Am I Guilty?

by Jackie Kabler

  I swallowed hard, my orange, mango and pineapple juice turning to acid in my mouth. Suddenly all I wanted to do was run, to take Nell and go somewhere far, far away where nobody would ever find us. I wouldn’t, of course, though. Because this was all my doing. My fault. And people who did things like I had done have to be punished. It is just how it is.

  Now, as I watched Nell back in front of the camera, looking so beautiful and, for now, so happy again, moving with the music, laughing as Mel called out encouragement, my one bright light in this awful darkness, my reason to keep going, to keep working, to keep living, my eyes blurred, a sudden light-headedness making me grope for the wall behind me for support. Oh God, was it happening again?

  My breath quickened, that creeping sense of unease not crawling but rushing this time up my spine, and then suddenly, without warning, I was back there. Back in September. Back outside the house, the afternoon sun hot on my neck. Isla and Nell running inside, and me unbuckling Zander’s seat belt, a little unsteady on my feet, but still able to scoop my slumbering baby out of the car and walk up the path with him. Me, putting him gently into his pram in the cool living room, dropping a kiss on his forehead before gratefully sinking onto the nearest sofa …

  ‘What?’

  I gasped out loud, feeling panicky, heart pounding, eyes snapping open now, fixing on Mel and Nell, still happily engrossed in the shoot, oblivious. And then, just as quickly, the picture in my head faded, and I slid down the wall, shaking, sweat beading on my forehead.

  What was going on? What was happening to me? What had that been – my imagination, a hallucination, a memory? Could it actually be a memory, after all this time? But no, it made no sense. That wasn’t what had happened. Was I going mad, then? Or, I thought, wiping a hand shakily across my forehead, could that have been a false memory, wishful thinking, something conjured up by my sick mind? It had to be, hadn’t it? Because it didn’t match, didn’t match at all what happened later, and I clearly remembered that. The screams, the terror. Flora stumbling into the room with Zander limp in her arms and tears running down her face, people shouting out on the street, sirens blaring. I remembered all that with absolute, nightmarish clarity.

  I killed my baby. My son is dead, it was my fault, and I’ll be paying the price forever. So that wasn’t a memory, then. It can’t have been. And yet …

  I stood up slowly, my breathing less erratic now, a strange calm descending. I didn’t know why I’d just seen, felt, remembered, imagined, whatever, what I had. But now, I had the strongest feeling, the deepest certainty, that something was definitely wrong. Something was wrong with the way it happened. With the way everyone said it happened. Something was wrong with the way they said my baby died.

  17

  FLORA

  Annabelle’s Sunday lunch was as divine as I expected it would be – perfectly cooked lamb with garlic and rosemary, roast potatoes with crisp, herby outer shells and delightfully fluffy insides, carrots glazed with Dijon mustard, baby leeks with bacon, and the promise of a heavenly sticky toffee pudding to finish.

  We ate in the kitchen, the windows steamed up, linen napkins draped across our knees, a basket of warm, fragrant bread rolls in the centre of the big table. Annabelle and Greg were both relaxed and smiling today, a fine Rioja flowing, even the children behaving themselves for once, teasing each other good-naturedly.

  But once or twice I caught Greg’s eye across the table, and now I was sure I wasn’t imagining it, that strange frisson – my eyes drawn repeatedly to his face, only to find him already looking at me; a stare a little too intense when Annabelle’s attention was elsewhere, cutting up meat for Sienna or pouring more gravy onto Oliver’s plate. Why was he doing that? Stop it, I thought. What are you up to, Greg? And stop responding, Flora.

  I forced myself to look away first, willing myself not to blush, gulping my wine too quickly, my mind racing. Couldn’t he see it was making me uncomfortable? I wished that I didn’t find him so increasingly attractive, didn’t feel that stirring in my groin, that fluttering in my stomach when he looked at me. It was ridiculous, and I was not going to go there. I couldn’t, wouldn’t do that to Annabelle.

