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

stops for a second and then starts again.

      ‘Please,’ he begs. ‘Please stop crying. Please talk to me. Otherwise, after the trauma you’ve been through today, I may have to sedate you.’

      A movement beneath the duvet. Her head appears. She is inhaling deeply in an attempt to stop crying, her face blotched red after so many tears.

      ‘How are you feeling?’ Dr O’Byrne asks, leaning towards her.

      ‘I can’t live without my sister. I wish I was dead,’ she says, tears still streaming down her face.

      ‘Is that why you hid the cord? Because you wanted to use it to kill yourself?’

      She wipes her face with her hand. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Were you thinking about your mother? How much she would miss you?’

      ‘I’ve killed her, as well as my sister. My mother would be better off without me.’

      ‘No. No. She loves you. She needs you. She will be here to see you as soon as possible.’ There is a pause. ‘I’m starting you on antidepressants, and I am recommending you see a counsellor urgently.’

      He fills the plastic cup from her hand basin with water. ‘Here, take these.’

       THE PAST

       17

       Zara

      We are sitting in the Roebuck pub by the fire, watching the flames twist and dance. I’m sipping a G&T; Sebastian is cradling a pint.

      ‘Mother’s visit went well, but I missed you, Sebastian,’ I say.

      ‘I missed you too.’

      His eyes shine intensely into mine. I lose myself in them.

      After a while, I ask, ‘Did you miss me? Or just my body?’ I’m trying to make my voice sound curious and light, deliberately adding an idleness to it.

      ‘I missed you. All of you.’ He reaches across the small mahogany table between us and takes my hand. ‘Of course.’

      I let him squeeze my hand and then I pull it away from his. ‘But where did you go?’

      He stirs uncomfortably. ‘Home.’

      ‘To see your parents?’

      ‘No. They’re away. On a cruise.’

      ‘To see your friends?’

      ‘They’re all away.’

      Silence settles between us. We return to watching the fire. We sip our drinks. Sebastian’s face is strong and sullen. After a while he says, ‘Zara, the truth is sometimes I just need a little time on my own.’

      His words panic me. Is he about to finish with me?

      ‘We all do,’ I manage to say, flashing him what I hope looks like an understanding smile.

      ‘Not like me.’ His face is stormy now. ‘Sometimes if I’m not alone, really alone for a while, I feel as if … as if …’ His voice stammers and stops. ‘As if my world will end,’ he continues. ‘As if the sky will fall on me and crush me to death, if I don’t escape somewhere for a while, totally alone.’

      He reaches for his pint from the table in front of him and takes a large gulp. I watch his Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallows.

      ‘As long as you wanted to come back,’ I say.

      His eyes soften. ‘Zara, I will always come back.’

      We return to the flat, go straight to bed and make love. Urgent, passionate love. Our bodies sing together with pleasure. When it is over we lie in bed replete, side by side, fingers touching. Sebastian whispers, ‘This is it. Tonight. Let’s cut.’

      My stomach tightens. I roll on top of him and kiss him.

      ‘OK, my love.’

      I slip out of bed trembling with anticipation. A hint of fear. I fumble in my dressing table drawer to find the new pack of razor blades, hidden beneath my tights. Then I go back to the bed, take his hand in mine, lead him to the bathroom, and switch on the light. After the soft moonlight of the bedroom, curtains left wide open, the bathroom halogens feel cold and harsh. They push into our eyes and make us blink.

      We stand in the middle of the bathroom, naked. My eyes adjust. He stands before me, long-limbed with dark downy hair on his legs and forearms, chest rippling with muscle. I love the snake tattoo that curls around his stomach, mouth open, forked tongue stopping at the stem of his penis. It really turns me on. He leans towards me. I melt into him. We kiss. Gently at first, then greedily. I pull away from him.

      ‘Give me your arm.’

      He trusts me. He gives me his arm. I lead him to the sink. I turn his inner wrist upwards and press it on the side of the sink. He turns his head and kisses me again, lips hard against mine. A bite not a kiss.

      ‘You cut me,’ he whispers.

      ‘Hold it tight,’ I instruct, voice trembling. With a shaking hand, I take a fresh blade and move it towards his wrist. I am vibrating with anticipation, not panic. I know how to do this. How to cut without causing damage. The therapist has taught me. I am an expert. Ever since my first accident I have learnt so much. No one knows more about cutting than me. I know how to really cut. Just how deep. Just how much.

      I bite my lip. I move the blade towards his wrist. I touch it against his skin. I feel the skin separate. He inhales deeply. The inhalation of his breath, the way his lips part slightly, turns me on. I see the blood line. The seepage. Sweet seepage. Sweet, sweet seepage. Sweet release.

      ‘Do you feel it?’ I ask.

      He closes his eyes. ‘I feel it,’ he whispers.

      I stand on tiptoes and whisper in his ear, ‘And now you must do it to me.’

      We stop his blood. We wipe his wound with antiseptic, and dress it.

      He is nervous. I sense hesitation as he cuts me. But it feels good. So good. The pain. The pain that takes pain away. The moment of euphoria. Euphoria that no one but a cutter understands. The euphoria that cannot be explained.

      He helps me stop my blood, eyes holding mine as he bandages my wound. We hold hands and snuggle back in bed, limbs entwined. We kiss for a while, snogging like teenagers for the first time at a party. Before snogging became foreplay. Suddenly Sebastian breaks off.

      ‘I don’t trust your sister,’ he announces.

      His words shoot into me like bullets. My body springs away from him a little. ‘Why ever not?’

      ‘She’s twisted.’

      ‘Twisted? You’re joking. She’s a rampant goody two-shoes, not like us.’

      He is lying on his back now, dark hair tousled, distinct against the white pillow. I see in the moonlight that he is shaking his head.

      ‘No, she’s the one who’s twisted,’ he repeats.

      I am knocked back by his attitude. Miranda, you always treat him so kindly, so thoughtfully. He spends so much time in your flat. Or at least he was doing until Mother visited, and now that she’s left he’s come straight back.

      ‘She’s very caring,’ I say indignantly. ‘Sometimes she comes over as a bit bossy. But her heart’s in the right place. If she’s too bossy sometimes it’s only because she cares. I know she seems a little self-righteous at times … but …’

      ‘Self-righteous. That’s it,’ he almost snarls. ‘You’ve put your finger