My mouth fills with saliva, and my hands worry at the edges of the plastic bag on my lap.
‘How are you today?’ she asks.
The question is an opener. Chit-chat. A technique to build a connection between us. I ignore it. ‘I’d like to confess please.’
‘Yes, DC McLachlan told me. What exactly are you confessing to?’ Sató asks.
I swallow again, but it’s no good. The chair shifts beneath me. The walls and the floor too. I’ve been fighting this feeling all morning, but the floral scent of Sató’s perfume, the reality of sitting in this small, windowless room and why I’m here – it’s too much. I dip my head and heave into the plastic bin liner. The sound of spattering liquid fills the room, the smell of my vomit making me heave again until my throat is raw and tears are stinging at my eyes.
It took a year to fall pregnant with Henry, and so when he was six months old, we started trying again. Months stretched into a year. Then eighteen months. The doctors were sure it would happen. But it didn’t. Tests. Hormone drugs. More disappointment. Tasha fell pregnant with Sofia, and I tried to be happy for her as we paid for round after round of IVF. Eating into our savings, leaving us counting every penny. It’s the real reason I make my own clothes. Buying new things isn’t an option right now. A year ago, I had no idea how to make clothes. But I worked the problem. Researched. Learned. Found the solution. Practised until it was perfect.
Years of nothing. Years of heartbreak. Then watching Tasha fall pregnant for a third time, the swell of her belly growing round. It wasn’t fair. I’d done everything right. Followed every piece of advice. Alistair and I both stopped drinking alcohol and caffeine, then we cut out refined sugar and processed foods. I took up yoga to calm my mind and keep my body fit. I even changed our washing powders and soaps and moisturisers, keeping anything with chemicals away from our skin. I took so many vitamins I swear I rattled most days. I stayed positive for as long as I could. I even took Georgie’s advice and visualised that positive line on the pregnancy test.
Six years of failure.
We did everything right. So why wasn’t it happening for us?
It was that question that drove me to go to London that day in March when Georgie and Tasha looked after Henry. The day I bumped into Jonny on the street as I was coming out of the clinic.
To see the one person I detested most in the world when I was at my most vulnerable was truly awful. And now finally I’m healing and Jonny is dead and I am here. Even in death, he’s a selfish bastard.
When I’m done retching, I lift my head. Sató is no longer in her seat but standing by the door, one hand already on the handle, poised to get help. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
‘I’m pregnant,’ I tell her with a weak smile I don’t try to fight. Because even with my world imploding, Alistair and I are finally having the second baby we have both longed for. A brother or sister for Henry. Our perfect family complete at long last.
‘Would you like a glass of water and a moment to yourself?’
‘No,’ I reply quickly. I can’t stand to wait anymore. I tie the handles of the bag tightly together and place it by my feet. ‘Thank you, but I have some water here.’ I reach into my handbag, past the Tupperware of ginger biscuits I madeyesterday, ignoring the weight of the other object sitting beside it, and pluck out my water bottle. I fight the urge to gulp it back and take a small sip, before pulling out another bin liner just in case.
‘I’m happy to continue,’ I add. Terrified, more like. The same terror I’ve lived with for weeks. More even. The second I found out I was pregnant and my entire world became about protecting this wonderful, perfect baby growing inside me.
But there’s no going back now, even if I wanted to. And I don’t. I’m glad Jonny is dead. Whatever comes next, that fact will never change.
Sató retakes her seat without a word. We go through the mechanics of the interview. She asks me if she can record it, and I agree. I give her my name and address and finally she says, ‘What do you want to confess to, Beth?’
Don’t do it!
I ignore the voice. I take a breath and meet Sató’s gaze. Her eyes are dark and disbelieving. ‘The murder of Jonny Wilson. I killed him. I acted completely alone.’
Sató sighs like I’ve just made her day a lot harder. You’d think she’d be happy to have a confession.
‘Do you know how many people confess to crimes before they’re charged, Beth?’ she asks me.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Neither do I,’ she admits. ‘But it’s not like TV shows and Hollywood films would have us believe. Confessions don’t come after gruelling interviews, or even out of the blue,’ she adds, gesturing a hand at me. ‘They come after the Crown Prosecution Service has accepted the case. After the lawyers have advised their clients on their best chances. That’s when we see confessions. So you’ll forgive me if I’m a little surprised by your confession today.’ She pulls out a notebook from the inside pocket of her blazer and reads something before looking back atme. It’s an act. She’s allowing her words to settle, to unnerve me before moving on.
‘Why should I believe you?’ she asks.
‘Why wouldn’t you?’ I reply.
‘Because I have your two friends, Georgie and Tasha, also in this police station. Also confessing to the same murder. I’ll tell you this now, Beth, Tasha isn’t doing well. She’s very upset.’
I bite down hard on the inside of my lip. My pulse is drumming in my ears. Poor Tasha. This isn’t fair on any of us but especially on her. She’s already gone through so much with her parents and what Jonny did to ruin her chance of making a home for them on Magnolia Close. If there was a way to stop this from happening, I’d do it. But we’re all sitting in the same out-of-control car and there’s no way to stop what’s coming.
It’s just a tactic. She’s trying to rile you.
For once, I listen to that voice. Grab hold of the words and force myself to stay calm. ‘They’re lying,’ I say. ‘They’re trying to protect me because of the baby.’ I place a hand on the small bump of my stomach.
