Guilt

by Amanda Robson

  We sit in the easy chairs looking at each other. Large blue eyes appraising mine.

  ‘Shall we start by talking about your sister?’ she asks.

  She leans back in her chair, relaxed, waiting for me to speak. I do not know what to say, where to begin. The silence between us is becoming claustrophobic. I must say something. I need to start somewhere.

  ‘I do not resent my sister.’ My voice sounds strained and waspish.

  ‘Why did you say that?’ she asks.

  ‘Because that’s what I think you think.’

  Jill’s face is gentle and relaxed. Her eyes and mouth soft and ready to smile. ‘I don’t think anything. I’m here to help.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ I pause. ‘If you don’t think anything, how can you help?’

  ‘It does help. If you talk about the things that are worrying you, I can guide your thoughts.’

  I do not reply at first. I sit hands together on my lap, contemplating this. I do not want to open up, but I know I need to. I am not managing very well on my own. After a while I look up at Jill. She holds my eyes in hers.

  ‘It’s her boyfriend I resent.’

  Jill scribbles something on the notepad in front of her. ‘Why?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  Her eyes melt with kindness. ‘Try to explain.’

  Just thinking about the situation makes my stomach feel as if it is tied up in knots. That is what our life has become. A knot. A tangle. The more I try and hold things together to help you, Zara, the more the knot tightens. The more the knot tightens the more I know I need to explain. But I can’t find the words today.

  103

  Zara

  Easter. At Sebastian’s house again. Trying not to worry about you. But it’s not quite working out. I keep seeing you lying on the bed, struggling to breathe, and then I feel awful that you are in your flat, alone. I telephone every day, and you assure me that you’re OK. Are you, Miranda? Are you really OK? Your voice sounds thin and strained.

  The house seems emptier than ever, as if some more things have been removed. I sometimes wonder if his parents are ghosts. He no longer mentions the possibility of me meeting them. Is he ashamed of them? Or of me? They travel at every major holiday, for a long time it seems. I wonder what they must be like, these strange people who hardly ever seem to live in this house. This house with no photographs. But then again, not everybody is as mad on photographs as me.

  The garden is still perfectly maintained. A sea of daffodils trumpet beneath the weeping willow in the middle of the lawn.

  As soon as we arrive, Sebastian raids his parents’ wine cellar.

  ‘Let’s start with some white,’ he announces, using a bottle opener that looks like a gynaecological instrument and pouring us both a glass.

  We sit together on the sofa in the drawing room.

  ‘What film would you like to watch?’ Sebastian asks, grabbing the remote and putting his arm around me.

  ‘I don’t,’ I say, pulling away from him a little. ‘I just want to chat. I want to know about your life. Your parents.’ I pause. ‘It bothers me that I’ve still not met them. They never seem to be here.’

  Sebastian puts the remote down on the coffee table in front of us and stirs uncomfortably next to me. His face develops a strange look I have never seen before. A shadow of the Sebastian I know.

  ‘I should have told you the truth earlier. We’ve had an argument. I’m trying to patch it up. They don’t mind me staying here from time to time when they are away but we’re not comfortable spending much time together.’

  I can’t believe this. It is so very sad.

  ‘But,’ I splutter, ‘you chatted to them so long on the phone at Christmas. You looked so happy as you spoke to them.’

  Sebastian’s eyes are flat. Solid. ‘We can be polite at a distance. But at close range it’s difficult.’

  ‘It must have been an awful argument for you to spend so little time together.’

  ‘It was.’

  I look down at his hands. They are trembling. I reach out to him and hold them in mine. My mind contorts as I try to imagine what could have happened to cause such a rift. Just thinking about it makes me want to cry.

  ‘I can’t face talking about it yet,’ he manages, voice breaking with pain.

  I massage his hands with mine, to comfort him.

  ‘You may not want to talk about it right now, but I’m here for you when you do.’

  ‘Thanks Zara.’ There is a pause. ‘I love you so much.’

  He kisses me. I melt into him.

