Guilt

by Amanda Robson

  ‘Stop it,’ I say. ‘I feel sick after that pizza.’

  He doesn’t hear me. He is pulling my knickers down.

  ‘Stop it Seb. I don’t feel well.’

  He doesn’t reply. He just continues to pull my knickers down. I try to push him away, but he is so much stronger than me that my attempts to hold him off are useless. He opens my legs with his knee and thrusts into me, as if he is in a trance. Thrusting into me as if he doesn’t know or care who I am. Thrusting into me as if he can’t stop.

  I have never seen him like this. I am so uncomfortable. He is hurting me. I feel as if I am about to vomit. He climaxes quickly. Relieved it is over, I push him off. I rush to the bathroom and vomit. The bathroom tiles are circling towards me. I put my hand out to touch them. They slip backwards. Then they begin to spin around me. The world turns black.

  I wake up the next morning wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets. For a second I do not know where I am. Then I remember. Christmas at Sebastian’s home. Greasy pizza. Sebastian thrusting into me. Being sick in his spinning bathroom. I can’t remember anything after that.

  But he isn’t here. Where is he? He isn’t lying next to me. Even as I sit up wondering where he is, he enters the bedroom carrying breakfast on a tray. Coffee and croissants and a miniature red rose. He places the tray on the bedside table, leans across and kisses me. A kiss as soft as satin.

  ‘I’m so sorry about yesterday,’ he says. ‘I’m going easy on the drugs from now on. I love you so much, Zara. I will never behave like that again.’

  54

  Sebastian

  I overstepped the mark with Zara yesterday. I do love her, Jude. I love her so much. Time stops when she lies in my arms. Usually a beautiful calmness engulfs me. I will never be rough with her again. I had one hit too many. I only took the drugs to cope. On Christmas Eve I had the nightmare again.

  Driving along the motorway in the fast lane, Kaiser Chiefs pumping out on the car stereo. The lorry. Coming towards us in slow motion. Half time. Quarter time. Almost stopping. Grinding, slowly, slowly, across the central reservation. Large wheels crunching, swallowing metal. I sat mesmerised by the truck. Transfixed. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. Fingers frozen against the steering wheel, useless and immobile. The lorry hitting the car. The car skidding sideways. The taste of panic in my bile as I let go of the steering wheel.

  How many times will I be plagued to relive what happened? It is torture, Jude. I woke up trembling, in a cold sweat on Christmas morning. I took an E as soon as I made it to the bathroom, and another just before lunch. On and off all day I kept snorting coke – to dim the pain, to help me keep going. By early afternoon I felt bullish and aggressive, invincible, unstoppable. Desperate for release, for closure. So pumped up and hyper, I couldn’t even slow down to consider the woman I love.

  THE PRESENT

  55

  Christmas Day. She feels so bad this morning that she pushes the emergency buzzer in her cell. A prison officer appears and summons her listener immediately.

  Ten minutes later, the gentle Jane Noble is with her. She hasn’t got out of bed. Her feet haven’t touched the floor. Jane pulls a chair to the side of the bed and sits on it, carefully watching her charge. Her face is swollen with tears. Shiny hair tangled and matted.

  ‘Bad day, huh?’ Jane asks softly.

  She reaches for Jane’s hand, tears streaming down her face. ‘Bad doesn’t quite cut it. I’m not sure I can move through this.’

  ‘Christmas is always bad. Christmas Day. Just a day to get through,’ Jane says. ‘You can and you will.’

  And somehow she does. She moves through the day. She showers and dresses. Somehow she keeps going. Somehow she stays alive. She looks out of the cell window. A grey day. Solid grey drizzle. Weather that spits in your face.

  You can and you will. You can and you will. She walks along the corridor with the other prisoners, towards the canteen for lunch. She collects her meal and sits down, the smell of overcooked turkey and grease making her feel sick. Sitting in the prison canteen, having lunch at 11:30 so that most of the staff can go home early after the prisoners are back, safely locked up in their cells again.