  The thing was, I was pretty sure he didn’t actually have any real feelings for me either, pretty positive in fact that this was just a little game he was playing. He and Annabelle were solid at the moment, I could see that – the loving looks they exchanged, the secret smiles across the table, the occasional entwining of fingers and touches on shoulders as one or other got up to fetch more vegetables from the sideboard or another bottle from the larder.

  No, Greg Garrington had no real interest in me, I was certain of that. He might find me attractive, possibly, but I’d come across his type before, the married men with no real intention of being unfaithful, the men who just wanted a little illicit flirting with an attractive younger woman, the ego boost of seeing her respond and redden. That’s what Greg was doing with me, because why would he want me when he had a wife like Annabelle, tall and slender, that mass of blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, that sweet and caring nature, but with an innate sexiness she seemed barely aware of?

  ‘Oi, Sienna, give me that back right now!’

  I jumped. Oliver’s voice was raised, a sudden edge to it. Sitting opposite him at the far end of the table, his little sister’s bottom lip was sticking out, a mutinous look in her eyes. She was clutching a roast potato firmly in both hands, squeezing it so hard that the outside had cracked, the soft middle oozing.

  ‘Mum, the little brat just grabbed that off my plate. It’s my last one and there aren’t anymore in the dish and she’d better give it back to me or …’

  Oliver pushed back his chair and stood up, glowering, and leaned across the table towards Sienna, hand outstretched. She screamed and cowered in her chair, but didn’t drop her stolen potato, and Oliver’s face darkened.

  ‘Give that back, now, or I’ll bloody thrash you,’ he yelled.

  ‘Olly, calm down.’

  Annabelle was on her feet now, grabbing her son’s arm as he leaned further across the table.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, she’s only a baby. And do you really want it now, after she’s squished it all, look? Come on, sit down and I’ll get you some more lamb instead …’

  ‘Yes, Jesus, Olly, leave the child alone.’

  Annabelle gave her husband a sharp glance – I’d noticed that, while not at all religious, she disliked anyone using profanities, especially of the non-secular variety – and he grimaced and shrugged.

  ‘Oliver, sit down. You can’t possibly still be hungry; you’ve had more food than the rest of us put together,’ he said mildly.

  ‘And Sienna – stealing is never right, OK? You want another potato, you ask for it. You don’t just nick it from your brother’s plate. You’re like that robin in the garden who always grabs the bird food from under the blue tit’s nose, aren’t you? Little miss tinker.’

  Sienna giggled, putting the potato down on her plate, and next to her Millie snorted.

  ‘Errr, birds don’t have noses, Dad. Beaks. They’re called beaks.’

  Everyone laughed, the crisis seemingly averted, but I noticed that Oliver, although forcing a smile now, still had a dark look in his eyes. He saw me looking and I winked, trying to cheer him up, and he blushed slightly and smiled at me, a more genuine grin now. Satisfied, I picked up my wine and swallowed the last mouthful. My head was swimming a little, but pleasantly – that soft, woozy feeling you get when you drink a little too much in a warm room, when you’re relaxed and happy and know you have nothing pressing to do later.

  ‘Sunday lunch is the best,’ I announced. ‘And that was absolutely delicious, Annabelle. Thanks so much.’

  ‘You are more than welcome,’ she said with a smile, holding out her glass to clink against mine and then noticing mine was empty.

  ‘Oh, Greg, top Flora up, will you? I’ll get dessert.’

  ‘Of course.’ Greg reached for the wine bottle and s
tood up, walking around the table to where I was sitting. As he poured, he leaned against me, ever so slightly, and suddenly I could feel the taut muscles of his stomach against my back, the warmth of his body against mine, and I felt that stirring again, my heartbeat quickening, my nerve endings tingling. Oh shit, I thought. Shit. Stop it. If you keep this up … I couldn’t remember when I’d last had sex, but clearly it was far too long ago, if I was reacting like this.

  I clenched my fists, waiting for him to move away, not looking at him, and then the glass was full and the moment had passed, Greg ruffling Millie’s hair in an exaggerated fashion as he returned to his seat, making her shriek in faux outrage, Sienna demanding he did the same to her own soft blonde mop.

