Guilt

by Amanda Robson

‘I just meant we could have bumped into one another earlier and I still would have …’ His words trip into one another and stop.

  Still would have, what? I think but don’t ask. He is looking uncomfortable. Embarrassed.

  ‘Shall we go there for a bit while I book a hotel?’ he continues. ‘The Ibis is the closest.’

  The Ibis Hotel. My stomach coagulates. The hotel I ran to the night Sebastian raped me. The night of my walk of shame. My body shudders.

  ‘I can’t face going there either.’

  ‘So …’ There is a pause. ‘You’re welcome to stay at my place?’ Theo looks even more embarrassed than he did a few minutes ago. ‘I mean, I can sleep on the sofa; you can sleep in my bed.’

  ‘But Theo, I’ve caused you so much trouble.’

  ‘That’s not how I see it. I think it’s Sebastian who’s caused all the trouble.’

  He puts his arm around my shoulders to comfort me as we step towards his flat. His arms around my shoulders feel so natural. So comfortable. The evening breeze hisses through the ferns and grasses planted at the edge of the ornate pathway that separates our two blocks of flats. The evening breeze caresses my skin reminding me, like the feel of Theo’s body against mine, that in some small ways even after everything that has happened it is good to be alive.

  Good luck. Take care, Jane the listener said. Be patient. It will take time to pull your life back. Don’t expect too much too quickly. I need to remember that.

  Theo’s flat is shiny and new like mine. Very similar to mine, in fact. White tiled floor, toffee sofas, toffee-coloured kitchen granite. Same builder. Same interior designer.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ he asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘A glass of water perhaps?’ A pause. ‘Or a glass of champagne, to celebrate the verdict?’

  ‘Perhaps I could have a glass of champagne. It isn’t every day I get out of prison. I need to try and relax.’

  His face crumples with concern. He moves towards me, wraps his arms around me, and holds me against him again. The feel of him, the scent of him, reassures me.

  ‘Miranda, you have been through so much,’ he whispers. ‘It’s over now.’

  We stand clamped together. I wish I could press a button and stand like this forever. But after a while he steps back, eyes molten.

  ‘Let’s have that champagne.’

  He steps to the fridge, pulls out a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck, pops the cork, and pours us a glass each. He opens the patio doors and we step out onto his wide, wide balcony. I can see Harbourside and the SS Great Britain. I can see the Wills Memorial Building and the cathedral. We clink glasses.

  ‘Miranda, here’s to you. For surviving your ordeal.’

  ‘Here’s to you for rescuing me. For saving my life.’

  We clink glasses again. We laugh. Then my eyes begin to fill with tears.

  ‘Thank you Theo. Thank you so much.’ I pause. ‘How did you know what was going to happen?’

  I take a sip of champagne. It slips down my throat like silk.

  ‘The more I investigated Sebastian, the more worried I became about him.’

  I am shivering again.

  ‘Do you want to go inside?’

  ‘No. I never want to go inside again.’

  Theo laughs. He takes off his jacket and puts it around my shoulders.

  ‘Did you know he was a twin?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. His twin brother Jude and his parents were killed in a car accident, nearly three years ago now. Sebastian was driving at the time. He was convicted for dangerous driving. After their deaths, he had two years off work before he could cope.’

  ‘But … but …’ I splutter, ‘he pretended his parents were alive. They just seemed to be permanently away, on a cruise, on a holiday. What a weird way to behave. But then he is weird. Seriously strange.’

  ‘He’s a liar. A serial liar. I don’t think he wanted to admit they were gone even to himself. I think he kept the house as a mausoleum to them. He couldn’t bear to sell it. He couldn’t bear to live in it full time, because of the memories.’

  ‘Lying about his family. That makes sense. They always seemed so distant. So strange. Always away.’ I pause. ‘Were they even doctors like he said?’

  ‘Yes. That much was true. PhD doctors. Well respected in their research area I gather.’

  Something stirs in the distance of my memory. ‘What did you say his brother was called?’

  ‘Jude.’

