Guilt: The Sunday Times best selling psychological thriller that you need to read in 2018

Suffocating in paperwork and plastic bags, she waits to be taken to her cell.

A scary-looking prison officer with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail finally arrives and walks towards her.

‘Hi, I’m Vanessa. I’m taking you to your room on the induction wing.’

Her voice is very manly. They walk along an empty corridor together. The longest walk of her life, along a corridor crawling with pipes and tubes. The prison officer has a set of keys jangling menacingly on her belt. They move through iron gates. Through another contorted corridor. Another gate. Gates and locks and corridors. Up metal stairs. She struggles with the weight of her four plastic bags. The prison officer doesn’t offer to help. It’s not her place.

They reach the induction wing.

‘It’s late. Everyone’s already locked up for the night – that’s why it’s so quiet,’ the prison officer explains in her throaty voice.

She looks at her watch: 6:45. So early. She shudders inside. The prison officer is unlocking the door to her cell. They both step inside. She drops her plastic bags to the floor. The cell is small and cramped, not much in it. Just as she imagined. Just as she has seen in so many TV crime dramas.

‘You’ll have it to yourself for a few days while you settle in because you’re a newbie,’ the prison officer explains.

She looks around more closely. Bunk beds with flat blue plastic mattresses. Concrete flooring. A hard, spiky chair with wooden arms. A small desk. A sink. A shower. And a toilet with only a shower curtain hanging half-heartedly from the ceiling for privacy. She prays a silent prayer that she never has to share the room. The more she looks, the more she sees that the room is filthy.

Then it dawns on her. They don’t have cleaners in prison. The prisoners do the work. The person who had this cell before has left it filthy. Brown marks all around the toilet and some on the walls. Dried bloodstains on the bottom bunk mattress. She looks at the mess and feels sick. The prison officer is watching her.

‘I can get you some cleaning materials tomorrow.’

‘Yes, please.’

Tears are welling in her eyes. She wants to cry. She wants the release.

The prison officer puts her hand on her arm. ‘Take it easy. It’s always tough on your first night.’

The prison officer looks at her, kindness burning in her eyes, and then leaves, locking the door behind her.

She pushes the sound of the locking door to the corner of her mind. With a trembling hand she opens the plastic bag with the writing paper and envelope in. She sits at the desk and writes to Sebastian – begging him to come and visit her. She wants to explain.

THE PAST (#ulink_6c57942d-f52a-5bc3-932a-2c257c3d0cc1)

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Zara (#ulink_6c57942d-f52a-5bc3-932a-2c257c3d0cc1)

Early morning, Miranda already clattering about in the kitchen, doubtless making her porridge. Sebastian and I are clamped together, naked, in bed. He knows about my cutting now, so I don’t need to hide my scars. He says the thought of me doing it turns him on. I haven’t done it in front of him yet, although he keeps asking me to. He says the ultimate experience would be for us to do it together one day. One day. Not yet. I love lying next to him naked. Skin on skin.

‘My mother’s coming to stay next weekend,’ I tell him.

He doesn’t reply. His body stiffens a little. I lie, head on his chest, tasting the exhalation of his breath.

‘Girls’ weekend, is it?’ he eventually asks.

‘No. Not really. Mother just thought she’d come and see us.’

‘Sounds like a girls’ thing to me.’

Trying to look casual, I stroke his tattoo with my forefinger.

‘I was rather hoping you’d come out for a meal with her. Meet her.’

His eyes hold mine.

‘No thanks. Meeting girls’ mothers is not something I do.’ There is a pause. ‘Not yet.’ Another pause, longer this time. ‘Maybe never.’

And I’ve not met his parents yet either. A wave of fear washes through my core. What’s all this about avoiding each other’s parents? Despite his protestations of love, am I just a fling?

13 (#ulink_add0d7ca-e238-5962-97a3-113947b34aa4)

Sebastian (#ulink_add0d7ca-e238-5962-97a3-113947b34aa4)

Jude, she wants me to meet her mother – already. For obvious reasons I couldn’t face it. Don’t you think that would have been one step too much?

I’ve been having nightmares again. The dreams are getting worse. Last night I dreamt we were in the hallway. I saw you all moving in slow motion. First, Mother reaching for her jacket – the soft lambskin she always wore, stretching her arm, stretching, stretching her hand to pull it from the coat hook. Fifty-seven years old. Hands already developing age spots. Dappled like frog-skin. Her three-diamond engagement ring glistening in the light piercing through the leaded window of the hallway.

As she looked across at me and smiled I watched the wrinkles fanning from her eyes deepen into furrows. In my dream I knew I had never loved her as much as I did in that moment. I experienced a sudden realisation of her vulnerability. As if up until then I had always taken her for granted. She always used to say that parents 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.

14 (#ulink_e9a96a08-ccd6-5f3e-9cea-b541776bac48)

Miranda (#ulink_e9a96a08-ccd6-5f3e-9cea-b541776bac48)

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?’