with your fingers.

  Miss Jennings and Mr Hockerman’s words burn in my brain. Why isn’t it obvious who to believe? How can truth be a compromise? Help me, Carly. Tell me the truth. Please.

  ~ Carly ~

  Counsel have summed up. The jury are deliberating. My life will be decided by people who don’t know me. I am sitting on a wooden slatted bench in a cell beneath the Crown Court, waiting. My whole family were in court today; Rob, Mum, Matt, John, Pippa. It was so good to see them that I didn’t listen to everything that was being said. Most of the time I just sat watching them. Watching my mother trying not to stare at me for too long, smiling at me and telling me she loves me with her eyes. Watching Pippa holding Matt’s hand. John and Matt, wriggling. Rob. Still and unresponsive. A cardboard cut-out of himself. A distant stranger I used to know.

  As I sit on this solid bench, I feel as though time has stopped. Perhaps it is the end of my life. For my life to continue, for time to move again, I need to go home. I attempt to pray. To beg an unknown deity to help me. But I stop myself. I don’t believe in God. I never have. I never will. All I believe in is movement and life. And that is what has been taken away from me. I close my eyes and attempt to float in the vacuum of my mind, slowing my breathing and preparing to die.

  A noise breaks through the vacuum. A guard has opened the door and is standing in front of me. The same guard that has been taking me up and down between my cell and the court all through my trial. Not that you’d know from any recognition or friendliness he shows me; there is none. No presumption of innocence with him. To him I am just a criminal. An invisible non-person, without feelings, without humanity.

  We go up in the lift together. He hasn’t cuffed me but his cuffs dangle in his right hand like a threat. Nausea swirls in my stomach. My hands tremble like feathers in the wind.

  I am led into the dock. My family are all watching me, everyone but Rob. Mum gives me a tart smile. Pippa engulfs me with her eyes. Matt and John sit looking at me like a pair of bush babies. I want to take them in my arms and hug them. Rob fiddles with his iPhone, busy-thumbed – too intense with emotion to look up.

  The judge enters and we stand and bow. He’s a neat little man of about sixty with a clean-shaven face and pebbly eyes. He asks the clerk to fetch the jury. The clerk, who looks angular and well-meaning, nods his head and slips away. The judge sits down, but I remain standing. I stare at the back of Mr Hockerman QC’s head, at his straight back, at his wig. Trying not to watch the jury coming in, I move my eyes down and focus on the floor. Thin blue carpet. A sweet wrapper. A plastic cup. One glance. I allow myself just one glance at the jury.

  A middle-aged woman with frown lines. A young man with a shaved head.

  Eyes back to the plas
tic cup. The plastic cup has a crack in it. If I were to drink out of it, I would scratch my lip.

  ‘Have you reached a decision?’ the judge asks, his voice humming in distant airwaves.

  The foreperson, the middle-aged woman with frown lines, stands up. She has metal grey hair the colour of a pan scrub. She takes a deep breath and replies,

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is that the opinion of all of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On the one and only count, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

  Time solidifies. Like it did in the cell, only worse.

  ‘Not guilty.’

  My knees fold. The world is no longer the world, but rather slow-motion cinema photography. The police officer opens the door to the dock in quarter time.

  ‘The defendant is free to go.’

  Free to go. But my muscles have spasmed. For a second I have forgotten how to walk. Then, slowly, slowly, I move past the glass wall of the dock into the courtroom. Slowly, slowly, my family move towards me. My mother reaches me first and clamps me against her. Drowning me in the softness of her cashmere. Choking me with the strength of her perfume. Pippa and the boys are crushed against my legs. Mr Hockerman QC is approaching, his face split in two by a grin. Somehow through the body-blanket of my family I manage to shake his hand and thank him.

  Through cuddles, kisses, smiles and laughter, through wondering how I get my possessions back from prison and whether they are even worth collecting, all I want to do is hold Rob.

  ‘Where’s Rob? Where’s Rob?’ My voice scratches in panic.

  My mother unfurls herself from me and steps to one side. Rob is standing right behind her.

  ‘Good to have you back, Carly,’ he says. Politer than polite. As if I am a stranger. He pulls me towards him. His body is taut, ready to spring away. I rest myself against him, but I do not feel part of him.

  We travel home on the train. It’s a journey which passes in a daze. A private journey held in public. A journey in which I wish to give nothing away. I sit limply next to Rob, allowing him to hold my hand dutifully, looking out of the window. Green trees and sunlight. Tower blocks. Litter and graffiti. My family must sense my mood. They do not push me to speak. They sit in silence too.

  Back home, Rob and I hit the booze. Beer for Rob. Red wine for me. Heather makes herself a sandwich and a cup of tea, and orders takeaway pizza for the children. Now they stab me with questions. Question after question. So many questions that my throat is sore from answering. Questions about my cell. About my cellmate. The food. The bed. The washrooms. The activities. I am revelling in their attention. Far too hyper to calm down and take an interest in anybody else. Eventually, pizza demolished, my mother shuffles the children up to bed. After a surfeit of cuddles from our offspring, Rob and I are alone at last.

  My mind is fugged with alcohol. The room is swaying gently around me. We’re sitting together on the sofa, pouring each other another glass each.

  ‘I told you Jenni was dangerous,’ I slur.

  The soft blurry colour of the room tightens around me. His face moves towards mine and sharpens. So close to me, his breath takes mine away.

  ‘What happened to Jenni is far too serious for an “I told you so”.’

  ‘Come on, Rob.’

  A long pause.

  ‘You don’t actually think I set fire to Jenni on purpose, do you?’