  She pushes a piece of dry turkey around her plate. She isn’t speaking to the women on either side of her. She isn’t really aware of them. She isn’t listening to the piped carols. Until she hears Slade: Sebastian’s Christmas favourite. Her mind pushes back. Back to last year. Her stomach rotates as she remembers. Sebastian, Sebastian. Why won’t you see me? You won’t even speak to me now.

  THE PAST

  56

  Miranda

  New Year’s Eve. You step off the train into my arms, Zara. I hold you against me. You smell of roses and violets. You feel thin and fragile. As if you would snap in two if I held you too tight.

  ‘I missed you so much,’ I said. ‘It’s like living in a cemetery when I’m here without you.’

  ‘I missed you too.’

  Sebastian hovers awkwardly behind you, attempting to shower me with his grin, but not quite managing as I avoid his glance. When you and I have become untangled, he walks towards me and puts his arms around me.

  ‘Did you miss me too?’ he whispers in my ear. I feel the heat of his breath on my skin.

  I stiffen and unclamp my body from his grasp.

  It is a mild day for the time of year. Zara and I link arms as we amble back towards Heathfield Close. Sebastian links arms with you. Glancing imperiously about him, staring into the windows of every home we pass. Leering at everything. Passers-by. Parked cars.

  ‘The beauty of suburbia,’ he says with a smirk.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I ask.

  ‘Too parochial.’ He pauses. ‘Conservative with a small c.’

  ‘And Clifton is edgy and exciting, is it? Plenty of drugs and gun culture?’

  ‘Music culture at least. The Stones and the Beatles played Colston Hall.’

  ‘Shut up, Sebastian. Everyone knows the Beatles are from Liverpool.’

  ‘Stop bickering, you two. We’re almost home,’ Zara says as we turn the corner into Heathfield Close. Past the beech tree. Past gardens bordered by hedges and leafy shrubs.

  Sebastian continues to observe our hometown, turning his head from side to side haughtily, as if it’s all beneath him. He has only been here ten minutes and he is already annoying me.

  Mother answers the door wearing her second-best apron – her denim Jamie Oliver one, hands covered in flour. As soon as her eyes alight on you her face explodes with joy. She wipes her hands on her apron, and envelops you in a bear hug. When Mother has released you, she holds her hand out stiffly to Sebastian.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ she says.

  ‘Come on Sebastian, I’ll show you the spare room,’ you say, with a toss of your increasingly razor-indented hair with its strange shaved sections, taking his hand and pulling him inside.

  He follows you upstairs, climbing up enthusiastically, two steps at a time. I follow Mother into the kitchen, where she is halfway through cooking her signature dish, beef bourguignon, the woody scent beginning to waft around the house.

  ‘Do you think he’ll like it?’ she asks.

  ‘He’ll probably think eating meat is class divisive.’

  ‘Come on Miranda. Tell me the truth: do you like this guy or not?’

  ‘I like him some of the time,’ I lie. ‘But not as much as Zara does.’

  57

  Zara

  It’s good to be with my small family again. A formal New Year’s Eve dinner by candlelight in our compact dining room, just the four of us. Mother has pulled out all the stops. Silver place mats, silver goblets, silver cutlery. Smoked salmon, beef bourguignon, strawberries and cream. Champagne and Chablis. Rioja and Sauternes. Mozart’s Horn Concertos – her favourite music, trumpeting cheerily in the background. But behind the music there is an eerie silence. No one chatting very much.

  ‘How was Christmas without me?’ I ask.

&nbs
p; You and Mother exchange glances.

  ‘Fine,’ Mother says, eyes flat.

  ‘One big house party from start to finish,’ you add.

  58

  Miranda

  Our candlelit New Year’s dinner looks as if it should be intimate, but the conversation is stilted. Mother, who is often quite chatty, seems flummoxed and nervous in front of Sebastian.

  ‘What are your parents doing this evening, Sebastian?’ Mother asks after a while.

  ‘They’ve gone away together,’ he replies.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To a secret destination.’

  ‘How romantic.’ There is a pause. ‘Did your father surprise your mother?’

  ‘Maybe. I wasn’t there. I wouldn’t know.’

