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Mel McGrath
HQ (£12.99 hardback)
'Writing
The Guilty Party by Melanie McGrath
The germ of the
idea for The
Guilty Party
popped into my head after the last episode of the US comedy Girls. In
that show the four old friends suddenly realize, in the middle of a
party, that their friendship has passed its sell-by date and they have
nothing left in common except their secrets. Most of us have felt that
we’ve left a stale friendship hanging on out of loyalty, nostalgia,
guilt or because we just can’t face a showdown.
I decided that I
wanted to write a novel with four points of view, all very different,
all (naturally) self-serving, in which the bonds of friendship ties
that bind. All four characters – Anna, Bo, Cassie and Dex -
witness the same terrible event and decide to do nothing about
it, but try as they might to try to extricate themselves from that
event and from each other, it has bound them fast. Escape is no longer
possible. Alliances shift while each of the characters desperately
struggles to extricate themselves from a mess that just won’t go away.
I set the story
partly at a music festival London because as Anna, Bo, Cassie and Dex
go about their young lives in a city where there’s an inexhaustible
supply of fun to be had, I wanted to show that, despite their freedom
to date, switch flats, stay out late, drink and generally have a good
time, each of them still feels trapped by the sense of what they have
become. The remainder of the story is set at a weekend away on the Isle
of Portland. If you’ve been you’ll know how atmospheric and dark the
island can be. It is dotted with quarries and prisons and beaches where
fossils are to be found. During the weekend, as each of the characters’
secrets is brought to the surface, they begin to feel ever more
imprisoned by what they saw that night at the music festival and their
failure to do anything about it.
The novel has
already garnered some very positive reviews in the national press. The
Financial Times wrote that it is ‘a dexterously written thriller and a
cogent examination of the nature of guilt and innocence.’ The Times
called the novel ‘absorbing’ and noted that ‘McGrath is a strong,
unsettling writer on serious themes.’ Bloggers also seem to love the
novel and I’m so grateful for their support. One of my favourite
comments so far is from bookmarkthat.co.uk who says, ‘This is one of
the first books I’ve come away from with a totally different new point
of view from when I first started reading it.’
If you like your psychological thrillers dark, unpredictable and
disturbing,
The Guilty
Party is for you. Read Chapter One below - we
promise you will be hooked.
You can buy a copy here.
You can find out more about Mel McGrath and her books at her website www.melaniemcgrath.com
or on social: Facebook: melaniemcgrath
Twitter @mcgrathmj instagram: mcgrathmelj
Follow Killer Women
at the links below for the all the news on criminally good writing.
We look forward to talking to you there!
The
Guilty Party: Chapter One
Cassie
2.30 a.m., Sunday
14 August, Wapping
I’m going to take you back to the summer’s evening near the end of my
friendship with Anna, Bo and Dex.
Until that day, the eve of my thirty-second birthday, we had been
indivisible; our bond the kind that lasts a lifetime. Afterwards, when
everything began to fall apart, I came to understand that the ties
between us had always carried the seeds of rottenness and destruction,
and that the life we shared was anything but normal. Somewhere in the
deep recesses of my mind I think I had probably known this for years,
but it took what happened late that night in August for me to begin to
be able to put the pieces together. Why had I failed to acknowledge the
truth for so long? Was it loneliness, or was I in love with an idea of
friendship that I could not bear to let go? Perhaps I was simply a
coward? One day, it might become clearer to me. Perhaps it will become
clear to you, once I have taken you back there, to that time and that
place. And when I am done with the story, when everything has been
explained and the secrets are finally out, I will ask you what you
would have done. Because that’s what I really want to know.
What would you have done?
Picture this scene: a Sunday morning in the early hours at a music
festival in Wapping, East London. Most of the ticket holders have
already left, and the organisers are clearing up now – stewards
checking the mobile toilets, litter pickers working their grab hooks in
the floodlights. Anna, Bo, Dex and I are lying side-by-side on the
grass near the main stage, our limbs stiffening from all the dancing,
staring at the marble eye of a supermoon and drinking in this late hour
of our youth. None of us speaks but we don’t have to. We are wondering
how many more hazy early mornings we will spend alone together. How
much more dancing will there be? And how soon will it be before nights
like these are gone forever?
At last, Bo says, ‘Maybe we should go on to a club or back to yours,
Dex. You’re nearest.’
Dex says this won’t work; Gav is back tonight and he’ll kick off about
the noise.
We’re all sitting up now, dusting the night from our clothes. In the
distance I spot a security guard heading our way. ‘I vote we go to
Bo’s. What is it, ten minutes in an Uber?’
Anna has spotted the guard too and jumps onto her feet, rubbing the
goosebumps from her arms.
