Your Guilty Lies (ARC)

by Ruth Heald

  I retype the pin. This time the woman watches the machine as it processes, tapping her foot impatiently. ‘I’m sorry, it’s declined again.’

  I stare at her, alarmed. Have I maxed out Ian’s credit card? He’d said I could spend as much as I liked. Maybe I’ve spent more than I thought.

  ‘Use mine,’ Mum says, reaching into her wallet.

  She hands her card to the shop assistant and the payment goes through. She turns to me. ‘You can pay me back if you like, but I’d prefer it to be a gift.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say, thinking of all the other things I was planning to buy for the babies while Ian was away. Nappies, wipes, nappy rash cream. Will I be able to afford them on my own?

  * * *

  That night a storm comes, the dark clouds letting go of their rage, built up like a pressure cooker over the long hot summer. I’ve always relished the anger and destruction of a storm. But this time it feels different. I don’t want to climb the stairs into the dark upper floors of the house and go to bed; don’t want to fall asleep.

  Instead I go to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea, listening to the rain lashing against the windows. Sometimes I feel afraid in this house, even in the daylight. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m now responsible for the two new lives growing inside me, or something more. The feeling haunts me, following me around my shiny new kitchen. I stare out into the dark overgrown back garden. Ian hasn’t had time to look at it yet and brambles scrape against the brand-new back door. Even now, in the bright light of my state-of-the-art kitchen, I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching.

  I finish my tea and make myself go upstairs, listening to the storm pummelling the house. As I lie awake in bed, I hear the winds rush through the roof tiles and wonder if Ian did any work up there, or if his work was all superficial, decorating over the cracks, ignoring the sagging roof.

  I feel irritated with him for a moment. He’s flown off to Thailand, while I’m stuck here. Being a family is such a huge commitment, and I’m not sure either of us is ready. Ian always used to say he was married to his job. I hope he’ll have time for us.

  The storm rages outside, picking up garden furniture in its clumsy grip and throwing it back down in anger, ripping fences from their foundations. I hear a scraping sound and then a crash from above my head. I freeze. Is it a tile falling off the roof and tumbling to the ground? What if there’s a squatter in the attic sheltering from the rain? I’ve never been up there, nervous about climbing a ladder with my front-heavy, unfamiliar body.

  I put the thought out of my mind. Of course no one’s living up there, but it’s easy to imagine. And I’m on my own now. If something happened to me, how long would it be before someone found me?

  I put my hand on my pregnant belly, hoping to feel my babies move, hoping their movements will calm me. But there’s nothing. They are sleeping right through it. At least, I hope that’s what they’re doing.

  Fear grips me. When did I last feel them move? I can’t remember any movement since this morning. I was so busy shopping with Mum that I didn’t notice any kicks.

  I’m awash with guilt. It’s my responsibility to look after them and I haven’t even been monitoring their kicks like the midwife told me to. What if they’re in trouble?

  Crash.

  My whole body tenses. What was that?

  It wasn’t thunder. The sound was closer than that. It was inside the house. I lie completely still, terrified.

  Another crash. This time louder. I sit up in the bed.

  The whole house vibrates, and above the thunder and the pounding rain I hear crumbling from inside the house.

  I brace myself. I wish I wasn’t alone – there’s no one but me to find out what that was.

  5

  ‘You know what the policeman said,’ my sister says encouragingly, pushing me forward a bit. ‘If someone’s hurting us, then we have to tell.’

  ‘He was talking about strangers,’ I say doubtfully. ‘And besides, he said we should tell our parents.’

  ‘Or a teacher.’ We both look across at Miss Kingdom on the other side of the playground. My sister has decided that she’s the best person to tell. She’s not our class teacher who likes our mother. She’s a new teacher at the school, younger than the others. She has no connection to our parents or to us, and she seems nice. We’ve watched her for a couple of weeks, to check she’s OK. We’ve watched her arrive at the school and get out of her car. We’ve watched her in the playground at break time. We’ve seen her giving cuddles to other children when they’ve been upset. When Benny was crying she picked him up off the ground and stroked his hair.