  That is the end of the conversation about Sebastian’s parents for now until later, when we are finishing off strawberries and cream and you suddenly pipe up.

  ‘Your parents go away so much, don’t they, Sebastian?’

  Sebastian doesn’t reply. He shifts a little in his chair, as if he is uncomfortable.

  ‘I mean we had their house to ourselves all Christmas,’ you continue.

  ‘It’s a big house, isn’t it? Did you feel lonely?’ Mother asks, changing the conversation unnecessarily, just when I wanted to know what he had to say about his family.

  You look across to Sebastian, holding his eyes in yours. ‘I never feel lonely when I’m with Sebastian.’

  Sycophantic, Zara. So sycophantic. Is that what you really think? Christmas, in a soulless house, with the dreadful Sebastian. Why have you let this happen to yourself?

  ‘What about you, Sebastian?’ Mother asks. There is a pause. ‘Did you miss your parents?’

  He clears his throat, shrugs his shoulders. ‘Well, I’m used to it. They go away so much. Always have. Always will.’

  Mother and I catch each other’s gaze for a second. She has always been here for us. She finds it hard to understand parents who would do anything less. She raises her glass.

  ‘Well, here’s to your parents, wherever they are in the world right now.’ Her voice sounds clipped.

  We all raise a toast: ‘To Seb’s parents.’

  Sebastian’s weird parents. I am fed up of hearing about them. The conversation dwindles on towards midnight, until five to twelve when I open a bottle of champagne and pour us all a glass. One minute to midnight. Zara, you count down in seconds using your iPhone. And then we hold hands in a circle and stagger around the sitting room trying to remember the words to ‘Auld Lang Syne’. As usual Mother gets tears in her eyes.

  Singing ritual over, Mother and I reach for one another and hug. We give each other a quick peck on the cheek. Zara, you and Sebastian are welded together near the Christmas tree, snogging. I break away from Mother and stand, glass in hand, watching. Watching your lips, Zara, pressed greedily against his. Watching his right hand stroke your buttocks playfully. You break away and reach for your champagne glass. You walk to the TV, wave the remote, and Jools Holland comes on.

  ‘I love this programme,’ you say, settling in front of it.

  ‘How can you watch this middle-aged crap?’ Sebastian asks.

  For once I agree with him. Most people must like his show though or it wouldn’t get screened so relentlessly.

  ‘Shut up Seb. Don’t spoil the moment,’ you say with laughter in your voice. ‘I watch it every year.’

  Don’t I just know it? I sigh inside. I walk to the front door and step outside, wine glass in hand. The midnight air is cold and clear. The midnight moon is full and sharp. I look up at the stars and think of a beautiful story I once heard about a village in Africa where each child is named after a star. On the night their star shines the brightest, it is their turn to fetch the water the next day.

  I hear a click as the front door opens. I turn around. Sebastian has followed me outside. He steps towards me and takes me in his arms, so quickly I do not manage to stop him; too much wine must have slowed my reactions. He is trying to kiss me again. Furious, I close my mouth and stiffen. Managing to untangle myself from his grasp and pull away, I step inside and slam the door.

  The TV is still on. A jazz band belting out an old-fashioned song I don’t recognise, Jools Holland standing in front of them tapping his foot. You and Mother are glued to the screen, finishing off your champagne.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ I say and disappear upstairs as quickly as possible.

  I slip into bed, Sebastian’s attempt to kiss me still burning on my lips. I lie awake trying to breathe deeply. Trying to relax. Sleep is stepping towards me. I am half awake, half asleep. The door bursts open and someone steps in. I jump out of bed and snap on the light. It is Sebastian. Running his eyes down my nakedness. My breasts. The carefully trimmed mound between my legs.

  ‘Get out. Go away,’ I hiss.

  59

  Sebastian

  Do you think I’m frightening her, Jude? Do you think this will push her away? Once again, she almost kissed me back. She wants me really. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  THE PRESENT

  60

  ‘I’ve bought you a Christmas present, a bit late,’ Theo Gregson says. ‘I’m sorry, but I wasn’t allowed to wrap it.’

  He hands her a cashmere jumper. Dark purple cashmere. Soft as silk.

