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

for you. Good luck.’

      Back into the vestibule. The next officer is waiting for her. The officer to take her ‘inside’. He is a big muscly man with bulging eyes and a bald head. Dragging her large red suitcase, she follows him into the holding room.

      ‘You’re the only one coming in this evening,’ he says conversationally.

      She doesn’t reply.

      The holding room is long and rectangular. It doesn’t have any windows, just doors coming off it. It has scratchy grey woollen sofas set in rows along its middle.

      ‘This is where you wait to go to your cell. Where you are processed.’

      The bulgy-eyed man disappears. She sits on one of the scratchy sofas and waits. She tries to read some of the bumf she’s been given, but there is a mountain of it. Not a word goes in.

      Next stage seems like an attack. More prison officers coming to see her. Handing her more paperwork she can’t read. Prison officers approaching her, asking questions, ticking her answers off on tick-box sheets. Questions. So many questions. What are all these questions about? Has she ever been depressed? Does she have any allergies? Has she ever taken drugs? Does she smoke? Is there any possibility she’s pregnant?

      Somewhere in the middle of all this, a prisoner arrives to see her and asks her if she would like a cup of tea. A cup of tea? How is that going to help? Somewhere in the middle of it all she sees a nurse, who checks her blood pressure and asks her more tick-box questions. Some time after that she sees a doctor. Somewhere in between form filling and medical check-ups she collects a variety of plastic bags. Perforated of course. A plastic bag for the contents of her suitcase. A plastic bag with her bedding: pillows, sheets, duvet. A plastic bag with her allocation of plastic crockery and cutlery. A plastic bag with what are laughingly called luxuries: paper, pen and pre-paid envelope to write a letter home, tea bags and biscuits – rich tea and digestives. Eons of plastic bags.

      She is taken to a cubicle where she is allowed to make a phone call. Her heart beats like the wings of a trapped bird as she tries to call her mother. Ten rings and her mother’s voice speaks to her from voicemail. She sighs inside. Where is she? This time, why isn’t her mother there when she needs her? She has always been there for her before.

      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

       12

       Zara

      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

       Sebastian

      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