  And I step back in time.

  ‘Good to meet you, Sis,’ he says.

  ‘Please call me Miranda,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘Of course, Miranda. Far more glamorous than Sis.’

  ‘Not as glamorous as Sebastian.’

  He grins. His grin is a major weapon in the artillery of his attractiveness.

  ‘I suppose my name is a little flowery.’ He pauses. ‘Not as compact as Jude.’

  ‘What has Jude got to do with it?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing.’ He grins again. ‘Just the name of someone I once knew.’

  The memory fades. I am back in the present, looking into Theo’s eyes. Theo’s eyes pushing Sebastian’s eyes away.

  ‘He was very close to his brother. Losing his brother seemed to affect him very seriously,’ Theo says.

  ‘I can understand that,’ I say tears welling. ‘I miss Zara, very, very, much.’

  ‘He missed his brother terribly. He couldn’t bear watching you two together reminding him of what he had lost, so he drove you apart.’

  ‘How did you manage to figure that?’

  ‘I had him followed.’

  ‘That must have cost.’

  ‘Worth every penny.’

  ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘He visited his brother’s grave regularly to put flowers on it – he sobbed his heart out, every time. He visited his parents’ graves too. They were all close together. But he always seemed even more upset by his brother’s.’

  ‘I suppose he did go home almost once a week. I never really thought about what he was doing.’

  ‘A lot of my deductions about him were just guesswork. Educated guesswork. The hateful way he looked at you at the funeral. The way he lied about his family.’ There is a pause. ‘I guessed he was in denial about his parents, about his brother. I guessed that he was warped and wanted you two to be without each other. Why should you have what he hasn’t?’

  I shiver inside. I shake my head. ‘Poor Sebastian.’

  ‘Miranda, reserve your sympathy. Think what he’s done to you. How you’ve lost Zara. How you have suffered for being responsible for her death. He has refused any help. He wouldn’t have counselling. He slipped through society’s support net.’

  ‘But will he get help from now on?’

  ‘Yes. He will get psychiatric help in prison.’

  ‘When did you first realise how very dangerous he was?’ I ask and then once again my mind steps back. Sitting in the Roebuck on a Saturday night.

  ‘What I want to know,’ he is saying as he sits down, ‘my dearest twins, is if you had been on the Titanic as it went down, just how far would you have gone to protect one another?’

  ‘Oh Sebastian, it’s Saturday night. Can’t we just have fun instead of dwelling on problems that don’t exist?’ I groan and take a large gulp of red wine.

  Zara, you are leaning across the table and smiling at Sebastian, golden brown hair shimmering in the firelight. You turn to me. ‘But Miranda, it’s fun to contemplate different scenarios.’

  ‘Until you met Sebastian I always thought it was implicit we’d go all the way to protect each other,’ I almost snap. My voice sounds haughty. Harsh and robotic.

  ‘Are you saying I’ve fragmented your relationship?’ Sebastian asks holding my gaze for too long.

  I shiver at the memory, and then my memory deepens.

  ‘Please Sebastian. Please don’t tell Zara about what happened between us.’

&nb
sp; ‘You sound as if you’re begging.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I like it when you beg.’

  The cruelty. The way he tormented me.

  ‘I like it when you beg.’

  I pull myself away from my memories.

  ‘Theo, when did you first realise he was dangerous?’ I repeat.

  ‘The way you reacted whenever I mentioned his name made me think he had hurt you. But when I was researching him I found two rape allegations against him, both of which were suddenly dropped. That’s when I really knew something was very, very wrong.’

  ‘You sorted it out.’

  ‘I did.’ He pauses to take a sip of his champagne. ‘I traced the girls who had made the complaints and went to interview them. They dropped the cases because he had threatened them after raping them. But as you know, Caroline Holt, when she heard what you had gone through, agreed to be a witness for your case. A brave girl who didn’t want him getting away with anything like this again.’ Another gulp of his wine. ‘Guesswork and intuition. Works every time.’

  ‘Anything else you’d like to tell me, Theo? Anything else left to guess?’