  ‘Oh Theo, thank you. You shouldn’t have.’

  He grins his wholesome grin. ‘I wanted to give you something to cheer you up a little. You’ve been going through so much.’

  She holds it to her face to feel the texture and buries her head in it. When she looks up, he is watching her, eyes so tender it makes her heart ache.

  ‘I just can’t thank you enough,’ she says.

  She stands up and moves towards him. She so wants to hug him to thank him. To behave like a normal person, not a prisoner. He stands up too, and moves towards her. She stops herself just in time. They stand looking at one another, eyes locked.

  ‘I’m not allowed to hug you, am I?’ she asks.

  His eyes dance with pleasure. ‘Unfortunately not. The prison officers will be watching through the window.’ He smiles. She smiles back. ‘You don’t need to hug me to thank me. Words are enough. I just wanted to give you a present to say keep your chin up.’ There is a pause. ‘The good news is you’ll soon have your QC.’

  Her smile evaporates. She feels empty. ‘But I’ve got you.’

  ‘It’s a murder trial. Legal Aid have to provide a QC.’

  They sit down again at opposite sides of the table in the visit room, as usual.

  ‘Even if I don’t want one?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes. They have to offer you the best representation possible and that is a QC.’ His voice is stern now, measured.

  ‘But Theo, I trust you.’

  ‘You’ll still have me. But you’ll have a QC as well.’ He pauses. ‘I promise it’s for the best.’

  She is so upset. So depleted. The trust she has for Theo is burning and intense.

  ‘Will you still be able to come and see me?’ she asks, almost in tears.

  ‘Yes. The QC’s very busy on another case as well right now. So we’ve already agreed – I’ll continue to make the legal visits.’

  She lowers her shoulders and exhales with relief. ‘That’s good. Thanks.’

  THE PAST

  61

  Zara

  Back to university after the Christmas holidays. I am on a high. Scoring distinctions in all my coursework, on the most fantastic photography course. Our photography course is the top-rated one in the country, according to the Good University Guide I found on display in the library. So how fantastic am I?

  But what I am more proud about than anything, is that I have given up cutting. It hasn’t been easy. I have managed it with the help of my counsellor and Sebastian. The more days I get through without cutting, the easier it becomes.

  Sometimes when I wake up in the morning I still want to cut. And on those days, that feeling doesn’t go away. Even on my
good days, sometimes for no reason, just as I am waiting for the bus to college, or walking to Tesco, I think about cutting. The release. What it used to feel like. I distract myself, with something else that makes me feel good. I close my eyes and think about Sebastian telling me that he loves me. Or I think about the last time we had sex. The feel of him inside me.

  Last night before I went to bed (Sebastian had gone home for a few days), I wanted to cut myself so badly I cried. I stood looking at myself in the full-length mirror in our bedroom, wondering what Sebastian sees in me. What is there to love? Miranda, you are always telling me how good-looking I am. How you envy my looks. But you are so dark and sultry and sexy – how can you envy me my ordinary looks? I’ve always had far more men than you but that’s only because I’m friendlier. Men like women who are friendly. They make them feel comfortable. Haven’t you noticed the way men look at you these days? Even my darling Sebastian sometimes – although he very quickly averts his eyes.

  So I stood looking at myself in the mirror, thinking about how chubby I am becoming. These days I am trying to eat as little as possible, just enough to have the energy to live. The lowest calorie ready meals I can find. Sometimes I even make do with a few tablespoons of your healthy rabbit food, Miranda. But still I have over-ample breasts and cellulite. A plethora of orange peel decorating my inner thighs. If I am already developing cellulite at thirty, what am I going to look like by the time I’m sixty? Someone who should only go out on Halloween?

  I was standing looking at my cellulite in the harsh halogen light of the bathroom, pushing my inner thighs towards the mirror, pummelling them with my fingers. Wanting to take my blade and do something that would make me feel a lot better. To gouge a good lump out. The pain would be breathtaking. I would feel a sense of relief, knowing I had done something about my cellulite. My body deserves the punishment. I would be exhilarated by my audacity, by my bravery.