Guilt: The Sunday Times best selling psychological thriller that you need to read in 2018. Amanda Robson
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should be taken for granted. That was their role. To provide so much love it became a natural part of life. Love, like air, necessary and always there. A permanent background. I took her in my arms and hugged her. I never wanted to let her go. But I had no choice. Her body dissolved in my arms.
Then Father stepped towards me. Dressed in his favourite outfit, country singer meets accountant. Checked shirt. Carefully pressed Levi jeans.
And you, Jude. In my dream, you were walking down the stairs on constant replay. You never got to the bottom. I tried to put my hand out to reach you, to pull you forwards, but our fingers couldn’t touch.
And then suddenly, the tempo of the dream changed. You stepped from the stairs into the hallway. Mother reappeared. Father held her hand, and you too, Jude. All three, holding hands in a line, stepping towards the front door. I stood in the doorway to stop you leaving, but you were marching now, stomping towards me. And when you reached me you stepped right through me, for your bodies were not bodies but shadows.
I woke up talking to your shadows. Shouting. Begging you to come back. Then I realised no one was there. No family. No shadows. I reached across for the jar of pills by my bed and took some diazepam, to calm me down.
Mother is in town. Zara, you and I are her welcome party at Bristol Temple Meads Station. Pleased to be out of a suit, I am weekend casual, wearing Hugo Boss jeans and a silk polo-neck jumper. You are, as usual, arty-farty funky. You haven’t disposed of the skirt or the boots. Mother winces when she sees your hair but she doesn’t say anything. Despite your weird attire, she hugs you first, as is her custom.
Sebastian has disappeared. Gone to dust. Every trace of him in my flat has been removed. No tatty toothbrush lying in the bathroom basin. No razor. No aftershave. To make sure Mother is comfortable, you move out of your bedroom and camp on the sofa. Zara, you are heavy this weekend – sultry and pouty. Despite your mood, we plod along together showing her the sights. An art exhibition at the Arnolfini, bold and impressive, followed by tea and cake at the café. A trip round the SS Great Britain.
Saturday night. Dinner at the Ribshack on the front. But your mood is thickening, Intensifying. After a rather turgid conversation you stomp to the toilet. Men’s eyes follow you. Men’s eyes always follow you despite your weird attire. It is your ambiance. Your perfect figure. Your perfect cheekbones.
I try my best to look nice, but I am tall and thin and flat-chested. When I put my eyeliner on carefully you flatter me by telling me I look like a cross between Lily Allen and Keira Knightley. I wish. But when I look at myself in the mirror all I see is a serious woman with large eyes and a prominent nose. The Ancient Egyptian look, verging on clown.
‘What’s the matter with Zara?’ Mother asks as soon as you leave the table.
‘She’s sulky because she’s not seeing her boyfriend this weekend.’
‘But we’re not stopping her. We invited him to come this evening.’
‘That’s the problem. She doesn’t understand why he didn’t want to join us.’
Mother’s face furrows in concern. ‘Is he just busy doing something else, or didn’t he want to meet me?’
‘I don’t know. And she obviously doesn’t know either. That’s why she’s so scratchy. They spend a lot of time together, but it’s early days. They’ve only known each other a few months. We can’t worry about it.’
Mother’s worried eyes shine into mine.
‘I can.’ There is a pause. ‘She can’t cope with being hurt.’
‘I know.’ I put my hand on my mother’s arm. ‘If it gets anywhere near that I’ll encourage her to break if off. Come on, Mother, it’s OK. Everything’s under control. We’re adults now.’
‘Nothing is ever completely under control. I can’t help worrying. I keep remembering six months ago. What if it happens again? What if she really hurts herself?’
I don’t tell Mother, but what happened six months ago is constantly haunting me as well. Not just my memory, but what Zara told me it was like. Blood. The rush. The feeling of release. Realising she had cut too deep. Sitting on the toilet at work, trying to stop it. Pressing and pressing against a never-ending fountain of blood. Too weak to panic. Pressing and pressing until her world turned black.
I push the memory away and I am back in the Ribshack in Bristol looking at my mother. Although a bit chubby now, she is still soft and pretty. She looks a bit like you, Zara, with her pale-chestnut eyes and golden hair. I must look more like my father, the man I have never known.
‘What if it happens again? What if she really hurts herself?’ Mother repeats.
‘She still Skypes her therapist regularly. That helps.’ Another pause. ‘I really think she’s all right.’
When did things change? When did I become the one who had to reassure my mother? I squeeze her hand. She squeezes back. Her eyes calm and soften.
Zara is returning from the toilets, weaving between tables, almost smiling through her pout. She bumps into an elderly man who rests his eyes a little too long on her as she apologises.
‘Come on. Let’s get the bill,’ she says to us. ‘When we get home I’m going to show you my coursework portfolio.’
She seems a little more relaxed now.
We walk home. Arm in arm along Harbourside. Past the smokers outside the sports pub, heads together chatting conspiratorially as they puff. Past groups of girls in short skirts striding out and giggling, about to go clubbing. A middle-aged man walking a Westie. A man slumped on the pavement strumming a guitar, a cap to collect money by his side. Electric light dappling the water, softening the city, softening the darkness. Into our flat for a nightcap.
Mother and I sit on our sofa, drinking another glass of wine each. Alcohol is softening our edges, helping us to relax. Zara disappears to her bedroom and returns with her photography portfolio.
‘This is my extended project,’ she announces proudly and places it on the coffee table in front of us.
We lean forward to look at it; Mother opens the folder. First, an A4 blow-up of Sebastian’s face. His handsome craggy face, bearing a confident grin. She turns the page. Ten small photographs of Sebastian. Ten different expressions. Each one laughing and smiling. Another page. More photographs of Sebastian. Some straight-faced. One frowning. One raising his eyes. Hundreds of photographs. All of Sebastian. Close-ups of his face. A smile. A grin. Another sultry frown.
Sebastian. Sebastian. Sebastian, everywhere we look.
Mother and I exchange a worried glance. Zara Cunningham. How much are you in love?
Allowed out of prison for her sister’s funeral. Sitting in the back of a police car, siren blasting.
Three hours up the motorway back to her hometown. Three hours sitting in silence watching juggernauts and cars. The back of the driver’s head. Flies catching on the windscreen. Three hours remembering the feel of her sister’s skin splitting as she stuck the knife in. How her sister’s head jerked backwards and her eyes clouded. A sight she will never forget.
The police car pulls off the motorway onto Tidebury bypass, wrapping her in familiarity. It feels as if her sister is here. As if she hasn’t gone. She imagines her sister with her. The soft sound of her sister’s breath as she rests her head on her shoulder, her