Am I Guilty

by Jackie Kabler

  Because that was the thing, you see. I knew what happened that day, of course I did. I knew, because everyone had told me, and because the facts spoke for themselves. I got drunk, and fell asleep, and woke up in every mother’s worst nightmare, a horror film, the end of my world.

  I remembered that bit vividly, the bit when the darkness came down, and life changed for ever. But before that, earlier in the day, the lunch with Isla and the children, the drive home, leaving my baby in the car to die? I knew what people had told me. But I couldn’t remember anything. I killed my baby, and I couldn’t remember a single thing about it.

  13

  ANNABELLE

  It snowed during the early hours of Saturday morning, and I woke up just before eight to shrieks of joy from Millie and Sienna, and the pounding of their feet on the stairs as, still in pyjamas, they rushed outside to dance in the garden, scooping up handfuls of the cold white powder and flinging it at each other. Greg grunted and turned over in bed as I stood at the window watching my children and laughing, their delight contagious.

  I hadn’t slept well for the past couple of nights, my thoughts returning time and time again to little Zander Ashfield, and Flora’s anguished face as she recounted the details of his final hours. Before Wednesday night, before I’d heard all the sordid, alcohol-sodden details, I’d secretly had a tiny shred of sympathy for Thea – I knew what it was like running your own business and having small children to look after, the crazy busyness of every waking hour, the impossibility of keeping on top of everything, the non-stop juggling of work and motherhood.

  There’d even been times, just a few, when I’d briefly forgotten my own children – well, not forgotten them entirely, but been so engrossed in a quote or in planning an event that school pick-up time had come and gone and I’d still been there, head down at my desk or at the kitchen table, until my phone had rung and an icily polite school secretary had asked me if I would be collecting the children today, or was somebody else supposed to be doing it?

  Those phone calls would send me into a panic, grabbing my car keys and driving far too fast to Cheltenham, arriving red-faced and sweaty, apologizing profusely to whichever irritated teacher had been given the job of waiting for today’s latecomers, Oliver and Millie slumped on hard, straight-backed chairs in the entranceway, bored and grumpy, and fractious all the way home.

  So, yes, when I’d initially heard about the dreadful thing that had happened at Thea’s, I had felt a tiny bit sorry for her.

  ‘There but for the grace of God …’ I’d said to Greg, who’d shaken his head vehemently.

  ‘You would never, ever have done that. Never,’ he’d said.

  And now, having heard what had really happened, that Thea was drinking heavily, driving her children home in that awful state and then passing out with those terrible, nightmarish consequences, I knew that Greg had been right. I would never have done that, never in a million years, and all traces of sympathy for Thea had been completely wiped out. The woman was a monstrosity.

  It wasn’t as if we’d ever been close, both too busy with work and family to have much time for making new friends, but there’d been, I’d thought, a mutual respect there in the past, a sense that we understood each other, that we were similar in many ways. We’d chat briefly at the school gates, at the occasional party, although much of the conversation was practical, discussions of arrangements between our daughters, plans for weekend play dates and sleepovers.

  I liked her, but she intimidated me a little, if I was honest. It was her exotic beauty – those dark eyes and high cheekbones, the leanness of her body, the fullness of her lips. She was sexy, even I could see that, and I’d watch her at social events, envying her confidence, envying the naked lust in the eyes of the men in the room when they looked at her, worrying that Greg would be among them.

  People looked at her in a different way now, revulsion replacing the admiration, and finally I was finding myself revolted too.

  And yet, there was Nell, the little girl of whom I was so very fond, who was so close to Millie and who I desperately wanted to protect and look after. Nell, Thea’s daughter. And that made all this even more difficult, impossible, because I knew I would have to maintain some sort of relationship with Thea, for her daughter’s sake, and for Millie.

  As I watched my beautiful little girls bounding across the snowy lawn, cheeks pink and hair flying behind them, I felt a sudden surge of anger. How could the courts have given Thea joint custody of Nell when she had done such a terrible thing? How on earth did they think she could be trusted with something so precious, when she clearly had so little regard for her children’s safety? At the time, Rupert had told us that Nell had desperately wanted to stay with her mother after he left, and that it was for her sake that he hadn’t begged the court for sole custody.

