‘If I go, I’ll come back whenever you want me to.’
I push my eyes into his darkness. ‘Sebastian, I will never want you back.’
118
Sebastian
Her words rotate in my mind. The look on her face when I told her. How can she take against me? She loves me. She’ll forgive me. She will, won’t she Jude? I guess within a fortnight. And I’ll have achieved what I wanted. Pushed Miranda away. Then I can find the strength to tell her what happened. What I did to my family.
119
Zara
Sebastian has gone. I couldn’t bear to look at him for another moment. The sight of him cuts into me and makes me feel sick. Miranda. I’m waiting for you to come home. My hand tightens around my knife. My Swiss Army knife. Mother gave us one each when we joined the Girl Guides. Do you remember, Miranda? You lost yours. I kept mine.
120
Miranda
I am walking home from work feeling calmer than calm, now I’ve decided what to do. The world seems clearer, sharper. For the first time in a long while, I register other people on their way home, on their way to the pub for the evening. A couple holding hands. An overweight middle-aged woman laden down by Tesco bags. I see the bus rolling past full of people getting on with their lives.
I am able to join back in now. Ready to get on with my life again. I am going to let you go, Zara, stop trying to protect you. I am going to move to Hong Kong, earn a shedload of money in a different environment. Leave you to sort Sebastian out yourself. Mother’s harsh words no longer frighten me. She won’t really want her money back. Deep down inside I know she only said that in a desperate attempt to make me stay and protect you, her precious. She will let you, her darling Zara, stay living in my flat forever. For as long as you want.
121
Zara
I am waiting for you, Miranda, knife in hand. You have destroyed me. I am waiting to destroy you.
122
Miranda
I text you, Zara.
Not working late tonight. Fancy a pizza and a chick flick?
123
Zara
Yes please, I text back, clenching my fingers more tightly around my Swiss Army knife. Once upon a time I used to cut myself to find release. Blood seeping out. Slowly at first. Then a line. A river. Oh the sweet, sweet release of blood. Once upon a time I cut Sebastian. I close my eyes and step back in time. I bite my lip. I move my razor blade towards his wrist. I touch it against his skin. I feel the skin separate. He inhales deeply. The inhalation of his breath, the way his lips part slightly, turns me on. I see the blood line. The seepage. Sweet seepage. Sweet, sweet seepage. Sweet release.
‘Do you feel it?’ I ask.
He closes his eyes.
‘I feel it,’ he whispers.
Miranda, this time I’m going to cut you. Too deep.
124
Miranda
Yes please, you text back.
Good good. What do you fancy seeing?
Just get home and we’ll talk about it. There are so many choices. We need to talk face to face.
125
Zara
I hear your key in the door. I hear your footsteps as you pad across the hallway. You call my name. I don’t reply. The anger inside me is exploding. I cannot move. I cannot speak. It reaches its crescendo and I push through it. I’m moving through my bedroom, moving towards you. You are in the corner of the kitchen, putting the kettle on. You turn towards me, opening your mouth to tell me something. But I do not want to listen. Miranda, I will never listen to you again.
‘How could you do it?’ I ask, my voice skidding into a shriek.
You look at me, eyes wide. Are you pretending to be innocent?
‘Do what?’ you ask.
‘Seduce Sebastian.’
My voice explodes. Your face fragments in front of me.
‘Is that what he said?’
‘Yes.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘What was it like, screwing my boyfriend? He’s fucking fantastic isn’t he?’
You shake your head.
‘It wasn’t like that.’
I don’t believe you, Miranda. I will never believe you again. I carry on moving towards you, knife hidden in my right hand. I cannot see your face. It is out of focus. Covered by a cloudy mist. You are still standing in the corner of the kitchen, body straight. You must just be standing looking at me. You do not say anything. You do not apologise.
‘I hate you, you bitch,’ I shriek.
Still you do not move. Still you do not say anything.