  Now she’s on her own doing playground duty, supervising all the children as they run around. She frowns as she watches a group of boys play football. She has a whistle round her neck so she can tell children off for running or fighting, but she hardly ever uses it, except to let us know it’s the end of break.

  It can’t be long until the end of break now. We’ve been watching her for ages.

  ‘Go on,’ my sister says. ‘Just ask her.’

  We creep closer. A boy with a bleeding knee gets to her first and we watch her give him a hug and then send him inside to the nurse.

  We must hurry, or we’ll miss our chance. Tomorrow it will be a different teacher on duty.

  ‘You ask her,’ I say.

  My sister suddenly lets go of my hand and marches up to Miss Kingdom. I scurry behind her, my heart beating fast. I’m excited and afraid. This could be the start of things getting better.

  ‘She has something to tell you,’ my sister says, pointing at me.

  ‘I…’ I stare at my shoes. ‘I…’

  My sister gives me a little kick. ‘Go on.’

  Miss Kingdom frowns and looks at her watch. ‘What is it, girls?’

  ‘Our father…’

  ‘Your father? What’s he got to do with anything?’

  ‘He isn’t a nice man.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  She’s already losing patience. This wasn’t what we’d hoped for. I look at my sister with panic in my eyes, wondering whether we should stop now.

  ‘He hit her,’ my sister says.

  ‘A smack?’

  ‘No. Not a smack. He hit her properly. On the head.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Umm…’

  She checks her watch again and then blows the whistle so everyone stands still.

  ‘The policeman said to tell teachers about bad men,’ my sister says hurriedly, sensing our time is up.

  ‘Shhh…’ Miss Kingdom says, indicating the whistle. We look at each other, worried. I don’t think we’ve explained ourselves properly.

  She blows the whistle again and everyone starts filing back towards the school.

  ‘The policeman said…’ my sister repeats.

  ‘OK,’ Miss Kingdom says. ‘Leave it with me. Now get back to class.’

  Eleven

  I sit up in bed, stock-still, the sound of the crash echoing in my ears. I’m waiting for something to happen, something biblical.

  But the storm continues to batter the house, and there’s only the sound of the rain pounding on the windows and the wind whistling through the trees. No more crashing.

  I tell myself that maybe I imagined it all. Mum always said I had an overactive imagination. But I know in my heart that what I heard was real. And I won’t be able to sleep until I know what’s happened.

  I listen intently. I can’t hear anything above the noise of the thunder. Perhaps the crashing sound wasn’t in the house at all. Perhaps it came from outside. A tree could have easily come down in the storm, tearing through one of the neat and tidy houses.

  Lightning flashes through a gap in the curtains, illuminating the two tiny cribs, ready and waiting beside the bed. I must be braver. I’m the adult here. I flick the lights on. It makes everything feel more normal, under my control. I can do this. I can cope in the house without
Ian. After all, I’ve been single for most of my life. I’m used to looking after myself.

  I think of Amy in our flatshare. She’s probably fast asleep, seeing out the storm in a flat full of the bustle of other people. I never felt alone there. What would Amy say if she saw me like this? I was always the brave one in the house, removing spiders from the bathroom and telling messy housemates to clean up after themselves.

  I pull myself together and get out of bed. I open the bedroom door slowly, the delay only adding to my fear. The hallway feels like a foreign land. I flick the light on.

  There’s nothing there.

  But away from the storm hammering the bedroom windows, I can just about make out another sound. Water. A slow, steady drip.

  I follow the sound to the second bedroom and open the door gingerly.

  It’s dark inside, but the dripping is louder. I automatically reach for the light switch and press it. There’s a fizzing sound as the bulb lets out a spark, illuminating a crumbling ceiling and a puddle of dark, dirty water on the floor. Then all the lights go out and I’m thrown into darkness.

