Am I Guilty?: The gripping, emotional domestic thriller debut filled with suspense, mystery and surprises!
doing? Where are you going?’
She’d straightened up and looked at me for a moment, a peculiar expression on her face, the face that was still so beautiful, but so pale today, dark circles like painful bruises under her eyes. Then she dropped her gaze again, back down to the empty pram.
‘I’m just going for a walk. To the park. I need some fresh air. I’ve been in this house almost twenty-four hours a day for the past two weeks, Flora, and it’s driving me mad.’
Her voice was flat and expressionless, her soft Somerset accent barely discernible. She’d begun to move away but I grabbed her again, my hand moving down her arm to cover her hand as it gripped the pram handle.
‘I get that but … but why are you taking the pram, Thea? He’s … he’s gone. Zander’s gone, you know that, don’t you? Why … why are you pushing an empty pram?’
She took a little gasping breath, her eyes fixed on the vacant space under the pram cover.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know, Flora. I know it looks a bit mental but … I just … I just need to feel close to him, and … well … it sort of brings me comfort, I don’t know why. I did it yesterday too, when you were off? Just for a few minutes, down the road and back. It’s something to hold onto, and when I’m walking with the pram I don’t feel … I don’t feel so alone, I suppose.’
Tears had started to roll down her cheeks. She’d been drinking, I suddenly realized, a whiff of alcohol on her breath, even though it was barely midday. I stared at her for a moment, my heart twisting, unsure what to do, then I reached into my pocket and pulled out a tissue, pushing it into her hand.
‘OK. I’m sorry, Thea, I understand. If that’s what you need to do …’
She nodded, dabbed at her cheeks with the tissue and smiled a small, wobbly smile.
‘I’ll see you later. Thanks, Flora, I don’t know how I’d have got through the last couple of weeks without you.’
And so it had continued. She’d carried on taking that pram, that unbearably sad, empty pram, out with her, time after time. It was as if she’d lost the ability to walk without it, as if it supported her, as if the day she left it at home she would simply crumble. We were all horrified, mortified for her – me, Isla, Rupert, even Nell – but no matter what anyone said, whether we cajoled or shouted or begged, she would simply nod, tell us quietly that yes, she understood, and she knew it was weird and mad, but that she couldn’t stop, she couldn’t leave it at home, she needed that pram, that comfort. She didn’t even stop when somebody put a picture of her with the damn empty thing on Twitter, sneering at her, calling her all sorts of names, and it got retweeted and retweeted and practically went viral …
‘Flora! Everything all right?’
Annabelle had returned from downstairs, waving at me from across the floor. I waved back.
‘Fine! Just checking everything’s shipshape!’
I took a deep breath. It was, wasn’t it? Everything was shipshape. The past was the past. No looking back, I told myself. Onwards. Let’s get this party started.
I opened my eyes and instantly closed them again, wincing as even that tiny movement, just that miniscule eyelid flutter, caused a fresh wave of pain inside my skull. Why the hell was the room so bright? What time was it? My clock was right there on the bedside table, inches from my face. Could I risk it? Oh, for God’s sake, Thea. I opened just one eye this time, squinting to minimize the damage. Twenty past eleven. Eleven in the morning? It must be, yes, and I clearly hadn’t managed to close the curtains when I’d passed out last night, the sun flooding in as if it were June and not January. I winced again as a passing car honked its horn on the road outside, sending a spasm of pain through my head, then moved my right hand slowly under the duvet, running it cautiously down my body. I was wearing a jumper, jeans … and oh, great. Shoes. Yes, definitely trainers, still on my feet.
My stomach lurched suddenly, and I knew I was going to be sick. Moaning, I pushed the duvet aside and stumbled to the ensuite, the room swaying and swirling around me, and crashed painfully to my knees beside the toilet, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I pushed the lid up and leaned over the bowl.
When I’d finished, I slumped to the floor, the tiles cool against my burning forehead, traces of vomit still on my cracked lips. Why did I do this to myself? Why? What was the point? Because I hated myself, that’s why. Because I was constantly filled with shame and self-disgust and pain, and alcohol helped to numb it, to sedate me, just for a while. But I’d clearly gone too far, yet again. Did I really think that drinking myself into oblivion would help? I must have yet again last night, mustn’t I? I didn’t even remember what I’d drunk, or what I’d done … and what about Nell? Oh shit, where was Nell?
I sat up so suddenly that the room started spinning again, my head throbbing violently, black flashes strobing in front of my eyes. I took a few gasping breaths, trying to calm myself, trying to stop the nausea taking a grip again. Then slowly, I remembered. Isla. Isla had been here last night, hadn’t she? And Nell wasn’t here. Yesterday had been Friday, and she was with her father. With him until Monday, after school. With him for two more days. That was assuming that today was still Saturday, and that I hadn’t been so wasted I’d actually lost a whole day …
I crawled, like a baby, on hands and knees, off the tiles and back onto the soft bedroom carpet, then collapsed again, my eyes shut tightly against the burning sunlight. A few minutes later, thirst and self-loathing taking over, I dragged myself up into a standing position and slowly peeled my clothes off, leaving them on the floor where they fell. I could tidy up later, when I felt more human, I thought, my hand still trembling as I reached for the bottle of water that somehow, miraculously, was sitting on my bedside table. I drank the entire thing down, then staggered back to the bathroom and stood under a hot shower for a long time.
It was nearly twelve thirty by the time I made it downstairs, wearing a clean pair of navy leggings and an oversized, soft blue sweatshirt, my hair still damp. I suddenly felt ravenous, cramming bread into the toaster and cutting chunks from a block of Cheddar I found in the fridge, ramming it into my mouth, the events of last night slowly coming back to me.
Isla had arrived not long after seven, escaping London for the weekend as she almost always did. She was based there during the week, working as a producer on the Thursday night chat show Yak Yak Yak, the one which interviewed all the most controversial guests – the ex-cons, the kiss and tellers, the unapologetic racists who wanted to close Britain’s doors to immigrants. Isla worked long hours during the week, but once the live show had gone out on Thursday night and the Friday debrief was over, she liked to leave the city for a day or two before the madness started again on Monday. And to see me, of course. We talked on the phone pretty much every day, but it wasn’t the same as being together in the same room.
We’d met in a backstreet pub in Soho about fifteen years before, not long after I’d left university and moved to London; me, a skinny, quiet country girl from Somerset, trying to make my way in the big city’s fashion industry, her a loud, funny Edinburgh lass, all spiky red hair and dark lipstick, already a runner for a daytime TV show and determined to hustle her way to the top.
I’d been in the pub with a couple of people from work, and had only started talking to Isla because I’d somehow managed to trip and spill my cider all down her black T-shirt on my way back from the bar. When I, mortified, had offered this now very damp stranger a tissue to clean up the mess, she’d simply laughed, slapped away the hand that was ineffectually dabbing at her, and told me not to worry about it, and just to buy her a drink instead. And then I’d admired her necklace, a chunky gold lizard on a long shimmering chain, and that had been that. We’d ended up chatting for hours, two young women at