Guilt Page 15

  77

  Sebastian

  The nightmare is back. Making me scream, making me sweat. The stench of blood, sickly and sweet. Rolling and tumbling in it. It clings to my skin. Sirens wail. The emergency services are here, circling like birds of prey. The fire brigade. Cutting me out. The police giving me the Breathalyser. I am lifted into an ambulance. On the way to hospital. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know which hospital. My mouth isn’t working. I can’t ask questions. I don’t know where they are taking you. I wanted to say goodbye. Slipping in and out of consciousness. I will never say goodbye.

  I wake up in a private room attached to machines, my arm and leg in plaster. I can see out of the window to a small courtyard, with a bed of fleshy bushes. It is raining. The first thing I do is look for you, Jude, for Mother, Father, for my family. What has happened? Why aren’t you here to look after me?

  And then I remember. This nightmare is my life.

  78

  Zara

  You return from visiting Mother looking thunderous. Stomping around the flat tidying up. Banging the plates I had left in the sink into the dishwasher. Eyes dark. Frown mountainous.

  ‘Sebastian is out tonight. Any chance of a girly trip to a wine bar?’ I push through your mood and dare to ask.

  ‘Is he visiting his invisible parents?’ you snap.

  ‘Yes.’

  You relax your mouth a little.

  ‘OK then, I accept,’ you reply.

  79

  Miranda

  We go to a quirky wine bar near the Crown Courts. Your worry about me tunnels towards me and makes me feel worse. Surely you must realise it is hard enough coping with my own problems, without feeling guilty about yours?

  But everything seems a little better, a little brighter, over a glass of wine in an artificial environment. Alcohol and artificiality pushing the world away. The flicker of candlelit shadows. Knees pushed together against an old wine cask masquerading as a table. An underground cavern of stone walls. For a while I feel all right. My real world steps away. The wine bar is full of young professionals straight from work. Youthful responsibility fills the air.

  ‘How’s your job going?’ you ask.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about work,’ I hear myself bark.

  You reach across the wine barrel and take my hand in yours. I don’t want you to touch me, but I don’t pull my hand away. Your hand feels hot in mine. You lean towards me. Your golden eyes fragment a little; your irises become misty.

  ‘What’s going wrong, Miranda?’ you ask.

  I don’t reply. I sit looking at you in your dangly earrings and your gypsy dress from New Look. Your golden brown hair the colour of syrup. Your soft toffee skin. So like Mother. You two are like peas in a pod. I am the odd one out.

  I take a large sip of my red wine. It feels heavy on my tongue. I put my glass back on the wine barrel table. ‘I’ve hit a bad patch.’

  ‘A bad patch? What did you say to Mother? She phoned me – she’s worried.’

  ‘I told her I want to leave Bristol.’

  Laser eyes widen. ‘Leave Bristol? Nothing momentous then! You told her but you hadn’t told me?’ You shake your head. Your voice is high-pitched. Indignant. You are almost in tears.

  ‘It sort of all came over me while you were away.’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘Everything.’ You frown. You look confused. ‘It reached a crescendo,’ I continue to explain.

  You bite your lower lip. ‘Where do you want to go?’ you ask.

  ‘Anywhere. Hong Kong. The Cayman Islands.’ I pause. ‘Anywhere but here.’

  80

  Zara

  Even though I am not religious, I pray somewhere deep inside that you do not mean this. You can’t mean this. You can’t move away.

  ‘No. No. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave me,’ I beg.

  I lean across the wine cask and take your hand in mine. I tighten my fingers over yours. A friendly squeeze. You don’t respond. Your hand remains flaccid in mine.

  ‘But you’ve got Sebastian. You don’t need me,’ you reply, your voice flat. Robotic. Telling me with your voice, and your eyes, that you don’t feel any better about my relationship with Sebastian.

  I move past the way your attitude hurts me. ‘I want you both,’ I tell you.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s possible,’ you reply.

  ‘I don’t just want you both, I need you both,’ I continue.

  You don’t reply. You stare into the air beyond me, as if I am invisible.

  ‘Miranda, I can’t bear it if you go,’ I plead. ‘I’ve always needed you and you’ve always been there for me.’ I pause and watch you take a sip of wine, your lips pressing a little too hard against the glass. You are still gazing into mid-air, as if I wasn’t here.

  ‘And I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you,’ I persevere, ‘I think it’s important for you to understand just how good Sebastian is for me as well. With his help, I’ve not cut myself for two whole months.’

  You look straight at me now. Eyes focused.

  ‘I need you both so much,’ I beg with a final plaintive flourish.

  81

  Miranda

  You’ve not cut yourself for two months. I need to talk to Sebastian as soon as possible. Yet again I am reminded that you mustn’t guess what’s happened between us. That I must continue to laugh at his jokes. To accept his ‘platonic’ kisses. Whatever I think of him, he has helped you to stop cutting, in a way that Mother and I could not.

  ‘Sebastian, I thought maybe we could walk to work together,’ I say the next morning, as I make myself toast and coffee.

  As we step together through the door of my flat, he offers me his arm. I shake my head.

  ‘Walking to work together doesn’t mean we need to touch one another.’

