Guilt

by Amanda Robson

  ‘Theo, I can assure you I am not playing a game.’

  THE PAST

  97

  Zara

  You need to chill, Miranda, so I have asked Sebastian to go out for the evening, leaving us with some of his best Colombian Gold. You took a bit of persuading. You only smoke weed occasionally. But in the end you succumbed to my will.

  Mood music. Lying on the rug on the floor, on our stomachs, facing each other. Miranda, looking into your dark grey eyes, savouring the moment. I have rolled the spliff. You haven’t mentioned leaving Bristol again, so I am hoping you’ve changed your mind. That it was just a passing comment and you have already forgotten about it. We all think about escaping to a new life sometimes.

  I take the spliff first. Inhaling deeply, so deeply, holding it in. Slowly, slowly, pushing it out. You look so pretty, so floaty. Your turn. I pass you the spliff. I watch you like a mirror image. I watch your eyes. So shiny, so liquid, so doleful.

  We do not talk. We finish the joint. You stub it out in the ashtray between us. Now the edges of the room are soft and melty. The scent of the cannabis is heady. It wraps itself around me and makes me think of the colour purple. It comes to me clear as a bell. Cannabis is purple. A scent of purple smoke, as purple as heather on the mountainside. As purple as a bishop’s robe, or a queen’s regal gown.

  ‘Have you met anyone recently you fancy to hook up with, Miranda?’ I ask with a giggle. ‘You’ve not been with anyone for a while.’

  Even through the softening haze of cannabis, I see you look at me as if my words have burnt you.

  ‘I’m happy enough on my own at the moment.’

  The walls of our sitting room are moving in and out. It makes me feel a bit dizzy, but dizzy in a good way, a feeling I like. I am swaying. I am smiling. Giggling inside. The giggles feel like a bubbling stream running through the core of me.

  ‘I like being on my own,’ you repeat, not giggling and smiling. You are frowning. Your nostrils look wide.

  ‘But it’s fun having a man,’ I reply. Giggles cascade out of my mouth. I can’t stop them.

  ‘Fun I can do without.’ Your mouth is in a straight line.

  ‘Why do you want to do without fun?’ I ask with a shrug of my shoulders.

  ‘Do you think you and Sebastian are having fun?’ you ask, something wrong with your voice. It is cracked. Heavier than usual.

  ‘Yes. I do think we’re having fun. What’s wrong with that?’ I pause. ‘Are you jealous of me, Miranda? Jealous of what I have?’

  You don’t reply. You put your head back and laugh. A deep-rooted, throaty laugh. A scorning laugh that doesn’t sound real. Your coldness steps on my heart. Paralyses me with fear. Suddenly I wonder seriously – could you really be jealous of Sebastian and me? Is that what you want, Miranda? Is that what is wrong with you? I see the way you look at him sometimes, as if he confuses you. Is that just an act? Maybe he doesn’t confuse you. Maybe you love him. Maybe you are waiting in the wings to take away Sebastian. To destroy me. To take everything I have.

  Then you turn your head towards me and your eyes are soft and full of love. I take your hand in mine and I know that the cannabis is making me paranoid. It often does that.

  98

  Miranda

  I wake up a few nights after our cannabis session with severe chest pain. I know I am having a panic attack. I can’t control it. I can’t stop myself. Someone is strangling my heart with their fist. Stabbing my left arm. Thrusting pins into my jawbone. I am struggling to breathe. A cry for help, a pitiful cry from the edges of my mind, but no sound comes out. The pain is increasing. I’m dying. Please, please, someone help. I’m shouting. I’m screaming, but still no sound comes out.

  Something rips through the silence. A groan. A feral sound. And my bedroom light is snapped on. I blink. You are here, Zara, wearing a tracksuit; eyes wild, hair dishevelled. The pain in my chest increases. You rush to my bedside. Even through my pain I see that you look frantic.

  ‘What is it, Miranda?’ you ask.

  ‘I’m having a panic attack. Or a heart attack. Not sure which,’ I manage. ‘I feel really bad. Call an ambulance, now.’

  ‘Sebastian, quickly, quickly,’ I hear you shout.