‘I’ve got literally zero booze,’ Bo says. ‘Plus the cleaner didn’t come
this week so there’s, like, a bazillion pizza boxes everywhere.’
With one eye on the guard, Anna says,‘How’s about we all just go home
then?’
And that’s exactly what we should have done.
Home. A long night-tube ride to Tottenham and the shitty flat I share
with four semi-strangers. The place with the peeling veneer flooring,
the mouldy fridge cheese and the toothbrushes lined up on a bathroom
shelf rimmed with limescale.
‘Will you guys see out my birthday with one last beer?’ Because it is
my birthday, and it’s almost warm, and the supermoon is casting its
weird, otherworldly light, and if we walk a few metres to the south the
Thames will open up to us and there, overlooking the wonder that is
London, there will be a chance for me to forget the bad thing I have
done, at least until tomorrow.
At that moment the security guard approaches and asks us to leave the
festival grounds.
‘Won’t the pubs be closed?’ asks Anna, as we begin to make our way
towards the exit. She wants to go home to her lovely husband and her
beautiful baby, and to her perfect house and her dazzling life.
But it’s my birthday, and it’s almost warm, and if Anna calls it a day,
there’s a good chance Bo and Dex will too and I will be alone.
‘There’s a corner shop just down the road. I’m buying.’ Anna hesitates
for a moment, then relenting, says,
‘Maybe one quick beer, then.’
In my mind I’ve played this moment over and over, sensing, as if I were
now looking down on the scene as an observer, the note of desperation
in my offer, the urgent desire to block out the drab thump of my guilty
conscience. These are things I failed to understand back then. There is
so much I didn’t see. And now that I do, it’s too late.
Anna accompanies me and we agree to meet the boys by Wapping Old
Stairs, where the alleyway gives onto the river walk, so we can drink
our beers against the backdrop of the water. At the shop, I’m careful
not to show the cashier or Anna the contents of my bag.
Moments later, we’re back out on the street, and I’m car- rying a four
pack but, when Anna and I reach the appointed spot, Bo and Dex aren’t
there. Thinking they must have walked some short distance along the
river path we call and, when there’s no answer, head off after them.
On the walkway, the black chop of the river slaps against the
brickwork, but there’s no sign of Bo or Dex.
‘Where did the boys go?’ asks Anna, turning her head and peering along
the walkway.
‘They’ll turn up,’ I say, watching the supermoon sliding slowly through
a yellow cloud.
‘It’s a bit creepy here,’ Anna says.
‘This is where we said we’d meet, so. . .’
We send texts, we call. When there’s no response we sit on the steps
beside the water, drink our beers and swap stories of the evening,
doing our best to seem unconcerned, neither wanting to be the first to
sound the alarm. After all, we’ve been losing each other on and off all
night. Patchy signals, batteries run down, battery packs mislaid,
meeting points misunderstood. I tell Anna the boys have probably gone
for a piss somewhere. Maybe they’ve bumped into someone we know. Bo is
always so casual about these things and Dex takes his cues from Bo. All
the same, in some dark corner of my mind a tick-tick of disquiet is
beginning to build.
It’s growing cold now and the red hairs on Anna’s arms are tiny
soldiers standing to attention.
‘Shall we call it a day?’ she says, giving me one of her fragile
smiles.
I sling an arm over her shoulder. ‘Do you want to?’ ‘Not really, but
you know, we’ve lost the boys and . . . husbands, babies.’
And so we stand up and brushing ourselves down, turn back down the
alley towards Wapping High Street, and that’s when it happens. A yelp
followed by a shout and the sound of racing feet. Anna’s body tenses. A
few feet ahead of us a dozen men burst round the corner into Wapping
High Street and come hurtling towards us, some facing front, others
sliding crabwise, one eye on whatever’s behind them, clutching bottles,
sticks, a piece of drainpipe and bristling with hostility. A blade
catches the light of a street lamp. We’re surrounded now by a press of
drunk and angry men and women. From somewhere close blue lights begin
to flash.
‘We need to get out of here,’ hisses Anna, her skinny hand gripping my
arm.
They say a person’s destiny is all
just a matter of timing. A single second can change the course of a
life. It can make your wildest dreams come true or leave you with
questions for which there will never be any answers. What if I had not
done what I did earlier that night? And what if, instead of using the
excuse of another beer to test the loyalty of my friends and reassure
myself that, in spite of what had happened earlier that night, I
couldn’t be all bad, I had been less selfish and done what the others
wanted and gone home? Would this have changed anything?