  ‘She’s in a bad enough way after losing her brother. She was hysterical when she thought she might lose her mother too. And Thea doesn’t usually get drunk, not unless Isla’s around, so I didn’t make it an issue, even though I could have,’ he told us, the first time we’d seen him after the residency hearing. ‘And to be honest, I can’t manage Nell full-time anyway, not with work. I can’t even bear to look at Thea right now, but she’s only having Nell three days a week, and I get her four. They said even though she did what she did, there’d been no reason for concern about her parenting before that, no police record, no social services involvement, no indication that Nell could come to any harm. It’ll be OK, I hope, and if it isn’t, if I get even the tiniest hint that Nell’s in any danger …’

  But it didn’t seem right to me. The woman had neglected her baby and let him die, for goodness’ sake. How could anyone guarantee that Nell would be safe with her?

  On the bedside table, my phone started to ring and, lost in thought, I jumped. From under the duvet Greg grunted again, clearly irritated, so I grabbed the mobile and hurried out onto the landing, gently closing the door behind me.

  ‘Annabelle? Jessica Evans here from Greyline. Sorry to call so early; can you talk? Just wanted to check a few final bits for tonight.’

  ‘Jessica, good morning! Of course, not a problem. What can I help you with?’

  I rolled my eyes as I made my way down to the kitchen, nodding and making appropriate noises as the woman on the other end of the line fretted about that evening’s event, reassuring her that everything was in hand but that Flora and I would get there extra early, just to make sure.

  Greyline Stationery is a nationwide chain with headquarters just outside Bath, and tonight was their annual staff awards ceremony, which they were holding in a town centre hotel and combining with a late Christmas party. Companies avoiding December’s booked-up venues and inflated prices was a growing trend – I’d organized a festive bash for a local firm of solicitors in July last year – but even so, Flora and I found it extremely odd and a little tedious later that afternoon to be putting up Christmas decorations in a hotel ballroom so soon after taking the ones at home down and banishing them to the attic for another year.

  ‘Ugh. I’m not the biggest Christmas fan at the best of times. But twice in a month? Yuk. Glad this is the last bloody tree.’

  Flora sighed heavily as she picked delicate silver-grey baubles studded with crystals from their padded box and placed them carefully on one of the three ten-foot tall, fake white trees we’d brought in for the event, real trees proving difficult – and therefore extremely pricey – to acquire in late January. I straightened up from where I was bending over the seating plan and smiled, rubbing my aching back.

  ‘Sorry. You know, I wasn’t sure about this “fifty shades of grey without the smut” decor idea for Greyline’s do. But it’s working, isn’t it, even if it is boring you to tears.’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  She looked around the room, and then nodded.

  ‘Actually yes, it looks fantastic, doesn’t it?’

  It did. The trees looked beautiful, the baubles glittering amidst deftly
draped platinumcoloured silk ribbon, snow-dusted pine cones and tiny white fairy lights. Swathes of grey silk had been flung over the tables arranged around us, and the chair seats were covered with charcoal velvet. The overall effect was understated and chic, and for a moment it slightly upset me to think that in a matter of hours this lovely room would be filled with envelope and staple gun salesmen. Then I shook my head, mentally berating myself for my snobbishness. Honestly, Annabelle, I thought, as I returned to my scrutiny of the table plan, wondering how I could squeeze six extra seats in as requested an hour ago by the everstressed Jessica. Just because they sell paper and sticky notes for a living doesn’t mean they can’t appreciate a gorgeous party venue. Don’t judge when you’ve never met them …

  ‘Mind if we stop for a quick coffee? All the trees are done and I need a few minutes to sit down before I start blowing up the balloons for the doorway, I think. Fancy one? I’ll go and order it. I’m sure they won’t mind serving us in here?’

  Flora was looking at me expectantly.

  ‘Good idea. I’d love one, thanks.’

