Am I Guilty

by Jackie Kabler

  And then, almost as soon as that terrible, sick thought entered my head, it rushed out again, and the guilt roared back, sweeping over me like a tidal wave, making it almost impossible to think, to breathe. The hideous, never-ending sense of shame, that I could feel, even for a second, relief about the death of a child. A baby. My baby.

  Annabelle mistook it for shock and sadness, of course. Night after night, my wife cradled me in her arms, stroked my hair, tried to soothe away the pain.

  ‘Just such a terrible thing for you to witness, my darling. I’m so, so sorry, that you had to see that. That poor little mite, I can’t bear it. That woman is a monster. To leave your own baby in a car, to forget about him …’

  And that, of course, made it all so much worse. I knew Thea wasn’t a monster. She wasn’t perfect – who was? – but she was a good woman, a good mother.

  But why had I slept with her? Why? That should never have happened, didn’t need to happen. It was one thing fancying the pretty mother of your daughter’s best friend – and hell, yes, I always thought Thea was incredibly attractive, that lithe body, those cheekbones. But it was quite another to get pissed out of your head and shag her in a hotel room on a wild night out, shag her and not use any fucking protection.

  I’d had flings before, now and again, but not for ages, years, and I’d never slept with any of them. It had never gone further than a snog before, a quick fumble. I loved Annabelle, and I had no intention of leaving her, of abandoning my marriage. It was just that sometimes … well, she was always so busy, so stressed, so tied up with the children, the business. No excuse, I knew that. Pathetic, really. My wife’s too tired, so I’m looking elsewhere.

  I’d even tried it on with Flora, a little. She was so pretty, so nice, and I’d seen the way she’d looked at me too, sometimes. But I’d stopped myself – what was I thinking, right there in the house, under Annabelle’s nose? Again, pathetic. But I’d wondered, too, if she might know about Zander. She and Thea had been close, and it had crossed my mind once or twice that she might know something, and that frightened me. If I could get closer to her, maybe I could find out if she knew, and if so, make her promise to keep it to herself. Because if she told Annabelle …

  But why did I have to try it on with her? Why not just talk to her, for fuck’s sake? Midlife crisis or what? I sometimes thought Annabelle knew – not about Thea, but about some of the others – or suspected anyway, but she never said. Didn’t want to know, I supposed. Didn’t want to admit it to herself, a bit like me with Zander, because then what?

  I slowed for a red light, my heart thudding dully in my chest, aware that I could feel the pulse in my throat. The bigger question now was now what? I hadn’t asked Thea if she’d told anyone else, I suddenly realized. Did anyone else know that I was Zander’s father? And what was she starting to remember, about the day he died? I hadn’t asked her that either. She’d been the one asking all the questions. What had she said? That she didn’t think things had happened like everyone said they did that day? A shiver ran through me, my body suddenly deathly cold despite the heat pumping out through the car’s vents. What did she remember?

  I sat rigid in my seat, my limbs leaden. The court case, the trial, was just weeks away now. It was something I’d started to worry desperately about in the past few weeks, something I’d tried to blame on work stress when Annabelle asked me why I was so tense, so distracted. It had suddenly occurred to me that if my suspicions were true, if I really was Zander’s biological father, that it might come out at the trial, and the thought horrified me.

  Now that I knew for definite about Zander, the fear was suddenly becoming paralyzing. Would everyone find out that I was Zander’s father? Rupert had left Thea anyway now, so what did it matter if it all came out at her trial? Their marriage was over. A bit of infidelity thrown into the mix wouldn’t change anything, not at this stage, would it? Would she do that to me, to him?

  I swallowed hard, then jumped as a loud honk came from the car behind. Shit. The lights had changed, and I waved a hand in apology, moving the car off, suddenly unsure if I was actually fit to drive. My legs had started shaking, my foot jerky on the accelerator pedal. During those long, dark nights in the weeks after Zander died, I’d begged the universe, begged a god I didn’t believe in for forgiveness, vowing that my life was going to change, vowing never to cheat on Annabelle again, promising that if my dreadful secret could remain a secret I’d make a new start, become a new, better person. But I realized now that, somehow, in the past hour, my life had started to fall apart. That’s what lying did to you, in the end, didn’t it? Your lies always find you out. Do terrible things, and terrible things happened to you. Karma, they called it.