  You sit on my bed and hold my hand. I feel your fingers trembling in mine. You lean across and kiss my cheek. I can smell the remnants of yesterday’s perfume on you, mingled with sweat and fish. The faint fishy smell makes me feel sick. I hear his grunting climax. I feel a knife grating on the walls of my vaginal passage. The burning pain rises like a volcano inside me. I breathe through the pain. Sebastian is here, standing behind you. The pain in my chest tightens.

  ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ he says.

  He is standing over my bed watching me. His black eyes are suffocating me. I turn my head into my pillow so that I don’t have to look at him. I hear a siren. The paramedics are here. Surrounding me. Moving my head away from my pillow. Force-feeding me oxygen. A burly man with short brown hair is cuffing my arm and taking my blood pressure. A man with dark hair and dark eyes is attaching electrodes to my chest.

  ‘We’re taking your ECG,’ he explains. ‘How’s the pain now?’ he asks.

  ‘Bad. Still very bad.’

  The portable screen by my bed explodes into darting lines. He watches it intently. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to cope with the pain. I open my eyes. He is standing over me, and you are standing next to him, face twisted with worry. Sebastian hovers behind you, hands on your waist. I see his spiky fingers, clasping onto your jeans. Spiky fingers that clasped onto me. I am sweating profusely. Sweat dripping off me like a tap.

  ‘Terrible. The pain is getting worse.’

  ‘We’re going to take you to hospital to get you checked out,’ the paramedic says.

  The burly man and a woman I hadn’t noticed before are wheeling a trolley into my bedroom. Gently, gently they lift me from my bed onto it, wrap me in a red blanket, and strap me in. I feel you next to me as we move into the ambulance. The journey is short and uncomfortable. Bumpy. The pain in my chest is still here and I struggle to breathe as the siren echoes around the ambulance, its every resonance reminding me there is something seriously wrong with me. Reminding me that I’m dying. I still feel you here, Zara, holding my hand. Somewhere along the route I am given oxygen again.

  Into the hospital. Straight into a curtained cubicle. Curtains pulled around me by a jaded nurse with dry skin and bags beneath her eyes. Circled by doctors. An ECG again. Needles. Blood test. Oxygen. A cuff on my arm. A drip.

  A young woman is walking towards me, soft red curls simpering around a heart-shaped face. She is a doctor. No uniform. Stethoscope around her neck. She stands by my bed.

  ‘Miranda,’ she says, ‘the good news is that so far all the test results are clear. We know it isn’t a heart attack. We think it is a panic attack as you feared.’ She leans towards me. Her pale brown eyes are misty with concern. ‘We’re keeping you in overnight for observation.’

  You are sitting in an armchair in the corner of the cubicle. Your eyes catch mine. You stand up and walk towards the doctor. ‘Panic attack? That’s not in character.’

  The soft red-haired doctor turns to look at you inquisitively. As if she’s only just noticed you’re there. ‘Isn’t it?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ you reply. ‘That’s my territory.’

  ‘Are you sisters?’

  ‘Non-identical twins.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that you’re both predisposed to it?’ the young doctor suggests gently.

  Zara and I exchange glances.

  The doctor turns from you back to me. ‘Is there anything worrying you more than usual?’ she asks, picking up the clipboard with the notes about me from the end of the bed, and flicking through them.

  I don’t reply.

  She is looking at me caringly, head on one side. ‘This panic attack has made you very ill. We’ll look after you tonight. Tomorrow we’ll discuss how we
’re going to help.’

  99

  Zara

  Back from the hospital, walking to the pub with Sebastian. It is a mild moonlit night. The violet sky almost translucent. I feel subdued, heavy. Sebastian senses my mood. We don’t talk. All I can hear is our feet pounding along the pavement, my heart thumping against my eardrums, and the occasional cry of a seagull.

  As soon as we arrive at the pub, Sebastian heads for the bar and I go to find a table. Our usual table is occupied by a group of elderly men cradling their pints, already glued to the football we have come here to watch. With no other choice I grab an uncomfortable spot too close to the noise from the bar. I sit down and my mind turns back to you, Miranda. Reliving my fear that you were having a cardiac arrest. The sight of your dank hair, damp with cold sweat, plastered to your forehead, to your cheek.