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘I promise you, by next Christmas I will have solved this. Healed the rift, and we can all have Christmas together.’

  ‘I hope so, Sebastian. So much.’

  For the rest of the week, Sebastian and I live in his house, drinking wine, ordering takeaway, and watching late-night films on his enormous TV. No cutting this visit. That’s over for good. And not too many drugs. Sleeping wrapped together in Sebastian’s black Egyptian cotton bed sheets. But, for the rest of the week I do not feel comfortable being here. All I do is worry about you, Miranda, and try to stop my mind bursting with curiosity about why Sebastian and his parents argued. You were right, Miranda. We need to get to the bottom of this. It needs sorting out.

  On the last morning of our visit when we’re packing to go, I am checking the bedroom drawers in case I’ve left anything. Tucked at the back of one drawer I find something wrapped carefully in scented tissue paper. I put it to my nose. I inhale rose and lavender. It feels hard and rectangular, like a photograph in a frame. A photograph. At last a photograph. Hands trembling, I unwrap the tissue. It is a photograph. In a mother-of-pearl frame.

  A dark-haired woman is sitting in a bath chair, with two small babies cradled on her knee. Her hair is dark and wavy like Sebastian’s. My heart misses a beat. Does this mean Sebastian is a twin? He said he was interested in twins when I first met him. Is there some sort of heart-wrenching tale of separation at birth? Forced adoption?

  Sebastian walks into the room. I look up and brace myself to ask.

  ‘What is this, Sebastian? Are you a twin like me?’

  104

  Sebastian

  A twin like me. She’s finally guessed the truth, my beautiful brother. Jude, my beautiful twin, so much more beautiful than me.

  105

  Zara

  ‘What is this, Sebastian? Are you a twin like me?’

  He walks towards me, takes the photograph, and looks at it.

  ‘It’s my aunt. My mother’s sister. The twins are my cousins.’

  Lips in a line. Eyes like stone. Sad and convincing. And yet. And yet. Why hasn’t he told me about his twin cousins? When I am a twin? When I would have been so interested?

  ‘But … but …’ I splutter, ‘you never mentioned you had twins in the family.’

  ‘As you already know, there are a lot of things I don’t mention about my family.’

  His voice is twisted and sharp. I step towards him and put my hand on his arm.

  ‘But when are you going to tell me?’ I ask gently.

  He shakes his head. His eyes are moist with tears. ‘I can’t. Not yet.’

  ‘You will have to soon.’

  ‘I know.’

  A tear rolls down his cheek. I brush it away and my insides crumble. What has happened to distress him this much, a strong vibrant man with his whole life in front of him? He clamps against me, and I hold him so tight. I want to protect him. But how can I protect him if I don’t know what has happened to him?

  ‘Your aunt looks very much like you,’ I whisper.

  He pulls away from me. ‘Why wouldn’t she look like me?’ he replies. ‘She’s my mother’s sister. She looks like my mother. That figures, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  I sit down on the bed. I feel exhausted. Depleted. ‘Why is that the only photograph in the house?’ I ask.

  ‘I
’m not sure it is. I haven’t gone through all the drawers like you.’ His tears have dried. His voice and his eyes are acidic now.

  I stiffen inside. This is unfair. ‘It wasn’t like that, Sebastian. I was just checking I hadn’t left anything behind. I’d forgotten where I’d put things.’

  ‘Come on Zara, we’ve only been here a week.’

  His voice is contorted. With hate? I have never seen him like this.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,’ I say, trying to placate him.

  ‘My father must have kept the photo. My mother isn’t one for photographs.’

  ‘Why keep one of your aunt?’ I ask. ‘Is your father in love with your aunt?’

  I lift my head. He traps my eyes in his. ‘Of course not. Stop making up stories.’

  His words twist in my head.

  ‘If people don’t tell you the facts, that’s what happens. Stories appear in your mind,’ I reply.

  ‘Well keep them short and succinct. You’re not writing a novel.’