And I am getting closer with my knife. Closer to cutting you. So close now that even though your face is out of focus, I can feel you. I can smell you. You smell of him. You smell of Sebastian. Of sweat. Of cigarette smoke. Of sex. Of testosterone. Of aftershave. I move towards your neck. Your smooth clear neck, to the place where I want to cut you. You try to step away now, but it’s too late. I push my weight against you. You are pinned against the kitchen counter. You cannot move.
126
Miranda
I am light. I am happy. I am going to escape. Tonight I’m going to take you out, Zara, and spoil you. Tonight I am celebrating. I enter the flat. There is a strange quietness about it. No TV on. No music blasting from your bedroom. No one sprawling across the sofa.
‘Zara,’ I shout.
No reply. Perhaps you’ve just popped out to Tesco. I move towards the kettle to make a cup of tea. Just as the kettle starts to purr, I hear you scream, I hear you shriek. I turn around. You are powering towards me with a look on your face that I don’t recognise. I have never seen you look like this before. Your eyes are wide and staring. Your chin is jutting. You look flushed, as if you have a temperature.
‘How could you seduce Sebastian?’ you hiss.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Don’t lie to me, you bitch.’
‘Calm down, Zara. Let’s sit on the sofa. Have a drink. Talk about it.’
‘I hate you, you bitch. I will never talk to you again.’
You are pushing me. You are hurting me. Pinning me against the kitchen counter.
127
Zara
I am moving my knife towards your neck. Your soft sweet neck. Throbbing with arteries and veins. Throbbing as you panic. I smell your pain, even before I cut. I cut. I see the line. The release of blood. I cut deeper and deeper. Deeper and deeper, to make you feel my pain.
128
Miranda
‘I’m going to kill you,’ you screech. ‘Fucking kill you.’
Your voice is no longer your voice. It sounds deeper, as if you are in a trance. You are lifting your right hand and pushing it towards the left side of my neck. What are you doing, Zara? What’s going on? A glint of metal reflecting in the sunlight filtering through the window, and I panic. You have a knife.
‘What are you doing Zara? Stop it.’
But your face is glazed, transfixed. You are not listening to me. You are pushing the blade of your Swiss Army knife towards me. I never realised how strong you are. I cannot move. You have pinned me against the corner of the kitchen counter, holding my hands together with your left hand.
I close my eyes to pray for strength, and as I do I feel a sharp pain in my neck. You are cutting me. You are stabbing me. I open my eyes and see raw hatred on your face. You lick your lips. Your eyes widen as you cut. You are lifting the knife, about to cut again.
For that split second, as you are in ecstasy, I manage to free my hands. I reach for the bread knife lying on the counter to my right hand. Hands trembling, I push your hand away from my neck and plunge the bread knife into your stomach. Up, up into your torso I push.
129
Zara
I have cut you. Your blood is spilling. I have cut and this time, for the first time, I feel no better. I do not feel the release. I back away a little. Your hands are free. I am looking at the waterfall of your blood as I feel my skin split. I feel wetness bet
ween my ribs. My heart judders. I can’t breathe.
THE PRESENT
130
I lie on my bed in my cell, opening a letter. I know from the watermarked pale yellow paper and the franking on the envelope that it’s from Theo. Yellow stationery, blue italic lettering. It’s his chamber’s stationery. I opens it, hands trembling. I feel his hand in mine as he tried to reassure me about the video tape. I see the kindness in his face. I feel so embarrassed I want to curl up and die just thinking about it. I want Theo to like me. To see a good side of me. All he ever sees is a contorted mess.
A few people, I suppose, are sexually thick-skinned. Exhibitionist. Otherwise we wouldn’t have porn stars. Lap dancers. Prostitutes. In a way I envey them. They have a confidence about the intimate that I lack. To me sex is private. A totally intimate act. Having sex is a completely different experience from watching it. The two do not match. The sensation and perception of sex far transcends observation. In reality it is ethereal, unquantifiable. Watching it is purely mechanical. Thrusting and pumping. Moaning and lying back.
