Читать книгу Guilt: The Sunday Times best selling psychological thriller that you need to read in 2018 - Amanda Robson, Amanda Robson - Страница 19

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.