  I step back into the pitch-black hallway. I must have blown a fuse. Lightning flashes through the house as I retreat quickly to my bedroom and find my phone. Using it as a torch, I go downstairs and find the fuse box in a dusty, dirty cupboard under the stairs. I fight my way past boxes of old magazines and newspapers to flick the mains switch.

  The house floods with light and I go back upstairs, thunder bellowing. I return to the second bedroom and shine the torch inside. Water is steadily dripping through the ceiling, splashing into a small puddle.

  I stare up at the crumbling plaster and wonder if the whole ceiling might come down.

  I go back downstairs to fetch a bucket. Struggling to push the bed into the corner of the room, as far away from the leak as possible, I place the bucket under the drip. Above my head I hear the rain pounding on the roof, blown this way and that by the wind.

  I google emergency repairs on my phone, but none of the lines are open until the morning. I leave several messages and then return to bed. But I can’t sleep. As the storm rages, I get up every hour to check the bucket isn’t overflowing and to empty it into the bathroom sink.

  Eventually the thunder dies away and then, much later, the rain stops altogether. I fall into a fitful sleep.

  * * *

  On Sunday, when the sun rises, I wake with a sense of dread. I rush into the spare room, and I’m relieved to see the bucket is only half-full. But in the daylight I can see the full extent of the damage. The carpet is sodden and plaster has crumbled off the ceiling. Water is dripping down the back wall and the wallpaper’s peeling.

  I check my phone. None of the emergency repairs people have called me back. They must be having a busy day today. I look out of the window and see broken tree branches and rubbish from overturned bins littering the road. On the other side of the street, a fence has come down. I wonder what our house looks like from the outside; if the damage to the roof is visible or if it looks just the same as yesterday.

  I go up the stairs to the top floor and into the small room that leads to the roof terrace where the leak must be originating from. I squeeze past the old wooden dressers, chests of drawers and broken chairs and look out of the double doors that lead outside onto the terrace. The black felt covering has caved in and I can see water running down and forming a puddle in the middle. I daren’t go closer, otherwise I’m sure I’ll fall through. I put my hand on my belly protectively. I couldn’t risk the babies. I’ll have to wait for the experts to come and fix the roof.

  Neither of the twins move under my hand. When was the last time I felt kicks? I remember I was worried about them yesterday. I’d forgotten about that completely when I heard the crash. What if they’re in trouble? What if I’ve left it too late to seek help?

  I feel sick. I don’t know what to do. I transferred my maternity care to the closest hospital when I moved and I don’t even have the phone number for the midwives there. Tears well up in my eyes. I’m so angry with myself for not being organised. I pick up my phone and ring Paula.

  ‘I’m worried about the twins,’ I blurt out. ‘They haven’t been moving.’ I wish Ian was here now to put my mind at rest.

  ‘When was the last time they moved?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, panicking. ‘Yesterday morning’s the last time I remember. Do you have the phone number for the midwives? Should I go to the hospital?’

  ‘No, no. Don’t do that. You could be waiting ages to be seen. I’ll come over. We had an appointment at ten anyway, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’ After my first session with Paula I’d booked in a second to go through my birth plan.

  ‘Well, I can just come over a bit earlier. I can come round now.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s OK?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll be over in half an hour. Quicker than you could get to the hospital.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

  While I’m waiting I google all the things you’re supposed to do when the babies don’t move, all the reasons that there might be for it. I get increasingly alarmed. What if I’ve ignored them too long?

  I lie down on the sofa, hands on my stomach, praying the babies will move.

  After five minutes, I’m rewarded. A tiny kick. And then another one.

  * * *

  Paula arrives carrying a big holdall.

  ‘I came as quickly as I could. How are you? Are you feeling any movements now?’

  ‘I’ve just felt a few,’ I say. ‘Sorry for alarming you. I think I was distracted. Maybe I didn’t notice them earlier.’