  The road ahead was clear now, and I put my foot down, Annabelle’s face suddenly floating into my mind. The pain, the grief in her eyes, if she were to find out about Zander, about what I’d done, from somebody else. From Thea. From the police. A sense of panic gripped me. I needed to go home. I needed to talk to my wife. I needed to confess.

  33

  ANNABELLE

  ‘Heart-shaped invitations, heart-shaped biscuits, heart-shaped balloons, pink champagne in heart-shaped glasses, heart-shaped pizzas … heart-shaped pizzas? Seriously? Ugh. Tacky or what?’

  I giggled at the undisguised disgust in Flora’s voice. She really was not the hearts and flowers type.

  ‘Well, it is a Valentine’s Day party. People like hearts on Valentine’s Day, Flora, what can I say? We give the client what the client wants. She can have heart-shaped flipping loo roll in the bathroom if she wants it.’

  Flora’s eyes widened.

  ‘Someone makes heart-shaped loo roll? How does that work then? How does it fit on the … oh, very funny.’

  Still laughing, I moved to one side as Flora threw her pen at me.

  ‘Ouch, don’t! Sorry, it was just your face as you read the list of heart-shaped stuff … you don’t realize how funny you can be, Flora.’

  ‘Hmmph.’ She snorted in an exaggerated fashion, but there was a little smile playing on her lips now.

  ‘Well, I’m glad I amuse you. Shall I pour the tea?’

  ‘You do. And yes, please. I’m just going to move Olaf into the living room. Every time I stand up I worry I’m going to trample him, poor love.’

  I bent down and gently picked the kitten up, stroking his soft head as I carried him into the front room and gently deposited him on the hearth rug, where he immediately curled into a sleepy ball. Remarkably, the very next day after the Hamish tragedy, Greg had seen an advert in the local paper offering Persian kittens for immediate rehoming. To Sienna’s intense joy, the adorable ball of white fluff now known as Olaf had joined us that very evening, and after just a couple of days already felt like part of the family.

  Smiling – he really was the sweetest little thing – I returned to the kitchen, where my tea was waiting for me. Flora and I had just settled down at the kitchen table for a quick debrief on last night, and a look ahead to Wednesday, when we’d be throwing the Valentine’s party for Lara Foster, the Cheltenham Town footballer’s wife. The pyjama party had been a resounding success – Octavia had been thrilled, hugging us both as we left and pressing an extremely generous cash tip into my hand. When we’d arrived home just after midnight, I’d handed most of the money to Flora.

  ‘For all your hard work recently,’ I said. ‘You deserve it.’

  She’d gaped at the notes and then, to my surprise, flung her arms around me. When she released me a few moments later, she had tears in her eyes.

  ‘Oh Flora, sweetie, don’t cry! It’s only money. I’ll take it back if it upsets you!’ I laughed.

  She laughed too, stuffing the cash into her jeans pocket.

  ‘No way! Thank you so much, Annabelle. I’m sorry, I’m an idiot. It’s just that … well, you’re so kind to me. I feel … I don’t know, sort of valued here. And sort of part of the family too. You’ve made me so welcome, and I love my job. I appreciate it so m
uch, and I’m sorry if … well, I’m sorry if I don’t often show it. I’m not that good, with emotion …’

  She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands, and I felt a sudden wave of affection. She was so young, really, and I remembered how insecure I’d been at twenty-five and suddenly wondered if I should be doing more to show how much I appreciated her. She worked so hard, and was so great with the kids. I really couldn’t imagine life without her now.

  ‘Oh my goodness, don’t apologize,’ I said, and reached for her hands, squeezing them. ‘You are absolutely part of the family, and highly valued, and I should tell you that more often too. Treat yourself to something nice with that money, please. You’ve more than earned it.’