  She grinned and gave me the thumbs up, then headed off to find somebody to order the hot drinks from. I watched her go, her lithe body looking like that of a fit teenage boy from behind. She’d sounded like a grumpy teenager with her moans about the Christmas decor, but it had amused rather than annoyed me, and I suddenly felt a wave of gratitude for how well my decision to employ an assistant seemed to be working. We had a lot of fun alongside the work, and in the car on the drive down here earlier we’d put a Christmas playlist on, giggling and singing along to songs that we’d thought we wouldn’t hear again for months in an attempt to get us in the right festive mood for the task ahead.

  ‘Santa Claus is coming to towwwwwwnnnnn!’

  I screeched the line in a tuneless falsetto as the latest track came to an end, and Flora laughed and clapped her hands.

  ‘Lovely, Annabelle. Maybe don’t give up the day job just yet though, eh?’ she said, a wry expression on her pretty face.

  ‘No plans to do that, don’t worry.’

  I smiled and looked back at the road, thankful that the gritters had clearly been out down this way. The verges were still covered with snow but the tarmac was clear, making the drive a pleasant one, the weak winter sunshine making the hedgerows and trees shimmer an iridescent silver.

  ‘It always reminds me of Rupert Ashfield, that song,’ I said, as I saw a red light up ahead and hit the brake.

  ‘You know, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”? We had a Christmas fete at the school a few years back and he volunteered to dress up as Father Christmas. They played that as he came in. The kids loved it, they went crazy, and Millie and even Nell were completely fooled, never suspected who he really was at all, even when he popped them on his knee and asked them what they wanted him to bring them for Christmas. I suppose they were quite young then though, barely five I suppose …’

  My voice tailed off as I glanced at Flora again and noticed that her face had darkened, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  Darn it, I thought. Damn and blast. What’s wrong with me? Why do I keep bringing the Ashfields up? I’m such a twit.

  ‘Oh gosh, I’m sorry, Flora. I really shouldn’t talk about them. I don’t mean to upset you. Sorry.’

  I smiled ruefully at her, and she stayed still, rigid almost, for another few moments then took a deep breath and turned to look at me, attempting a smile.

  ‘No, it’s fine, honestly. I just don’t really like … well, you know …’

  ‘I know, I know, I totally understand and I’m a total idiot for bringing it up. I won’t do it again.’

  ‘Oh don’t worry, it’s just me being oversensitive. I’m OK, I promise.’

  She smiled again, properly this time, and picked up my iPod, which was plugged into the car’s sound system, scrolling through the tracks.

  ‘Aha! Now if this doesn’t get us in the mood, nothing will!’ she said, sounding satisfied. A moment later the bell chimes that were the opening bars of Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’ tinkled through the speakers and I nodded slowly, then started bobbing in my seat as Mariah’s soulful voice and the bouncy rhythm kicked in. As we both sang along, the brief feeling of tension passed, and I vowed not to talk to Flora about the Ashfields in future. The poor girl was trying to move on, and every time I mentioned them I was dragging her backwards, wasn’t I? Honestly, I really needed to think before I spoke.

  I turned left onto Southgate Street, the honey-coloured stone of the Georgian buildings on either side glowing in the fading light, sales shoppers scurrying along the pavements, bundled up in coats and scarves, laden with bags.

  As I halted the car at a pedestrian crossing, I reminded myself that Rupert Ashfield had also apparently moved on now – I’d heard at the school gate earlier this week that he had a new girlfriend, according to the Cheltenham rumour mill. Rupert had left Thea a matter of weeks after Zander’s death last September, but even so, it was only January now – fairly soon for him to have found somebody new. I’d been meaning to casually ask Flora if she knew anymore about it, but I couldn’t now, could I?

  You’ll just have to put up with not knowing, you nosey old bag, I berated myself, then spotted the hotel up ahead.

  ‘Aha. Arrival at venue imminent,’ I announced, and Flora sighed and reached out to lower the volume of the music.

  ‘Right. Let Christmas commence. Again,’ she said.

  14

  THEA

  ‘Just another snowy Sunday.’