  He leans towards me and kisses me. At first I just let him kiss me and then I begin to kiss him back. Soft gentle kisses. He tastes celebratory. Of Piper-Heidsieck. Of happiness, of success. Gentle kisses so different from Sebastian’s anger.

  ‘I would like to try and guess whether, if I was very lucky, you would be interested in coming out for dinner with me, when you have recovered from tonight’s ordeal?’

  ‘I think it would be a fair bet to guess yes.’

  ‘A fair bet?’

  Another kiss – longer this time. Longer, firmer, greedier.

  ‘More than a fair bet.’ I pause and look into his eyes. I pull back. ‘But there’s one more thing I want you to know. Something I feel bad about.’

  His eyes soften with concern.

  ‘When Sebastian was tormenting me, after he had raped me, I used to dream, even fantasise about killing him.’ My voice is stalling. Tears prickle in the corner of my eyes. ‘Tonight, I almost stabbed him. I had my fingers in the drawer, fumbling for the carving knife.’

  His eyes melt into mine and push Sebastian’s eyes away. He pulls me against him and holds my head against his chest. ‘Miranda, the man tormented you to hell and back. You didn’t kill him. You didn’t murder your sister. Your life will move forward from now on.’

  We kiss again. His kiss pulls me in. I want him so much. He breaks away.

  ‘Please Miranda, stop blaming yourself. None of this is your fault.’

  162

  Sebastian

  In prison, I have had so much time to relive my nightmares. All of them. Not just in my sleep. They have haunted me day and night, reaching out to me as I try to carry out my prison job in the laundry. As I thrust wet clothes into the tumble dryer, or as I am ironing. Moving towards me as soon as I am alone in my cell for the evening – no one to talk to, nothing to do but read books, or watch TV.

  First, I see your face, Jude. Then your crumpled body. Sometimes I see Mother and Father, as they once were. They come to me, young again. Holding hands, laughing, and smiling. Then I hear and feel the crash.

  Sometimes I see you, Zara, running towards me on Hannover Quay, hair streaming like silk behind you. I reach out to try and stroke your face but as soon as I stretch my hand towards you, you disintegrate slowly, like a satellite TV picture losing transmission.

  I see Miranda’s face and feel the knife in my hand. I close my eyes and feel the urge I had to plunge it deep into her jugular. That desire rotates in the core of my stomach. Sometimes my nightmare tells me I did it. And then blood flows all over my hands, dank and sticky.

  Zara, I’m so sorry. I was off my head on alcohol and drugs. I feel so guilty now. Like me and Jude, you and your sister have lost so much. I feel guilty for all I have done. Attempting to kill her. The anger. The rape. The psychotherapist is helping me. The grief counsellor. The sex therapist. I am on a programme to help with grief and anger. A programme that is reducing my pain.

  163

  EPILOGUE

  Evening sunlight slips through our bedroom window, stroking my daughter’s head, as I sit on our bed feeding her. She is latched to my breast. Like superglue. A rhythmic suction pump, sucking and pulling. The rhythm of the pull is calming, satisfying. I could sit like this for ever. A freeze-frame moment to be remembered, like the first time I felt her body move inside mine. Or maybe every time I felt the miracle of life inside me.

  One girl. Not twins. I suppose somewhere deep inside I thought I might produce twins. Even though the medical profession assured us there was only one. Sometimes Theo and I would laugh about what we would do if we suddenly had to go and buy an extra set of everything.

  Olivia. Golden. Like you, Zara. Like Mother. Golden skin. Golden hair. Golden eyes. Satisfied from her feed, her head drops back from my nipple, as she falls asleep. Never have I seen such bliss. Olivia asleep. Soft-limbed. Open-mouthed.

  Cradling her in my arms, head in my right hand, as if she is precious treasure, I slip off my bed and tiptoe slowly towards her cot. Gently, carefully, I lower her towards the mattress. Gently, carefully, I lay her on her back and begin to move my hands away. She stretches her chubby arms above her head, opens her eyes, looks at me, and smiles. Six weeks old today. Her first real smile. My heart soars. Zara, it is your smile. A little part of you lives on. In my heart. In my daughter’s smile.