  We’d headed for bed after that, and I’d fallen asleep with a warm glow, remembering the smile on Flora’s face as we’d parted on the landing. I was glad she was finishing the day on a high note. Earlier, as we’d eaten breakfast together, I’d mentioned Thea, and what she’d said to me when we’d bumped into each other in Cheltenham. I hadn’t mentioned seeing her former employer to Flora when we met up again to drive home after our shopping, not wanting to sour the mood, so why on earth had I mentioned it now?

  I knew instantly by Flora’s face that I’d made a mistake, and mentally kicked myself. What Thea had said to me, about remembering things about the day Zander died, about the fact that she thought someone else had been responsible, had haunted me the evening after I’d seen her, but I’d been vague when I’d mentioned it to Greg, just saying that Thea’s memories were returning and she was feeling confused. He’d been there that day after all, and the more I thought about it, the more ludicrous Thea’s claims sounded. She had looked wretched, broken – was that why she had temporarily convinced me that there might be some truth in what was she was saying? Was it just sympathy for a woman whose life was crumbling that had made me believe her? Probably. So why had I brought it up now, with Flora? What was wrong with me, always going on about the Ashfields, when I knew she couldn’t bear to talk about them, when I knew she was still traumatized by what had happened there?

  ‘Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry, Flora. There I go again. Forget I said anything.’

  I stopped buttering my toast and turned to look at her. Her eyes were fixed on her plate, her hands still working her knife and fork, cutting up a sausage, but her body looked stiff, her movements suddenly jerky. She shrugged, not looking at me.

  ‘It’s OK. It’s the same sort of stuff she said to me, that time she asked me to go round to see her. I think she’s crazy, Annabelle, honestly, and I hate saying that. But I think she’s lost it a bit. I don’t blame her – I can’t even imagine what she’s going through; it must be horrendous; it was bad enough for me, for the rest of us, seeing … well seeing Zander like that. But she was his mother, and I’m almost not surprised that her brain is finding it impossible to accept what she did; it must be unbearable. Even so … what she’s saying, that she doesn’t think she did it … I mean, it’s bonkers, right?’

  I sat still for a moment, thinking, then nodded slowly.

  ‘Yes. It probably is. And it’s just the saddest thing in the world, isn’t it?’

  Flora’s eyes met mine, and she nodded too.

  ‘It’s the worst thing I’ve ever had to witness,’ she said quietly, then dipped her head again, spearing a piece of sausage with her fork.

  We ate in silence after that, and the more I thought about it, the more I knew Flora had to be right, just like Greg was.

  I was thinking about it again now, as we sat at the kitchen table sorting out the final details of the Valentine’s party, my mind constantly drifting away from pink confetti and heart-shaped everything to Thea. She had been so convincing, when she had told me what she’d told me, but now that I could look back on our meeting with a level of objectivity, it seemed insane to think that anyone other than her could have been responsible for the baby’s death. Who on earth would do something like that?

  CRASH.

  Flora and I both jumped as, down the hallway, the front door banged open, flung inwards so hard it bounced back against the wall. I pushed the notes on the Valentine’s do aside and stood up, alarmed.

  ‘Greg? Is that you?’

  It was. My husband was staggering down the corridor, his face deathly white.

  ‘Annabelle.’

  His voice was a hoarse gasp, and my alarm grew as he flung himself into an empty chair. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair wild, as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly.

  ‘Greg! What’s wrong? Has something happened? Have you … have you been crying? Oh no, no no no … please don’t tell me it’s one of the kids? Greg, talk to me!’

  I was standing over him, practically screaming, panic gripping me. My husband sank his head into his hands, and I turned to look at Flora, who looked as horrified as I felt.

  ‘Greg … Mr Garrington? What is it? Please, you’re scaring us,’ she said, her voice shaky.

  Greg raised his head and looked at me.

  ‘The kids are fine. Well, our kids are anyway.’