  I sang the words to the tune of ‘Manic Monday’, trying to remember which Eighties band had sung it, as I shook out the duvet on my bed, then straightened up, satisfied. It was just gone ten, and Isla had popped in to say goodbye on her way back to London, leaving earlier than usual on a Sunday because, as she said: ‘Everyone’s an idiot on the roads when it’s snowy. The M4 will be a nightmare later’.

  It had been a low-key weekend, but a nice one, just the two of us, and Nell would be back from Rupert’s shortly, to spend the rest of the day helping me with the photo shoot I’d finally managed to arrange. I’d been surprised he’d agreed to give her back a day early, but he knew how much she enjoyed a photo shoot, and I was grateful. A quick tidy up here, I thought, then I’d make a start on a Sunday roast for this evening. I wasn’t much of a cook, but I could manage roast chicken, which was Nell’s favourite.

  Still humming, I went downstairs and began to assemble dinner. As I peeled potatoes, though, the brief feeling of contentment faded, the old gnawing sadness and anxiety returning. Isla had been here waiting for me when I got back from the doctor’s on Friday afternoon, and we’d had a pleasant evening, just a couple of glasses of white wine with our fish and chips takeaway.

  I’d enjoyed our reformer Pilates session yesterday morning, too, just the two of us with an instructor who didn’t appear to recognize me, which meant I could relax and enjoy the class, relishing the feeling of my body being stretched and eased into positions I didn’t think possible on the torture-chamberesque moving platforms complete with ropes and pulleys. I’d realized that I’d barely done anything other than walking for ages. I was certainly feeling it today, as muscles not exercised with any regularity for months ached and burned in protest, but it was a good pain, a pain earned by hard work, and I liked it.

  We’d stayed in again last night, watching a couple of silly romcoms back-to-back, and although Isla downed a bottle of red by herself, I managed to get through the evening on just two gin and slimline tonics.

  ‘You’re becoming a right wuss in your old age,’ Isla had remarked, but she hadn’t pushed it. The result was that instead of a banging hangover, a regular occurrence on a Sunday morning, today I had a clear head, into which kept popping replays of the conversation I’d had on Friday with Dr Evans, my GP.

  I had a weekly appointment with her, something she’d insisted on after my diagnosis, to monitor my memory loss. When I’d realized, aft
er Zander died, that my mind, my memory, was completely blank, it had terrified me. I’d always had a good memory, really good. I never forgot anything, and to suddenly have a gap: a huge, gaping, fourthofSe‌ptembershaped hole, made me feel as if I was going mad, losing my mind, my grip on reality. Instead, I was told, I had developed a condition called dissociative amnesia, sometimes known as psychogenic amnesia. I hated the latter term – well, it had the word psycho in it, didn’t it? – so I tended to stick to the former, if anyone asked. What it was called, though, was irrelevant. It was what it had done to me that freaked me out. I knew what I’d done, of course I did – the horrific evidence was right there in front of me. But the detail, the order of things, my arrival home, leaving him in the car – it was all a blank. In fact, I couldn’t remember anything of that day at all, not a single moment, until the point where Flora came running in from the car, white-faced and trembling, Zander in her arms. Not getting up that morning, not the lunch with Isla and the children. Nothing.

  ‘Your form of dissociative amnesia is called localized,’ the psychiatrist I’d originally been referred to had told me. He’d looked at me quizzically with his head tilted to one side as he spoke, little round glasses perched on the end of his nose, as if I was an interesting museum display.

  ‘Your memory loss was triggered by the trauma you’ve been through, and you’re actually lucky, Mrs Ashfield, that it’s just affecting a brief period, a day of your life. Others, with other forms, can forget who they are completely, not recognize friends or family. The memories will return, most likely. It’s just a matter of time. Be patient.’

  ‘So is there anything at all coming back yet, do you think?’ Dr Evans had asked me, gently, on Friday, as we sat in her small, bright surgery. She is a quietly spoken woman in her forties, her face kind and make-up free.

  ‘Anything? Do you remember waking up that day, having breakfast?’