I can’t believe that Sebastian has filmed me. A camera in both of our bedrooms. Filming his lips on my erect nipples. Filming his pallid thrusting buttocks. What is the matter with the guy? What was he playing at? I feel degraded. Worthless. Humiliated.
I lie back on the bed and read the letter.
Dear Ms Cunningham,
Please do not let the tape pull you down. To me you are wonderful. A hero.
How can Theo be allowed to say that? He is my brief. We have a business relationship. He cannot mean this. He is just trying to cheer me up.
The letter continues:
Sebastian is a cruel, manipulative man. I’ve been looking into his background and it doesn’t make for happy reading. I am developing new ideas about him. I think he deliberately contrived to tear you and your sister apart. Don’t let him destroy you. Be bold. Be brave. Admit what happened to you. Come out from the shadow you’re hiding under. Tell the world what your sister’s boyfriend did to you. Tell the world the truth, Miranda. Please. I want you to be free. I want you to get out.
The letter falls from my hand. I sit up in bed. My life cannot sink any lower. I have reached my lowest point. I need to pull myself up. My name is Miranda Cunningham. I have been manipulated and raped by my sister’s boyfriend. I need to face the shame of it. My name is Miranda Cunningham. I loved my sister. Miranda Cunningham will tell the truth.
131
The psychotherapist smiles his usual smile. His real smile that reaches his eyes. But I am shaking and trembling. My mouth is dry, and my chest and stomach are being stabbed a thousand times.
‘Another panic attack?’ he asks.
‘No.’ I pause. ‘Well yes. But I’ve averted it. It’s just that I want to talk about Sebastian now. It’s time.’
132
I am locked in yet another cell, waiting for my trial to start. I’m not sure what time because the previous trial in my courtroom has overrun. I have been waiting in solitary since nine a.m. in a cell beneath Bristol Crown Court. Not sure how I feel, or whether I feel anything at all. After months in prison, part of me has closed down. I can’t imagine this nightmare ever ending. I can’t imagine I’ll ever be free again. And even if I am physically free, I killed you, Zara, so how am I going to live with that? I should have just let you kill me. I often think about that. How much easier it would have been if I had died instead of you.
Closed windows. Stagnant air. Boredom and fear crippling me. Which one will destroy me first? Eventually, sitting on the wooden bench in my holding cell, I fall asleep. I dream I am standing in the sea with you, Zara. Young girls again, on the Costa Brava, where we went when we were seven. The waves are frisky and we laugh as we jump over them, Mother in between us, holding both our hands. Mother evaporates and now you and I are holding hands, walking through bluebell-carpeted woods.
I open my eyes to find myself sitting on the plank-like bed in my cell, a guard standing in front of me rattling a pair of handcuffs.
‘Your brief needs to see you before the trial. Come with me please.’
I slip off the bed, put on my shoes, and he cuffs me. He leads me along the corridor. He doesn’t smile at me. He doesn’t speak to me. He is a skinny man wearing a thick wedding ring, toes pointing slightly inwards as he walks. He unlocks a door and leads me into a cubicle with a bench to sit on and a glass barrier with a speaking hole. A cubicle, not a room. He uncuffs me.
‘Your brief will be here soon.’
He leaves, locking the door behind him. I perch on the bench and wait, nose pressed against the glass. After a few minutes Theo glides in, gowned for court. He sits on the bench the other side of the glass and smiles. A half smile, full of concern. Eyes melting into mine.
‘Just wanted to check you’re all right.’
‘Happiest day of my life.’
‘You look nice.’
‘I tried my best.’
‘Your best worked.’
‘I don’t suppose what I look like will help.’
‘Everything helps.’ He pauses. ‘I expect you know what I’m going to say. I’ve said it so many times.’ Another pause, longer this time. ‘Be honest. Be yourself. And it is very important you explain exactly what Sebastian did to you.’