  Sebastian sidles back from the bar, drinks in hand.

  ‘Old sods taken our table have they?’ he says. ‘Shouldn’t be allowed.’ He places our drinks on the table. A pint for him and what looks like a pint of white wine for me. He sits down and starts to sip the top off his drink, eyes holding mine.

  ‘So tell me more about your sis. What do you think the prognosis will be?’

  ‘They’ll confirm tomorrow, but they think she’s had a panic attack and she needs help. Therapy.’

  He puts his pint on the table, eyes riddled with concern. ‘What sort of therapy?’ he asks.

  ‘CBT, I expect.’

  He frowns, sips his beer, and cranes his neck to watch the football. He becomes engrossed in the game. I continue to worry. After a while Liverpool score. The Liverpool crowd sing their anthem to us through the television. ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ hums out.

  Sebastian moves his chair away from the table closer to the television. I follow him. One-nil. Chelsea up the defence. Liverpool don’t seem to be able to get close again. Suddenly from nowhere Willian kicks across field and, at last, Morata gets an opportunity. He slides the ball past the defenders from a wide angle and hits the back of the net. The pub turns electric. Everyone stands up and cheers. Sebastian is swaying and singing the Chelsea anthem.

  I join in. And by the time I have almost finished my pint of wine, and my world is becoming softer and easier, Chelsea have scored another goal and won the game. I wasn’t watching properly. I’m not sure who scored the second time. Sebastian lifts me in the air and kisses me.

  After the jubilant post-match interviews, the publican switches off the TV. The elderly men leave. We get our usual table back. Now we are sitting by the fire, finishing off our drinks and watching the flames. I am still thinking about you, Miranda. Now the football is over I can talk to Sebastian properly.

  ‘I just don’t understand what’s triggered her problems,’ I say. ‘She was always so calm, so collected. So much stronger than me.’

  His eyes harden and he slowly shrugs his shoulders. ‘Maybe she was never as calm as you thought. She’s certainly finding the tax case she is working on very difficult, spending far too much time without taking a break.’ Another shrug. ‘Maybe university was her academic zenith. Maybe she’s not as bright as you think.’

  ‘Of course she’s as bright as I think. Harrison Goddard haven’t given her a lobectomy,’ I snap.

  ‘OK, OK, sorry.’ He raises his hands as if to say truce. ‘What about another drink?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  I watch him walk to the bar. Broad shoulders. Painted-on jeans. My heart lurches as it always does when I see him from a distance. I watch him talking to the barmaid. She is smiling. She has her head back laughing. She leans towards him. He whispers something in her ear. Now she giggles like a schoolgirl. He has such an effect on women. Women always like him. A stone coagulates inside me.

  Except Miranda.

  I see Miranda, stiffening when he touches her. Why can’t she relax with him? I look across at him, charming the barmaid, at his characterful angular face. Is the weird idea I had a few days ago that Miranda is in love with him true? The sudden fear pulsates towards me again. Is she torn in half by jealousy? Overcome by his charm, by his looks? Miranda, in love with Sebastian? If it was the case surely there would be more obvious signs? It’s just a passing thought. A passing fear. I push it away.

  Sebastian returns with our drinks. ‘It’s almost Easter,’ he announces as he places them on the table. ‘Are you going to come home with me? My parents are away.’

  ‘Away again?’ I pause. ‘I didn’t even know they had come back. Where have they gone this time?’

  What has he done to deserve parents like this who seem so uninterested in him? He doesn’t reply. His dark eyes hold mine.

  ‘Keep me company. Leave Miranda here.’

  ‘I’m so worried about her. How can I leave her alone right now?’

  He frowns in concern. ‘She told me a few days ago that she wanted the flat to herself for the holidays.’ He pauses. ‘And she’ll be over whatever she’s going through by then. Having some time to herself will do her good.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  He puts his hand on my knee. ‘Come on. What do you say?’ His eyes are goading me.

  ‘Give me time to think.’