  I relaxed again, not looking at Greg as Annabelle returned, bearing plates of pudding and putting bowls of ice cream and custard on the table to accompany it. As I ate, only halflistening now to the again cheerful family banter, my mind drifted back to my own childhood, when meals like this were an impossible fantasy, something I’d longed for, but never experienced.

  I’d grown up in Farnham, one of those Surrey towns often described as ‘well-to-do’ – less than an hour from central London by train, it attracted wealthy commuters, driven out of the capital by exorbitant property prices but still wanting to be within a comfortable distance of its attractions.

  An historic market town, overlooked from the crest of a nearby hill by the twelfth century Farnham Castle, it was generally considered to be a ‘nice’ place to live, and to rear children – safe, cultured, pretty. I supposed how nice it actually was, though, depended on your family, and mine … well, it hadn’t been ideal.

  I’d been an only child, my mother cold and distant, my father largely absent. Mum worked full-time, and when my father was around … I flinched slightly, and then jumped as Millie shrieked with laughter, and everyone else joined in. Having completely missed the joke, I smiled, not wanting to draw attention to myself.

  How lucky they were, these kids, I thought. Oh, they’d grow up moaning about their parents like everyone did, but in reality they had no idea how fortunate they were, to be loved and cared for as they were, to grow up in this beautiful house with no money worries, to have parents who would always be there for them. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

  And how lucky I was now, too, to have been accepted into a family like this, to have a secure home, a job I enjoyed so much. To feel useful and valued and appreciated. I looked at Sienna, her little face glowing pink, thinking of the way she hugged and kissed me so unselfconsciously, wrapping her little body around mine. Told me she loved me. I was loved here. I was lucky, lucky, lucky too, wasn’t I?

  Lunch over, the family scattered and Annabelle shooed me out of the kitchen when I hung around, offering to help clear away (‘It’s your day off, Flora, and you’ve had an incredibly busy week. Go, scoot, vamoose! Watch some TV or read a book or something, chill out, I can do this!’). I wandered into the lounge, looking for the magazine I’d left there earlier. Millie and Sienna were already sprawled on the sofa, their much-loved Frozen DVD playing on the TV.

  I laughed. ‘Girls, how many times have you watched that film? It must be hundreds, and that’s only since I’ve been here!’

  Mille shrugged. ‘Thousands, probably. We never get bored though. We I don’t know why it never gets boring, but it doesn’t. We both know all the words and everything.’

  ‘I know, I can see!’ I gestured at Sienna, who was mouthing the dialogue as, on screen, Anna tried to persuade Elsa to come out of her room to build a snowman.

  I sat down, squeezing into the small space at one end of the sofa uninhabited by the girls. If I was honest, I quite liked the movie myself, having watched it three or four times with Nell while I was working for Thea, and it wasn’t as if I had anything urgent to do.

  Rain was pattering against the windows now, but the room was warm, a log fire crackling in the hearth, and I leaned back on the soft cushions, full and a little light-headed from all the wine, content.

  A few minutes later, just as I had started to nod off, the door burst open and Oliver marched in.

  ‘Oh SHIT,’ he said, and glared at his sisters, ignoring me. ‘Do you two really have to watch that crap again? Pimp My Ride starts in five minutes. Come on, turn it off. You two are always hogging this telly. And you’ve seen that moronic film a million times. Bugger off.’

  Millie looked up at him and frowned.

  ‘Can’t you watch your stupid car show in your room?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want to watch it in my room, Millie. My TV up there is tiny. I want to watch it down here, on the good telly, and where it’s warm. And this is the family TV, not yours, OK? That means you share it. I never get to watch it. So piss off, all right?’

  His tone was even, but held a hint of menace now, and his cheeks were reddening.

  ‘Olly, that language isn’t ideal. And why don’t you just let the girls finish this film and then you can take over the telly for the rest of the afternoon? Does that sound fair?’ I said, smiling at him, trying to defuse the situation. I really wasn’t in the mood for another sibling row.

  He glanced at me, then turned back to the girls.

  ‘Flora, they had it all morning, so no, that’s not fair. Sienna, Millie, turn that off NOW.’