‘Come on,’ I say, taking Anna’s hand and with that we jostle our way
across the human tide, heading for the north side of the high street
but we’re hardly half way across the road when we find ourselves
separated by a press of people surging towards the tube. Anna reaches
out an arm but is swept forwards away from me. I do my best to follow,
ducking and pushing through the throng but it’s no good. The momentum
of the crowd pushes me outwards towards the far side of the road. The
last I see of Anna she is making a phone sign with her hand, then I am
alone, hemmed in on one side by a group of staggering drunks and on the
other by a blank wall far too high to attempt to scale.
Moments later, the crowd gives a great heave, a space opens up ahead
and I dive into it, ducking under arms and sliding between backs and bellies
and a few moments later find myself out of the crush and at the gates
of St John’s churchyard, light-headed, bruised and with my right hand
aching from where I’ve clutched at my bag, but otherwise unhurt. I feel
for my phone and, checking to make sure no one’s looking, use the phone
torch to check inside the bag. In my head I am making a bargain with
God. Let me get out of here and I will try harder to believe in you.
Also, I will find a way to make right what I have done. Not now, not
right away, but soon. Now I just want to get home.
The light falters and in its place a low battery message glows. God’s
not listening and there’s nothing from the others. I tap out a group
text, where r u?,
and set myself to the task of getting out.
Taking the path through the churchyard, feeling my way past gravestones
long since orphaned from their plots, I head along a thin, uneven stone
path snaking between outbuildings at the back of the church. From the
street are coming the sounds of disorder. Somewhere out of view a
mischief moon is shining, but here the ground is beyond the reach of
all but an echo of its borrowed light and it’s as quiet as the grave.
The instant my heart begins to slow there’s a quicken- ing in the air
behind me and in that nanosecond rises a sickening sense that I’m not
alone. I dare not turn but I cannot run. My belly spasms with an empty
heave then I am frozen. Does someone know what I’ve got? Have they come
to claim it? What should I do, fight for it or let it go?
A voice cuts through the dark. ‘Cassie, darling, is that you?’
There’s a sudden, intense flare of relief. Spinning on my heels, I wait
for Anna to catch me up. ‘Oh I’m so glad.’
She flings an arm around my shoulders
and for a moment we hug until the buckle of my bag digs into my belly
and I pull away. What a shitty birthday this has turned out to be. If
they knew what I’d done some people would say it’s kismet or karma and
if this is the extent of it I’ve got off lightly. They’d be right.
‘Have you seen the others?’ I ask Anna.
‘Bo was with me for a bit. He and Dex got caught up in the crowd which
was why they didn’t make it to the Old Stairs, then they got separated.
No idea where Dex is now. He might have texted me back, but my phone’s
croaked.’
‘I got nothing from him either.’
‘You think we can get out that way?’ She points into the murk. ‘Hope
so.’
We pick our way down the pathway into the thick black air beside the
outbuildings, me in front and Anna following on. As we’re approaching
the alleyway between the buildings my eye is drawn to something moving
in the shadows. A fox or a cat maybe? No, no, too big for that. Way,
way too big. I’ve stopped walking now and Anna is standing right behind
me, breathing down my neck. Has she sensed it too? I turn to see her pointing
not to the alley but to the
railings on the far side of the outbuildings. ‘Anna?’
‘Thank God!’ She begins waving.‘The boys have found us – look, over
there.’ In the dim light two figures, their forms indistinct, are
breaking from the crowd and appear to be making their way towards us.
‘Are you sure it’s them?’
‘Yes, I can tell by way they’re moving. That’s Dex in front and Bo’s
just behind him.’
I watch them for a moment until a group of revellers passes by and the
two men are lost from view. From the alley there comes a sudden cry.
Spinning round I can now see, silhouetted against the dim light of a
distant street lamp, a man and a woman. The man is standing and the
woman is bent over with her hands pressed up against the wall, her head
bowed, as if she’s struggling to stay upright. I glance at Anna but
she’s still looking the other way. Has she seen this? I pull on her arm
and she wheels towards me. ‘Over there, in that alley.’ It takes a
moment for Anna to register, a few seconds when there is just a
crumpled kind of bemusement on her face and then alarm. The man has one
arm around the woman’s waist and he’s holding her hair. The woman is
upright now but barely, her head bowed as if she’s about to throw up.
Anna and I exchange anxious looks.
Every act of violence creates an orbit of chaotic energy around itself,
a force beyond language or the ordinary realm of the senses. A
gathering of dark matter. The animal self can detect it before anything
is seen or heard or smelled or touched. This is what Anna and I are
sensing now. There is something wayward happening in that alley and its
dark presence is heading out to meet us.