At the thought of being interrogated about Sebastian, the panic and embarrassment that I am trying to contain inside me rises. I am trembling inside. I look into Theo’s eyes.
I pause. I swallow. ‘What if they show that film?’
‘I’ve told you they won’t – only to the jury in closed session and probably not even that if you tell the truth.’
‘Where’s my QC?’ I ask.
‘Going through the trial notes.’
‘So late?’
‘She’s very familiar with them, and very experienced. I just mean going through them again.’ He smiles. A wide, reassuring smile. He touches his hand against the glass as if he is trying to touch me. ‘Everything’s under control, Miranda. I promise. I just wanted to see you to check that you were OK.’ Honey eyes run into mine. ‘I wanted to wish you good luck.’
‘If everything’s under control, why do I need luck?’
‘Everybody needs luck.’
One last smile, which starts as a grin and then expands, and he is gone, robes streaming behind him.
Back to my cell with the guard. Two more hours until I am called. Two more hours to relive what I have done. Memories of you, Zara, running through my head. You and me on the beach together, two schoolgirls walking into the sea. You are crying. A wall of tears blankets your face. I pull you towards me and hold you against me.
‘I can’t do my exams. Please help me,’ you beg.
My mind jumps to Bristol.
‘I’ve met someone,’ you announce, face flushed, eyes shining. I remember the metallic taste of the chicken tikka ready meal I ate the first night you went out with Sebastian, leaving me in our flat alone.
I am back lying on the rug in front of the TV. We are on our stomachs, Zara, facing each other. Your golden eyes sharpen beneath the electric light of the wintry evening as you light the spliff and take the first drag. You inhale deeply, as if you are sucking the elixir of life itself into your very being. A passing frown as you concentrate. Holding in. Release. The musky aroma of cannabis spreads thickly around us. Clinging. Sickly. Sweet. You pass the spliff to me. The same routine: holding, holding, release.
‘I worry about how much I love Sebastian,’ you say. ‘I worry I love him too much.’
The cannabis is making me feel floaty.
Zara, that was true. You loved him too much.
And I am back hearing him grunt in my ear like a stuck pig as he climaxes. I vomit in my mouth and swallow it. He pulls out of me. The burning pain he was causing me increases. It is almost unbearable. I try to breathe deeply to cope with it, but that is impossible with my head stuffed into the duvet. I cannot bear to turn around and look at him. I hear him movin
g about my bedroom. I presume he is gathering his clothes. What can he be thinking? Is he pleased with himself? I hear the bedroom door open and close. I move my head a little so that I can breathe.
‘Please Sebastian,’ I say. ‘You’re making me ill. Please promise me you won’t tell Zara what happened between us.’
He puts his hand on my arm. A Jack Nicholson smile. ‘It turns me on when you beg.’
I feel the slippage of skin. The resistance. The wetness. I see your clammy staring eyes. Your blood-mangled body. Your hair splayed across the white floor. I feel your alabaster stillness.
In court at last, I sit next to the skinny, silent guard. Behind the floor to ceiling wall of glass, protecting the public from me. I am not cuffed. But he insists on making me aware of the cuffs’ presence. Where does he think I’m going to go? The court is coming to life in front of me. Barristers and solicitors arriving. Robed court officials pacing. Why are they always pacing so self-importantly? Is it because they are bored?
Theo’s wig looks ridiculous. It only just perches on the top of his head as if it doesn’t fit him. It certainly doesn’t suit him. Mr Mimms, Theo, and my QC are sitting in a row of wooden benches in the middle of the court. Leaning their heads together and chatting from time to time. Shuffling papers in front of them. Theo turns around to look at me.
‘Are you all right?’ he mouths.
I nod my head. All right? Am I all right? Will I ever be all right again? At least he cares enough to ask.
Guilt Page 20