  I look across at Mother; here to help in my early weeks of motherhood, so exhausted she has fallen asleep in my nursing chair. She needs her sleep. I will not wake her now. Tomorrow she will see her other daughter’s smile once again.

  I think of you, Zara – your warmth. Your smile. Of how much you loved Sebastian. His psychotherapist has written to me, explaining at length how much he is improving in prison. How guilty he feels. Maybe one day he will be well enough to meet Olivia. Maybe Olivia’s smile will help him to live.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank four people in particular for their help with Guilt.

  First, my agent Ger Nichol of The Book Bureau, for all her encouragement and support. And then, of course, my fantastic editor Phoebe Morgan of Avon HarperCollins, and her wonderful team. It was a lucky day for me when my work landed on Phoebe’s desk. She is such a pleasure to work with. Next, my dear old friend, Charles Owens, a retired police inspector. Charles is my tireless police advisor. I don’t think I would have got away with writing crime in the first place, if it wasn’t for him. He continues to advise and support me. Last, but by no means least, my husband Richard, my long-suffering first reader. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  As to everyone else, close friends, family, my parents, Shirley and Peter, I think you know how much I appreciate you. Or you should by now. I want to thank my new friends too. Friends I have met through the crime writing community. You are such fun. Thanks for welcoming me. For allowing me to join in.

  He’s not your husband. He’s hers.

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  Read on for a sample of Amanda’s debut, Obsession.

  ONE

  ~ Carly ~

  I am drunk; liquid-limbed, mind-pumping drunk, and so is my husband, Rob. Craggy features, softened by shadows, move towards me across the mosquito candle placed in the middle of the camping table, as he smiles at me and tops up my glass. I shiver a little and zip up my jacket. The low sky of this Breton night has brought the sort of chill that predicates frost. But although frost won’t happen in July in the south of Brittany, during this camping holiday, I have not felt warm enough. Not once. Not at night, curled up beneath my inadequate blanket, or in the day when I’m supervising our children around the unheated swimming pool. The extra layer of body fat, cultivated after the arrival of our third child, is not protecting me from the cold.

  Our children are asleep in the tent behind us. I feel their silence and th
e exhalation of their breath, deep rooted and satisfying. At least I don’t have to watch their every movement until morning, as I do during the days. Holidays aren’t holidays any more. We just take our children to a different place to look after them. A place that is harder work.

  Everything about this camping holiday is exhausting. Standing by the pool for hour after hour, checking that they’re not drowning. The boredom of watching and waiting for the occasional sight of a familiar head coming out from behind a plastic palm tree or poolside dolphin. Holding giggling toddlers as we are tossed down knotted plastic tubes, sliding along until we’re spewed out into the water, the movement almost breaking our backs. The endless cooking of barbecues – washing burnt gunk off the griddle. As far as I am concerned this is the best part of the day; the children are in bed and I have Rob to myself.

  For this is what I like. Rob to myself. We married just over ten years ago, so we were alone for several years before our children were born. We met at the training hospital when I was a trainee nurse and he was a junior doctor. I will never forget the sight of him walking down the ward towards me, that first cracked smile. No doubt someone looking in would consider our relationship argumentative. Some of our friends say that they never have a cross word. How do they achieve that? Why do we argue? My mother says it is because we care. Whatever. It isn’t really a satisfactory day without the rumblings of a discussion.

  Tonight, sitting opposite my husband, a surfeit of alcohol pounding through my veins, I am filled with a new kind of mischief.

  ‘Who else would you go for, if you could?’ I hear myself slur.

  ‘No one,’ he slurs back.

  ‘I don’t believe you. You tell me and I’ll tell you,’ I push.

  Rob sits in silence.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s be really honest – to compound our relationship.’

  He looks at me and puts his plastic wine glass on the metal table.

  ‘But Carly, we don’t need to compound our relationship.’