  ~ Rob ~

  ‘You don’t actually think I set fire to Jenni on purpose, do you?’ you ask, looking at me as if you would like to annihilate me.

  But Carly, I will not let you intimidate me. I do not reply. My whole life has become a lie. Staying married to you. Pretending you forced me to say I ‘quite liked’ Jenni, when Jenni had enthralled me for years. I stayed with you because of my Christianity. Oh, Carly, if I could turn the clock back. If only on that chilly night at the campsite in France, I had given a different answer. If only I had said, ‘Carly, I will never love anyone else as I love you.’

  Would that have stopped this chain reaction? One more lie and Jenni would have lived?

  ~ Carly ~

  You do not reply.

  Even tonight, when I’ve had so much to drink that my thoughts and my words are spinning in my head like tornados, I know from the twist of your face, the curve of your mouth, the flatness in your eyes, I know you do not believe me about Jenni.

  ‘Please, Rob,’ I beg. ‘Please tell me why you won’t accept the truth about Jenni.’

  ‘I never said I didn’t accept the truth about Jenni.’

  ‘You don’t need to. I can see it in your eyes.’

  You are sitting looking at me sanctimoniously – taking a leaf out of her book.

  I hate you, Rob. I hate you for not believing me.

  ‘I didn’t intend to kill Jenni,’ I scream at you.

  I lose control. I pummel you with my fists. I use all my energy to try and damage you, pulverising your arms, your stomach, your legs, with my fists. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I used to love you but there is a thin line between love and hate.

  ‘And it’s not just your attitude about the fire that cripples me,’ I shout. ‘It’s the way you can’t accept that Jenni was dangerous. The way you never believed me. The way you don’t even believe the police about what happened to Craig and Ana. It’s because you want Jenni to be innocent, not me. It’s because you wanted Jenni, not me.’

  You are backing away from me, cowering a little, using your arms to protect your body from my blows. From nowhere, you say,

  ‘Carly, I never found my diary. Where did you put it?’

  ‘I didn’t put it anywhere, you bastard,’ I shout.

  You manage to overpower me. You hold my arms behind my back, and my body against yours.

  ‘Carly, I’m sorry, let’s stop this. It’s out of control. Let’s talk about it in the morning. We’ve both had far too much to drink.’

  ~ Rob ~

  I lead you upstairs. Carly, you are very, very drunk. The drink has made you aggressive, even more volatile than usual, but you are calming down now. When you’ve slept off this poison, maybe then we can communicate. Find some peace between us. You are almost asleep as I undress you, slowly, slowly, carefully, carefully, splash your face with a little cold water and settle you into bed. I switch the light off and curl up beside you. Your breathing slows and deepens as you drift into a semi-comatose sleep.

  Hours and hours pass. But my body can’t relax and join you. Why are you lying to me? Where have you hidden my diary? My body is pumped up with alcohol and fury at the violence you have shown to me. I have looked everywhere for that diary, more or less ransacked the house. But whatever I do, after the way you have treated me, I want to find it now. My wakefulness is overpowering me. I feel so claustrophobic lying here, I need to get out of bed. I toss my covers away. I slip my feet to the floor and reach for my bathrobe, moonlight curling towards me from around the curtain edges. Carly, you are lying on your back, snoring gently. Sleep well. Sleep deep. It isn’t going to be an easy conversation in the morning. Avoiding the second stair that creaks, I creep downstairs.

  I crack the kitchen light on, and the familiarity of my family kitchen is illuminated in front of me, so still and dead in the middle of the night, like a stage set at the theatre waiting for the actors to walk across it and breathe some life into it. Pippa’s pink hairband lying by the computer. A row of wellington boots by the back door. An empty coffee cup by the sink waiting to be washed. It feels so cold when no one else is here. I put the kettle on to make a hot drink to warm myself up. The kettle seems to struggle noisily; I eventually manage to make myself a cup of Nescafé, and then sit in a chair at the kitchen table sipping it, placing my mind on rewind. Rewind until I’ve found my diary. Rewind. Rewind. Rewind. What does Heather always say when the children have lost something? Her words rotate in my mind. When did you last see it? When did you last play with it, darling? Rewind. Rewind. Rewind.

  A few nights
before the fire. Before Carly was in prison. I was writing in it. I had a terrible headache that night. The pain in my temples was cracking and cracking. It was becoming volcanic. I was looking for pain relief. My doctor’s case was upstairs and I didn’t feel like fetching it, so I started fumbling in our medicine cupboard which we keep in the kitchen. The childproof jar of ibuprofen that we always kept there was empty. So I pushed to the back and found an old paracetamol packet. Not my favourite treatment for a headache, but I didn’t want to wake the rest of my family up by rummaging about in the dark upstairs. So I swallowed some and hoped for the best. That was the last time I saw my diary. The night I developed that wretched headache. So, if Carly hasn’t stolen it, it might still be in here. Here in our family kitchen.

  Where to look? Where to look? It feels as if I’ve looked everywhere. I look everywhere again. Every pan drawer. Every cupboard. I even try the medicine cupboard. But the medicine cupboard is too small. I would never have put it in there. I push with my fingers, I shove, I bumble. Past old packets of aspirin, discarded blister packs that used to contain ibuprofen. I feel something smooth like leather. I clasp it in my fingers and pull.

  My diary is here.

  Carly Burton. Carly Burton Bright, I’ll catch you now.

  I sit at the kitchen table pelting through the pages to Heather’s shopping dates, the dates in question. The ninth of July. The seventeenth of September. The dates I have always been so suspicious of.