  ‘Hmm… but you said you hadn’t felt any in twenty-four hours. A slowdown in movements is always a concern. I think I should examine you.’ Paula is opening her bag, taking out wet wipes and gloves.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘That sounds like a good idea.’

  ‘Lie down on the sofa and push your dress up over your bump.’

  I lie down while Paula closes the blinds.

  I pull my dress up. My bump’s huge, stretch marks littered across it like a child’s attempt at a drawing. It doesn’t look like a part of my body anymore. I lay my hands on it and one of the babies wriggles underneath them. The movement reassures me.

  Paula comes over. ‘My hands are a bit cold,’ she says as she touches my skin. She’s right. Her fingers feel freezing as she pushes down on the top of my bump. ‘There’s baby number one,’ she says, and I feel my baby squirm out of the way of her grasp. She presses on the other side. ‘And there’s baby number two. I think that’s the smaller one.’

  ‘The smaller one’s Frances,’ I say. ‘The bigger one’s Alice.’

  A bubble of worry rises in me. It feels wrong to say their names out loud, like I might be jinxing them.

  She feels lower down, pulling the tops of my knickers down to feel my pelvis.

  ‘Gosh, one of the heads has lowered. Frances’s, I think. She’s getting ready for her exit.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, alarmed. ‘Do you think it will be soon?’ My heart flutters. I haven’t bought all the baby things yet. And Ian’s away.

  ‘Not necessarily. But I’d like to do an internal examination. Just to check everything’s OK. I can’t be certain from just feeling your bump.’

  ‘Oh.’ I can hardly get the words out, I’m so scared. ‘Do you think there’s something wrong?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I just want to be 100 per cent sure.’

  I worry that Paula might be downplaying the situation. The midwife at the antenatal clinic told me they avoid internal checks unless they have concerns.

  I strip down my lower half obediently, scratching the scar on my upper arm so hard that I draw blood.

  When her fingers touch me, I wince. I feel uncomfortable with Paula performing the examination, even though I keep telling myself it’s her job.

  Paula glances up at me and meets my eyes. ‘Don’t tense up now.’
>
  ‘Ow,’ I cry out. The pain is excruciating.

  ‘If this hurts, you can practise your breathing,’ Paula says. ‘I’m just checking how everything is.’

  I try to breathe through the pain but I can hardly catch a single breath.

  When Paula removes her hand, her glove is bloodstained. I feel sick with panic.

  ‘I’m bleeding?’ I say, my voice high. ‘Are the twins OK? What does that mean?’ I remember how the midwives told me that twins are a higher-risk pregnancy.

  ‘Oh, nothing at this stage, don’t worry. You can get dressed. But I think you’ll go into labour soon.’

  ‘How soon?’ I say as I pull my clothes back on. I feel a rush of excitement, followed quickly by fear. This wasn’t supposed to happen while Ian was away. Can I do it on my own?

  ‘Maybe in a few days. Maybe sooner. It’s always hard to tell. I’d like to stay with you a bit longer, just in case. Do you want me to get you a glass of water?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I say weakly. I’m still hurting but if I can’t even cope with the pain of that, how on earth will I cope with labour?

  I feel a tightening in my stomach, but I think it’s just nerves.

  Paula brings me the water.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Does labour feel like period pains?’ I ask.

  ‘It could just be Braxton Hicks – kind of practice contractions.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say. But I feel the pain come again. It’s definitely something. I rest my hand on my stomach, feeling my bump harden. ‘I think this might be it,’ I say.

  Paula puts her hand on my belly. ‘I felt that,’ she says. ‘That’s a contraction. An early one, but still a contraction.’

  ‘Am I going into labour?’

  ‘Yes,’ Paula says, smiling. ‘I think you are.’

  Twelve

  On the way to the hospital, Paula and I go over my birth plan. I want to have as natural a birth as possible. Paula is encouraging, telling me she has helped lots of women do exactly that. I don’t want an epidural. I don’t want any interventions.