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

‘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?

THE PRESENT (#ulink_b16c52b5-5c55-5a41-bc23-564e5f78e15c)

15 (#ulink_b16c52b5-5c55-5a41-bc23-564e5f78e15c)

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 tousled hair smelling of musk.

The police car turns left at the roundabout, past Warren Farm onto Southport Road. Right onto Paradise Lane, past their primary school. Tracing the way they used to walk home from school, the wide bend at the corner of the lane, past what was once a private school with sumptuous grounds that has recently evolved into a housing development. Past the end of our close. Her stomach rotates. Left at the crossroads, where in late spring, they always stopped to admire the mass of bluebells. Her stomach is like a stone. Left again at St Peter’s Church.

St Peter’s Church. Attached to their local C of E primary school. The church they attended every term time Wednesday morning, for six years, from the age of five to eleven. Six long, slow years. Time is distorted in youth. Walking from school to church, hand in hand, along Church Path, beneath the dappled shade of chestnut and sycamore. Entering its hallowed hall. The smell of polish and silence. The thumping voice of the vicar. Boredom ameliorated by respect. Sisters together forever, frozen in memory, still holding hands.

The driver parks outside the church; the hearse and the family car arrive and park in front of them. She sees her sister’s mahogany coffin covered in lilies. Her mother unfolds herself from black metal and moves towards the police car. The guard she is cuffed to sidles along the seat and accompanies her out into this cloudy day, the air a cascading mist of dampness, the sky gunmetal black, to match her mood.

Somewhere on the pavement she meets her mother. Her mother manages to take her in her arms without manhandling the guard who stiffly avoids the love-in.

‘So pleased they let you come,’ Mother says in a weak voice.

Although she could stay like this forever, holding on to her mother for comfort, it starts to rain and they move inside. Past elders of the church handing out service sheets. Past sheaths of white roses and lilies. Past burning eyes. The church is almost full as they move to their reserved seats on the front row. Mother on her left, right hand in hers. Flanked on the right by her guard. Her mother squeezes her hand and turns to look at her, but her eyes seem veiled, concussed.

She turns to glance around the church. It is overflowing with people and restrained emotion. So many people – three lines standing at the back. Some people from school she recognises. Many people she doesn’t. She never realised her sister knew so many people. She supposes young death always attracts a big congregation. A tangle of pity and respect.

The organ begins to trumpet. Everybody stands. The organ continues: deep-throated, regal, majestic. Slowly, slowly, her sister is carried down the aisle, wrapped in her mahogany package of death. Slowly, slowly, balanced on the pallbearers’ shoulders, who place her carefully in front of the altar between the choir stalls, and gently move away.

Silence.

The vicar appears like an actor in a surreal play and stands to the left of her sister’s coffin.

‘First, let us sing,’ he announces.

The organ rises with a melodious thumping. They sing her sister’s favourite hymn. They kneel. They pray. Attached to the police officer it is uncomfortable. She closes her eyes to join in, but she cannot concentrate and opens them again. She turns around to look at faces, twisted shut in prayer. The church in ecclesiastical overdrive. All thoughts swirling towards eternity and the death of her sister. So much love. So much energy. The emotions of the people in the church press against her and make her feel wretched.

As she turns her head back to the front, back to the floor, she notices a length of gold braiding. A vicar’s belt. Nestling in the dust at the end of the pew. Gently, she stretches towards it, carefully pulling as far away as possible from the police officer she is attached to. He doesn’t notice. She manages to grab it with her fingers and push it into the pocket of her coat.

Prayers are over. They stand and sing again. They listen to the vicar eulogise. In death, her sister is even more perfect than she was in life. Mother cries. She cries inside. The organ pulsates more grandly than it did at the start and the pallbearers carry her sister away. A sleeping princess, away to the hearse, away to the crematorium where she will burn to ash. Mother will follow and she will be escorted back to Eastwood Park. She’s not even allowed to go to the wake. She walks with her mother behind her sister’s coffin, still shackled to the guard. Head down, the church’s sea of blue carpet drowning her.

Suddenly, she looks up to check her balance. Sebastian. Sitting at the end of a row. Eyes burning angrily into hers. Glowering at her, in a way she has never seen before. Her heart stops. She is frightened. He is trying to kill her with his eyes. To suffocate her. To drown her. She stops walking for a second. The guard has to stop walking too. Stopping to gain the strength to pull her eyes away from him. In the distance of her mind, she sees Theo. Theo’s gentle eyes push Sebastian’s eyes away. Amber eyes melting her pain. Soothing her like honey.

16 (#ulink_5d87e485-1e1b-5f4d-a9ee-fd16df5cab5a)

Sitting in the car on the way back to prison, after the funeral, she is crying. Tears tumble silently down her face. She can’t stop them. She wishes she had died at the same time as her sister. The day her sister died, her life also stopped. If only she had died instead. That would have been easier. This is no way to live. Body and brain numb. She cannot think. She cannot feel. She will never enjoy anything again.

The sight of her grieving mother sears across her mind, painful and corrosive. The sight of her sister’s grieving friends. Of Sebastian’s eyes. Sebastian’s eyes telling her how much he hates her. That he never ever loved her. He always loved her sister.

If she lived in America, they would electrocute her. If she lived a hundred years ago they would hang her. In modern-day UK she needs to find a way to kill herself. She touches the discarded vicar’s belt that is now – after she was uncuffed for a visit to the toilet – wrapped around her waist. Her stomach tightens. She is not quite sure what she can attach it to. But she will find a way. People frequently do, even in prison, in this day and age.

The guard she is cuffed to is watching her. His fingers reach for hers. He squeezes them. ‘It will get easier,’ he says. ‘This will be the worst day. They will help you when you get back to prison.’

His words float in the air, ineffective, meaningless. Help. How can anyone help? Her desperation has gone too far.

Back to Eastwood Park. Back through reception. Back into the holding area, face wet with tears. Into a room where she is patted down gently by an overweight prison officer, who smiles at her indolently, at first. But his search becomes more thorough. His fingers probing and insistent. He finds the rope.

‘What’s this?’ he asks, unravelling it from her waist.

She doesn’t reply. She stands silently, still crying. He presses a buzzer to request backup. Within seconds two more prison officers enter the room.

‘Watch her carefully. Watch her every move.’

He leaves the room, taking the rope. She sits down and continues to cry, while the two backup officers stand by her side, watching her like hawks. The overweight officer, whose thighs snake across one another as he walks, returns and steps towards her.