  ‘Walking to work together doesn’t mean you need to be prickly.’

  Again it takes me all my effort not to retort. I smile weakly. It is raining. Discordant rain, hissing as it hits the pavement, thumping from blocked gutters. The road is a lake. Sebastian produces a knowing smile and a large shiny black umbrella. He opens it and pulls me beneath it, shading me from the bullets of rain. I am closer to him than I want to be, but if I move I will be drenched.

  ‘Sebastian,’ I say, ‘she must never know about what happened that weekend.’

  He holds my eyes in his. ‘OK, OK. Calm down. She’ll never know. I promise.’

  82

  Sebastian

  I knew you were dead before I even saw your mangled body. The second you went I sensed it. I killed you, Jude. And Mother and Father. Bodies twisted and tangled. Shreds of metal. The meaty stench of blood. So much blood. The haunting pulse of the sirens that will never go away.

  Jude. I love you. I miss you. I never believed in the after-life until you were gone. Now I know all your love, all your energy, must be somewhere. It was too powerful to be destroyed. Whether you have angel’s wings and sit on fluffy clouds, or are a string of molecules light years away, swimming in DNA soup, I know you are still here, looking down on me, watching my every move.

  Did you see how that young policeman treated me when I was in hospital still attached to machines? He was so young he looked as if he should still be at school. So smooth-faced I don’t think he even needed to shave. As soon as he entered my room I resented him. He walked towards me with an expressionless face. No humanity. No empathy.

  I was feeling particularly bad that day. Every day was bad. Still is. But some days are worse than others. That morning my back and my joints were burning with more pain than usual because the nurse was late with the drugs trolley. My head had a firecracker exploding inside it. Even my jawbone and my teeth were painful.

  He stood by my bed. He didn’t even greet me.

  ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of driving under the influence of alcohol …’

  He carried on with the rest of that stupid speech.

  ‘You bastard,’
I shouted, interrupting him.

  I clenched my fists. I wanted to get out of bed and thump him. To beat him up. To get him on the ground and kick him in the head. I wanted to see him lose as much blood as you did. Still attached to machines, I couldn’t move. So I pooled saliva in my mouth and spat at him. My spittle landed on his face. He wiped it from his cheek with his hand and stepped back. He repeated his spiel now, for assaulting a police officer. What a moron. What a plonker.

  He continued, ‘You failed the Breathalyser test at the scene, and later drugs were found in your blood. We look forward to seeing you in court.’

  The lorry annihilated my family and he arrested me for drunk driving? What was the matter with him? Anger cut through my depression for an hour or two. But later that day my anger diminished, and I reached a new level of depression. A level of depression that could not be contained.

  83

  Zara

  ‘You’re still very worried about Miranda, aren’t you?’ Sebastian says, his voice soft with concern, as we lie next to one another, first thing in the morning, in bed.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ I ask, wondering why he asks this right now, when we’ve just woken up.

  ‘Yes.’

  I roll on top of him and kiss him, gently. His body is soft and warm. He kisses me back intently. If I encourage him much more we will end up making love. I pull my lips away from his. I want to chat. I do not want to make love.

  ‘We need to move out. We’re stressing her,’ I tell him. I have been awake half the night worrying about this.

  ‘Is that what you think?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  I feel his body stiffen beneath me. ‘We can’t afford to. Not yet.’

  I run my fingers through his strong wavy hair. ‘What about living with your parents?’

  His eyes flatline. ‘That’s a mad suggestion. You’d retract that if you’d met them.’

  ‘Well, we need to do something to get away from here.’

  84

  Sebastian

  A glimmer of hope, Jude. The twins are beginning to think separately. Miranda has mentioned moving abroad. Zara has suggested moving out of Miranda’s flat. Progress at last. Progress indeed. Not long to go now.

  85

  Miranda

  Sitting at my desk trying to concentrate. Sebastian sitting next to me. A smoky aura hangs over him. It’s obvious he has the occasional cigarette behind our backs. In these days of health consciousness the scent of cigarettes seems edgy. Rebellious. But then everything about Sebastian is like that.

  He leans towards me, eyes glinting dangerously. ‘I know what you like. Remember, Miranda.’

  My hand itches to slap his face. But we are in full view of half the Tax department, so I manage to restrain myself.

  ‘Why don’t we go for a coffee?’ I hiss.

  He gives me a buttery smile. ‘OK.’

  He stands up and I follow him out of the office. Even the way he walks is showy. He rolls his thighs across one another, confidently. Flamboyantly. Today, the café is swimming with even more accountants than usual, as Harrison Goddard are hosting a conference. I fetch two Americanos from the machine whilst Sebastian nabs a table. Too many people. People invading us with elbows and bags as they pass. Someone jolts the table and coffee floods onto my lap. I pat it off with a napkin.

  ‘Not very private in here, is it?’ Sebastian says.

  ‘Private enough for us,’ I reply.

  ‘Come on, Miranda, you only ever buy me coffee for a reason. What is it?’ Black eyes shine like a stag beetle’s back.

  ‘To remind you about your promise.’