  Relief flooded through me, to be instantly replaced by more fear.

  ‘What do you mean, our …?’

  He was looking at Flora now, ignoring me.

  ‘I’ve just been talking to Thea,’ he said. ‘She told me something. Confirmed something, Something I’ve suspected for a long time. Something I’m wondering if you already knew, Flora.’

  Flora frowned, and then her eyes widened.

  ‘Oh.’

  Her voice was a whisper. Simultaneously, they both turned to look at me, and the expression in their eyes sent a chill down my spine.

  ‘What? For God’s sake, what is going on?’

  ‘Annabelle.’

  There were tears in my husband’s eyes now, and I had a sudden terrible sense of foreboding, a sudden absolute knowledge that whatever this was, whatever he was about to say, was going to change everything, was going to destroy life as I knew it.

  ‘Greg. Don’t, please …’ I whimpered the words, but he wasn’t listening.

  ‘Annabelle. I have something to tell you.’

  34

  THEA

  I looked at my watch for the fifth time in about three minutes. Ten to five. Rupert could be here any time now, I thought, and I resumed the nervous pacing, up and down the dining room, that I’d been doing periodically ever since Greg left so abruptly a few hours earlier. He hadn’t even called up the stairs to say goodbye to Millie, barely looking at me as he departed, his voice sounding hoarse as he muttered that Rupert had arranged to drop Millie off at home tomorrow morning after the sleepover so I didn’t need to worry.

  Our encounter had left me unsettled, jittery, unable to get down to work or even watch television. The girls were playing happily up in Nell’s bedroom, emerging just once to ask for a drink and some biscuits before running back upstairs again, and that at least gave me some peace of mind.

  An afternoon and evening with her best friend would be good for Nell – for Millie too, probably, as I feared that things might not be particularly good at the Garrington home this evening. Greg had seemed so shaken, so terribly upset, even though he said he’d suspected all along that he might be my son’s father. The confirmation that he’d been correct had seemed overwhelming to him, though, and the dreadful guilt I was now feeling about not telling him sooner was slowly becoming mixed with fear. What if he went straight home and told Annabelle? Would he?

  I’d stopped my pacing as this thought struck me, suddenly frozen. Shit. The possible repercussions terrified me. If Annabelle knew I’d slept with her husband, had his child, what would that mean for Millie and Nell? She’d never let her daughter through my door again, and that would be devastating for Nell. I’d thought about this before, of course – tortured myself for months, after that night with Greg, after I found out I was pregnant. But as time went on, and Zander was born, and nobody said anything, I foolishly let myself believe that it would
never happen. If Greg never asked if the baby was his, and Rupert never confronted me, we could all just go on as we were, and Annabelle would never find out the truth. Nobody would.

  But now … I shivered, and slumped down on the nearest chair, feeling a little queasy. He wouldn’t tell Annabelle, would he? Of course he wouldn’t. I was just being paranoid. What would he have to gain? It would probably destroy his marriage, and for what? A baby son who was no longer around to be a problem for him? I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. No, it would be OK. He’d get over it, in time.

  I needed to put Greg out of my head now anyway, because Rupert would be here soon. Rupert, the only other person in the house that day. The only person who really had both time and motive. The person who, of everyone there, had the biggest reason to want to hurt me, to punish me. But could I really confront him? As I ran through the words I wanted to say to him in my mind, I began to feel woozy, as if my brain was floating outside my body. Was I actually about to do this? Was I really about to accuse my husband of killing our baby? Well, of killing my baby?

  He hated me enough already, his whole family did. My parents, dead so long before it had happened, had been spared the terrible shame, hadn’t had to go through this ordeal. But Rupert’s parents … they’d come to the funeral, that dark day which I could barely remember now, the pain so great it robbed me of all speech, of all coherent thought. They’d come, and they’d looked at me with so much hate, so much contempt, that I was left reeling. They expressed their disgust that I’d even been allowed to attend, and then they’d left, and I’d never heard from them again. And now, would Rupert leave too, forever, after what I was planning to say to him today?