With one hand the man is pressing the woman’s face into the wall while,
with the other, he is scrabbling at her clothes. She is as floppy as a
rag doll. He has her skirt lifted now, the fabric bunched up around her
waist at the back. Her left arm comes out and windmills briefly in the
air in protest. Her hand catches the scarf around her neck and there’s
a flash of yellow and blue pom-poms before the man makes a grab for her
elbow and forces the arm behind her back. The woman stumbles but as she
goes down he hauls her up by her hair. Her cry is like the sound of an
old record played at half speed.
Something is screaming in my head. But I’m pushing it away. Another
voice inside me is saying, this is not what I think it is, this is not
what I don’t want it to be, this is not real. The man has let go of the
woman’s hair. He’s pressing her face into the wall with his left hand
while his right hand fumbles at his trousers. His knee is in the small
of the woman’s back pinning her to the wall. The woman is reaching
around with her arm trying and failing to push him away but her
movements are like a crash test dummy
at the moment of impact.
‘Oh God,’ Anna says, grabbing my arm and squeezing hard, her voice
high-pitched and tremulous.
In my mind a furious wave is rising, flecked with swirling white foam,
and in the alley the man’s pelvis is grinding, grinding, slamming the
woman into the wall. The world has shrunk into a single terrible
moment, an even horizon of infinite gravity and weight, from which
there is no running away. Anna and I are no longer casual observers. We
have just become witnesses.
I feel myself take a step forward. My
legs know what I should be doing. My body is acting as my conscience.
The step becomes a spring and Anna too is lunging forward and for a
moment I think she’s on the same mission as me until her hand lands on
my shoulder and I feel a yanking on the strap of my bag and in that
instant, Anna comes to an abrupt stop, sending the bag flying into the
air. It lands a foot or two away and breaks open, its contents
scattering. The shock soon gives way to a rising panic about what might
have spilled and I’m down on my knees, rooting around in the murk,
scraping tissues and lip balm, my travel card and phone, cash and
everything else back inside the bag, checking over my shoulder to make
sure Anna hasn’t looked too closely at the spilled contents.
As I rise she’s grabbing my wrist and squeezing the spot where my new
tattoo sits. I try to shake her off but she’s hissing at me now, her
body poised to pull me back again. ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid! You
don’t know what you’re getting into.’
‘He’s hurting her! Someone needs to intervene. At least let’s call the
police.’
My hand makes contact with my bag, peels open the zip and fumbles
around in the mess. And in that moment in my mind a wave crests and
rushes to the shore and the foam pulls back exposing a small bright
pebble of clarity. What would the police say if they found what I am
carrying? What would Anna say?
In my mind an ugly calm descends. My hand withdraws and pulls the zip
tight. They say that it’s in moments of crisis that we reveal most
about ourselves.
‘My battery’s dead. You’ll have to call from yours.’
I’d like to say I’d forgotten that Anna’s phone was out of juice but I
hadn’t. In any case, Anna isn’t listening. Something else has caught
her attention. On the far side a phone torch shines, a light at the end
of a dark tunnel, and in its beam is Dex, as frozen as a waxwork.
Behind him, in the gloom, lurks a shadowy figure that can only be Bo.
If anyone is going to put a stop to what is going on in the alley it’ll
be Bo.
Won’t it?
‘Please,’ murmurs Anna. ‘Please, boys, no heroics.’ Dex continues to
stand on the other side of the alley,
immobile, his gaze fixed on me and Anna. It’s at that moment that I
become conscious of Anna shaking her head and Dex acknowledging her
with a single nod. For a fraction of a second everything seems frozen.
Even the man, ramming himself into the woman in the alley. And in that
moment of stillness, an instant when nothing moves. We all know what we
are seeing here but in those few seconds and without exchanging a word,
we make the fateful, collective decision to close our eyes and turn our
backs to it. No one will intervene and no one will tell. The police
will not be called. The woman will be left to her fate. From now on, we
will do our best to pretend that something else was happening at this
time on this night in this alley behind this church in Wapping. We’ll
make excuses. We’ll tell each other that the woman brought it on
herself. Privately, we’ll convince ourselves that this can’t be a
betrayal because you can’t betray a person you don’t know. We will
twist the truth to our own ends and if all else fails, we will deny it.
We’ll do nothing. But doing nothing doesn’t make you innocent.
The light at the end of the tunnel snaps off and in a blink Dex and the
shadowy figure of Bo have disappeared into the darkness. I look at
Anna. She looks back at me, gives a tiny nod, then turns and begins to
hurry away up the path towards the church. And all of a sudden I find
myself running, past the alley where only the woman remains, slumped
against the wall, past the wheelie bins, along the side of the church,
between tombstones decked in yellow moonlight and out, finally, into
the street.
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