  100

  Sebastian

  A crack in the armour again. I am getting there at last. Zara is definitely beginning to see how difficult her sister is. Their relationship isn’t as perfect as they think. Not like ours. There never was a relationship as golden as ours. A pair of birds with gilded soaring wings. Birds I thought would fly together forever. Fly and fly, and never, ever fall.

  101

  Miranda

  Lying in the hospital, drifting towards sleep.

  Sleep. Is this sleep? Dreaming I am in bed with Sebastian. He is lying next to me holding my hand. He rolls on top of me, smelling faintly of tobacco, of testosterone-fuelled sweat. He is inside me. I scream as I climax. I scream as I reach for my knife. My climax encourages his. Men like it, don’t they, when you enjoy it? It makes them feel in control, powerful.

  The knife pulsates in my fingers. The knife pulsates into his stomach. I thrust it up. I push. He grunts like a stuck pig in my ear as he climaxes. He climaxes at the moment of his death. I push him out of me, away from me, and calmly, slowly, cover his already stiffening body with a sheet.

  Naked, I pad to the shower to wash his scent away, to soap myself. I rub the soap hard across my body and it froths up like bubble bath. Surrounded by bubbles and froth. It is a long time since I felt so relaxed. Sebastian is dead and I can sing about it. Heart and mind singing about his demise. But no. He is here. He has come back to life. Naked. Erect. Walking towards the shower. Walking towards me to take me again.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ I say.

  ‘You will never win, Miranda, you will never kill me. Like a cat, I have nine lives.’

  He sounds and walks like an automaton. His movements are slow and stiff. Alive, but not alive. Pallor translucent. He opens the shower door and steps inside. He smells of rotting meat. I back away from him. But he is strong, so much stronger than me. He puts his fingers around my throat and tightens them. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I knee him in the groin as hard as I can. He loosens his grip on my throat for a second and I thrust him away with as much force as I can muster.

  He slips on the floor of the shower, which is covered in a sticky, glue-like substance. He slips, and bangs his head so hard on the glass shower door that he slumps in the shower tray, unconscious. Blood is spurting from his head. It soaks across the shower tray. It seeps across my feet. It is sticky. He has stopped breathing. Dead once again.

  I put my head back and laugh.

  I wake up in the hospital bed still smelling his blood. I am no longer laughing. I am shaking. This is serious. I need help.

  102

  Miranda

  You have gone to Sebastian’s house for an extended Easter break, and thankfully I am having some time away from you both. Away from the pitying look
s you have been giving me since I came out of hospital. Away from the ever-increasing temptation to hurt your lover. I know I need help, and I am getting it. The doctors at the hospital have referred me on.

  The psychotherapist I have been assigned to works from her own home. I arrive outside a balanced Georgian town house in the prettiest part of Clifton and walk up the drive, past a shiny grey Mercedes, to ring an old-fashioned pull bell that surprises me by still working. The door is answered promptly by a young woman wearing copious mascara, a short skirt and flat shiny pumps.

  ‘Come in,’ she says. ‘Are you Miranda Cunningham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I step into the hallway. It is beautiful. Oak planking. Indian rugs. Original paintings. Tasteful and old-fashioned.

  ‘Do follow me to the waiting room.’

  The waiting room is the family sitting room. Soft golden walls, sofas of gold-tinged cream. Photographs everywhere. Bose sound system. Large TV. A display cabinet full of treasures and ornaments. Greeting cards on the mantelpiece, a mixture of congratulations and thanks. One day in a better life I would love a house like this. Full of mementoes and memories. I think about the emptiness of Sebastian’s house and a chill runs through me. Sebastian. At least I don’t have to see him for a while.

  After a few minutes a middle-aged woman steps into the room. ‘Hi, I’m Jill Watson-Smith. Welcome. Pleased to meet you.’

  She pushes her hand towards me in greeting. I stand up and take it. She shakes my hand vigorously and flashes a high-wattage smile at me. Her large blue eyes radiate intensity.

  ‘Follow me. Please, come into my consulting room.’

  Her consulting room is a tiny panelled space off the side of the family sitting room. It contains two easy chairs and a coffee table. It has a very small window, the view from which is blocked by a contortion of ivy. The panelled walls display a strange mix of paintings and photographs. Wedding photographs. Degree photographs. Small framed prints.