  Sienna, whose eyes had remained glued to the screen despite her brother’s arrival, finally turned to look at him, then slowly reached for the remote control which was sitting on the arm of the sofa, and with one quick movement grabbed it and shoved it under the cushion behind her back.

  ‘NO!’ she shouted, and crossed her arms, brows knitted in a determined scowl.

  ‘You little …’ Olly was across the room in two strides, face contorted in sudden fury. He bent down, scooped Sienna up and threw her, hard, onto the floor, where she landed with a thud on the sheepskin rug in front of the sofa. For a second she lay there, in stunned silence, then her face crumpled and she began to scream.

  ‘OLIVER!’ Annabelle – who had walked into the room just as her youngest flew through the air – and I shouted his name simultaneously. With Millie open-mouthed with shock next to me, I leapt from my seat but Annabelle got there first, gently checking her howling daughter over for any obvious injuries before bundling her into her arms and standing up.

  ‘Olly, what on earth?’ She looked aghast. ‘What’s wrong with you? She’s three years old, you could have seriously hurt her!’

  ‘Well, she should move when I tell her to, then.’ Oliver, his face still flushed and angry, was staring at the carpet, shuffling his feet. ‘Those two are always hogging the telly, it’s not fair. I gave her a chance and she didn’t take it, not my fault.’

  Annabelle shook her head, looking furious, as Sienna’s sobs grew even louder.

  ‘Hush, Sienna, you’re all right. Oliver, you never, ever use violence against your sisters. Or against anyone, do you understand me? When your father hears about this … oh, just get out. Go to your room, I can’t even look at you. But you haven’t heard the last of this, I promise you.’

  Oliver looked at her mutinously for a moment then turned and stalked from the room, muttering under his breath. Annabelle shifted Sienna’s weight to her other hip and looked at me despairingly.

  ‘Flora, what on earth am I going to do with him? He’s a nightmare. He never leaves Sienna alone. Are you all right, Millie?’

  Millie nodded. ‘Yeah. He’s just an idiot boy, Mum. Sienna can be a bit bratty but he’s so horrible to her. Can’t you send him away to boarding school or something? You know, like those old-fashioned ones in films where the teachers will hit him with sticks and make him eat slugs for dinner? That’d teach him, wouldn’t it, Flora?’

  She looked at me and I clamped my lips firmly together, trying not to laugh. Then I caught Annabelle’s eye and realized a tiny smile was playing on her lips too.

  ‘I don’t think boarding school is the answer, sadly, Millie. I wish I knew what was, though. Flora, I ha
te to ask, I really do, but I just don’t seem to be able to get through to him at the moment. I don’t suppose …?’

  She raised her eyebrows, and I nodded.

  ‘Sure. I’ll talk to him in a bit. Not sure I can do much but I’ll give it a go.’

  ‘Thank you so much. Look, you two watch your film in peace. Come on, Sienna, your colouring book and pencils are in the kitchen. Shall we go and do a nice picture?’

  Face still nestled into her mother’s shoulder, Sienna nodded, her crying abating now.

  ‘OK, let’s do that then. Thanks again, Flora’, Annabelle said over her shoulder as she left the room.

  I listened as her footsteps faded down the hall and the kitchen door closed, then sighed. I’d talk to Oliver later, when he’d calmed down a bit. I would have anyway, even if Annabelle hadn’t asked me to, but I needed to relax a bit first, let the alcohol wear off.

  I turned to look at Millie, who had retrieved the remote control from under the cushion and was rewinding the film, presumably to where it had been when Oliver had arrived.

  ‘I need the loo, Millie. Start watching again, don’t worry about waiting for me, but I’m definitely coming back so keep my seat!’

  ‘I will,’ she said, and snuggled back onto her cushions, pressing play with a grin.

  As I left the downstairs toilet down the corridor off the main hall, wiping my still-damp hands on my jeans, I jumped as Greg suddenly appeared from his study next door.

  ‘Gosh, you scared me!’ I said, edging past him, but he held both arms out, blocking my path.

  ‘Flora, I need to talk to you.’ His voice was an urgent whisper. ‘Come in here for a moment, will you?’