  I try to push down my anger. I take a deep breath. ‘We need to move past this. You need to tell me about your parents.’

  I watch his face close down.

  106

  Miranda

  Sitting in Jill Watson-Smith’s study, looking into her large blue eyes. They are radiating intensity. The knots in my stomach feel metallic. I am bending forwards in pain. I close my eyes and turn my mind in on itself. Somewhere deep inside I find the strength to relax.

  ‘What do you think you can do about your situation?’ she asks, softly.

  The knots in my stomach begin to unravel. ‘I think I need to stop feeling so responsible for Zara.’

  For a few seconds I cannot feel the knots. For a few seconds this seems like a real possibility. I know I need to try and discuss what happened. I have spent so long building up to this session, determining to tell her. I take a deep breath.

  ‘I slept with Sebastian,’ I announce.

  As soon as my words are uttered, the knots begin to strangle me again. I look up into Jill’s face to try and gauge her reaction. I need some reassurance. But her expression does not change.

  ‘Why?’ she asks as calmly as if we were talking about the weather.

  I don’t reply.

  ‘Are you attracted to him?’ she pushes gently.

  ‘No.’

  She leans her head slightly to one side. ‘Are you in love with him?’

  ‘No.’ I pause. ‘It just happened. I don’t know why. It shouldn’t have. It all felt so strange. That’s why I feel so guilty about it. There was no rhyme or reason to it. I have no excuse.’ I look into Jill’s calm blue eyes. ‘My body just reacted. As soon as it was over I regretted it. As soon as I had time to think.’ I pause. ‘Now, I think of nothing else.’

  107

  Miranda

  Trying to push the world away. Trying to push Sebastian away. Zara, you and Sebastian are home. I was beginning to feel better while you were gone, Zara, because you had taken him away. He is back and I am trapped. More trapped than ever. Like an animal in a snare. The pain of its teeth is getting worse – tightening together.

  He is back at work, sitting next to me, and even though I’m not looking at him I sense his every movement. I feel his eyes on me. I chance a glance. I’m right. Flaming black eyes burn into mine. I give him a watery grin and pretend to continue to work. The words on the audit guidelines in front of me begin to dance and blur. The fist that had squeezed my heart once before grabs it again and wrings it more tightly this time. Squeezing it with a pulsating beat. The inky words in front of me are no longer words; they rise from the page like flies and swarm towards me.

  I stand up and nearly collapse, holding on to the desk in front of me with one hand to steady myself, waving my other arm at the insects to discourage them, but they are relentless, buzzing towards my face, coming to bite me. The fist is churning, pulverising, liquidising my heart muscle. I can’t breathe. I can’t see. The insects are crawling all over my face, biting me, scratching their wings across my skin. The world dissolves around me. Everything becomes black.

  The first thing I see when I come round is an accountancy journal being wafted from side to side across my face. The breeze it creates feels soft and delicious. But then I notice the hairs on the hand attached to it. Sebastian. The world surrounding me enlarges. I understand where I am. Lying flat on my back on the floor at work, a cushion beneath my head. Sebastian fanning my face with an accountancy journal. Nearby everyone else seems to be ignoring the situation and getting on with their tasks. My mind is blank.

  After a few seconds I remember Sebastian’s black eyes burning. The fist. The insects. Sebastian’s eyes are glowing more softly now – embers after the climax of the fire. The insects have flown away. The fist has released its grip. I prop myself up on my elbows.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘You stood up and collapsed.’

  ‘And what about the insects?’

  A brushstroke of a frown across Sebastian’s forehead. ‘What insects?’ He pauses. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The swarm. They were swarming at my head. That’s why I stood up.’

  ‘Miranda, there weren’t any insects.’

  Of course there weren’t any insects. I’ve had a panic attack again. Sebastian is leering down at me with his cavalier grin.

  Jill, help me please. Please help me again.