  Black eyes darken. ‘There’s nothing contractual about a promise; if you were a lawyer you would know that.’ A smile with a snarl in it.

  I put my hand on his arm. ‘Please Sebastian. Please don’t tell Zara about what happened between us.’

  ‘You sound as if you’re begging.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I like it when you beg.’

  86

  Sebastian

  When I had come out of hospital, I had to go to court. You were watching that too, weren’t you Jude? A little part of you floating in the spectators’ gallery. How did it make you feel? Outraged by my treatment? My barrister, an uptight little woman with large breasts and an educated accent, didn’t do a very good job, did she? I was found guilty. Of causing death by dangerous driving, after alcohol and cannabis consumption.

  It makes me so angry. Anger incubates inside me. What about the lorry driver who lost control on the other carriageway, ploughing into our car, and pushing it beneath a coach? He was a cherub, was he? An innocent?

  Did you see me, Jude, the day I received my sentence? Trembling so much, wishing I’d taken even more drugs. I’d already had a shedload of cocaine and amphetamine in the morning to help me get out of bed. Just before I left my flat to go to court I took some blues. My body was in such distress; I should have maxed on the blues.

  The judge gave me two years. The cocksucker. At least it was a suspended sentence. And my licence was suspended too. Not that I wanted to drive anyway. The judge also handed me two hundred hours of community service. Community service. Thanks. Picking up litter will really help me to cope with bereavement.

  Thanks a fucking bunch.

  87

  Miranda

  Sebastian. In my bedroom, walking towards me. His face dark and blurred.

  ‘I like it when you beg,’ he tells me.

  The bread knife is under my pillow. My fingers clench around its wooden handle. He is leaning over me. I feel his breath against my face. I pull out the knife, swing it round and push it into his stomach, just beneath the breastbone. Angling it up as high as I can. Higher and higher I push. I feel his body stiffen, and I know what I have done. I roll away from beneath him. I am sweating. I am trembling. I slip out of bed, snap on the light, and reach for my phone to dial 999.

  And then the fug in my mind becomes finer. What has happened? I turn around. The bed is empty. No Sebastian. I have had a dream so real I woke without realising it was a dream. Still trembling, I reach for my dressing gown and pad to the bathroom, clean my teeth, and step into the shower.

  I like it when you beg. I like it when you beg.

  And I feel him penetrating me again. I want to maim him. To hurt him. Enough so he couldn’t come to work for a while. Some respite for me. If I just had some respite I could cope with him better.

  I soap myself in the shower. The water is soft, the bubbles generous. I rub and rub, and bubbles and foam come up. A waterfall of bubbles rising and sinking. A myriad of rainbow-hued colours reflected beneath electric light. For the first time in a while I almost feel happy. Or at least content. Self-indulgent. Thoughts of maiming Sebastian are helping me.

  Sebastian showers straight after me. If I make it as soapy as possible there is an outside chance the bastard might slip. I tighten my grip on the block of soap and rub it and rub it until it starts to disintegrate. I spread the gunky, gluey mess across the shower tray with my fingers. Across the middle of the bathroom floor. I accidentally leave my slippers just inside the door. Trip, bastard, trip. Break an arm. Break an elbow. Break a leg. Come on Sebastian, break a leg.

  88

  Zara

  Soft in love, lying in my lover’s arms, thinking about the day ahead. This morning I have an early start for my still-life photography course. It sounds like a bit of a bore. I prefer topics with movement. Clouds. Wind. Sea. I sigh inside. I wish I could just stay here all day. I force myself to pull away from Sebastian, twist my feet out of bed, and plant them firmly on the floor. He whistles appreciatively at my naked body as I walk across the room and lift my dressing gown off the back of the door.

  ‘I’ll shower first today,’ I tell him as I cover myself up and step towards the bathroom.

  I am daydreaming. Thinking about Sebastian. The heat and pulse of him. First I trip over Miranda’s slippers, but I manage to catch my balance.
Just. Leaning heavily on my right leg in front of the sink. My right leg slips. I land with a thud onto my left shoulder and yelp in pain. The shock of hurting myself so much when I least expected to makes me burst into tears.

  I hear Miranda and Sebastian calling to me through the locked bathroom door. Carefully, I pull myself up to standing. I hobble awkwardly to the bathroom door, gradually realising that I am all right. I open the bathroom door and fall into Sebastian’s arms.

  ‘What happened?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s slippy in here. There’s soap everywhere! You mad cow, Miranda, you didn’t clean up properly.’

  89

  Miranda

  On the way to work, trying to keep ahead of Sebastian whose footsteps are echoing mine. Breathless along Park Street. But his legs are longer so he soon catches up.

  ‘What caused the debacle this morning?’ he asks, his breath mingling with mine.

  I step sideways, away from him, and continue walking. ‘I was late, so I didn’t clean up after myself as well as I should have.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ He pauses. ‘You made a hell of a mess.’

  He moves closer to me, grabs my wrist with his hand, and squeezes so tightly it hurts. The pain makes me cry out. I stop walking and stand looking into his eyes. His eyes are as dark as the night. I feel as if I can hardly breathe.

  ‘Don’t forget again or we might think you did it on purpose,’ he hisses.