  THE PRESENT

  108

  Sleeping in her cell in Eastwood Park prison, dreaming of Sebastian. He is so clear to her. So real. Dark wavy hair. Eyes trying to destroy her. She can taste his smoky breath. Touch his salty skin. Sometimes for a fragmented second she sees two people. Sebastian and Theo Gregson. In her dream she is running. Running away from him. The balls of her feet exploding against the pavement. Hot needles stabbing into her chest as she stretches for breath. Heart pulsating against her eardrums.

  She wakes up in a cold sweat and sits bolt upright in bed, hands trembling. Without curtains, her cell is drenched in misty moonlight. Nothing is clear. Nothing tight-edged. That was the dream. Now for the panic attack. It has happened so many times. She lies back down in bed, pretending she is someone else watching from a distance, and holds her breath for as long as she can. When she exhales, the air splutters out clumsily, then she holds her breath again, and pushes the image of Sebastian away.

  Somewhere in the small hours of the night she drifts back to sleep. But when she wakes in the morning, her heart and body are still trembling.

  After breakfast – cardboard toast covered in something the caterers call margarine but is more like bicycle grease – she uses free-flow to go to the prison doctor. She can’t carry on like this. She knows she needs to ask for help. She waits in the anteroom, locked in now, for almost an hour. No one to watch. Nothing to read. Just off-white walls glaring at her, making her blink.

  At last the prisoner before her comes out of the doctor’s room, looking wizened and diminished. Poor woman. Is she fighting cancer in prison? At last, the prison doctor puts her head around the consulting room door to beckon her in.

  The consulting room looks pretty much like any other GP’s room, except that it has no window and the furniture is bolted down. As if she is dangerous, about to lift a chair in the air and use it to attack. She weeps silently inside to be in an environment where she is judged in this way. The prison doctor is a pretty little woman with an oval face and oval eyes to match. A face of resonant shapes. She sits down in the consulting chair, opposite her.

  ‘How can I help?’ the doctor asks.

  She takes a deep breath.

  ‘I keep having panic attacks and however hard I try to control them, they’re getting worse.’

  She is almost in tears. Will this nightmare ever stop?

  ‘Getting worse as your trial approaches?’

  ‘Yes.’ She pauses. ‘I used to have them before I came to prison. I learnt to manage them. Now I just can’t.’
>
  Looking concerned, the doctor leans towards her. ‘You had counselling in here before, didn’t you? For depression. After your sister’s funeral?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kind eyes sparkle into hers.

  ‘Did it help?’ the doctor asks.

  ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘Well, I’ll refer you back.’

  So once again the psychotherapist visits her in prison. A man of about forty with a bald suntanned head, pinprick brown eyes, and a wide, wide mouth. Toned figure. Manicured nails. His aftershave smells like the tag end of a joint, heady and resonant. He smiles. A real smile that reaches his eyes.

  He rubs the tips of his fingers together, slowly considering her, head on one side. ‘I see from your medical notes that your sister suffered from panic attacks too,’ he says.

  Chest pain stabs into her as he mentions her sister.

  ‘I really don’t want to talk about my sister.’

  He crosses his legs. Her chest pain increases.

  ‘Would you like to talk about Sebastian?’

  She does not reply.

  He leans forwards, eyes shining into hers. ‘Would you like to talk about him?’ he repeats.

  ‘I can’t talk about Sebastian. Not yet.’ She sighs inside. A long, slow, sad sigh.

  He frowns a little. ‘If he is the root of the problem, I think you’re going to have to before too long.’

  Her stomach knots. ‘I wouldn’t have come to see you if I had known you were going to bully me.’

  He raises his eyebrows and his hands. ‘I’m not trying to bully you, I’m trying to help you.’

  ‘Nothing to do with Sebastian can possibly help.’

  THE PAST

  109

  Miranda

  ‘I didn’t just sleep with him once. I slept with him, regretted it, and then he raped me.’

  A sharp intake of breath. Jill’s piercing blue eyes go cloudy. I try not to stare at her face. I cannot bear to watch her reaction, so I look at the wall behind her. At the photograph of her with her son on his degree day. He has a long face the shape of a rugby ball. A similar shape to hers.