The Promise You Made

by A J McDine

  Roaring in anger, he lunged at me again. But halfway across the room, he stopped, clawed at his throat, then sank onto the floor.

  ‘Rose!’

  I stopped in the doorway and turned back to him. ‘What?’

  ‘My inhaler,’ he gasped.

  I paused, even though every sinew of my body was telling me to grab my things and run from the flat as fast as my legs would carry me. ‘You still get asthma?’

  ‘Not… since… university,’ he wheezed.

  My mind whirred, running through the possibilities. What if he was faking it, feigning an asthma attack, so I stayed? Because John didn’t have a goldfish, let alone a cat. Then I remembered coming down to breakfast and finding Smokey curled up in the laundry basket. My tracksuit must have been covered in his hair.

  Reaching a decision, I stood with my hands on my hips.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘On top of the chest of drawers, spare room.’ He was panting now, his breath coming in short, laboured gasps.

  Nodding, I headed out of the room.

  ‘Hurry!’

  ‘All right, all right,’ I muttered. I came to a halt in the hallway, trying to remember which door led where. I tried a couple, finding the airing cupboard and the bathroom. The third door led to John’s bedroom. Ignoring the coughing from the lounge, I crossed the room and gazed out of the window to the Thames below as my heart rate returned to normal. Tugboats, river taxis and the occasional speedboat cut through the brown ribbon of water, beyond which stood the uncompromising London skyline.

  ‘Rose!’ Danny puffed from the lounge.

  ‘I’m coming!’ I shouted, pushing open the fourth and final door. The air was stale, and the bed unmade. Dirty coffee cups littered the bedside table and a chair in the corner of the room was hidden under a pile of clothes. Propped up against the wall was one of those enormous rucksacks people used for gap years. Resisting the urge to have a poke through it, I turned my attention to the chest of drawers, my eyes travelling over the clutter, looking for the blue inhaler. I found it tucked between a black leather wallet and a silver keyring. The keyring was engraved with a centaur, bow drawn. Sagittarius, the sign of the zodiac that represented optimism, freedom and energy, if you believed all that crap. Juliet’s star sign. I brushed the inhaler to one side and picked up the keyring. Two keys dangled from it: a polished brass Chubb key and a chrome Yale key. The spare set for Juliet’s house.

  A crash from the lounge made me drop the keys on the chest of drawers. I grabbed the inhaler and headed towards the noise.

  Danny was writhing on the floor, a hand pressed against his chest as he fought to open his airways. He’d upended the coffee table, sending his clipboard, an asparagus fern and the television remote control flying.

  I stood in the doorway and watched him, my fingers curled around the plastic inhaler. I’d always known Danny was a chancer, but today I’d seen another side to him, a side that was pure evil. I trembled as I remembered his hot breath, his crushing weight. What would have happened if Smokey had spent the night in his own bed, and not in the laundry basket? Would Danny have carried out his threat to “show me what I was missing”?

  ‘Rose,’ Danny said again. Each exhalation whistled as he forced his lungs to work. I gained no pleasure from seeing him suffer. But he needed to be taught a lesson.

  ‘Is this what you want?’ I said loudly, so he’d hear me over the rasp of his own breathing.

  I dangled the inhaler between my thumb and forefinger. He nodded, his head bobbing furiously, and reached out a trembling hand, panting, ‘Give… it… to… me.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘What’s the magic word, arsehole?’

  His head jerked back, as if I’d slapped him. ‘P… please. Give… it… to… me… please.’

  I took a couple of steps forwards, my arm outstretched, my fingers poised to release the inhaler as if I was a human claw crane at an amusement arcade.

  ‘B… bitch,’ Danny panted, lunging for my ankles.

  Something inside me snapped, and I stepped neatly out of his way. ‘I should never have saved you the last time,’ I said, pocketing the inhaler. ‘You despicable piece of shit.’

  His breathing was growing fainter, his bronchial tubes narrowing as the muscles around his inflamed airways contracted. He crumpled to the floor, his eyes bulging, and his teeth bared in a rictus grin.

  There was still time to save him. All I had to do was push the inhaler’s mouthpiece between his blue-tinged lips and press the top.

  So much power resting in my hands. I thought of all the reasons why I should save him. It didn’t take long. Then I thought of all the reasons why I shouldn’t.

  I stepped over him to the window and watched the tugboats and the river taxis and the speedboats slicing through the water, each leaving a rippled wake behind it like a memory.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  On Monday morning, I dressed carefully, wanting to make a good impression on my first day as Sisterline’s new chief executive. Eddie had arranged an interview with the local paper, and as I put the finishing touches to my makeup and pinned a brooch to the collar of my suit jacket, I rehearsed what I would say.

  ‘It’s the first sign of madness, you know,’ Eloise said, appearing in the doorway and making me jump like a scalded cat.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Talking to yourself.’ She peered at me. ‘Are you all right? You look a bit stressy.’

  ‘Do I?’ I stared at myself in the mirror. Apart from larger than usual pouches under my eyes, I looked the same as I always did: pale, freckly and every one of my fifty-one years. ‘I suppose I’m a bit nervous, it being my first day and everything. And I didn’t sleep very well again last night.’

  In fact, I’d barely slept a wink since the nap I’d taken on Friday afternoon. I was hollow-eyed with exhaustion, yet nervous energy zipped through me, making my heart race and my hands tremble.

  ‘You’ll kill it.’ Eloise said.

  Stiffening, I said, ‘Kill what?’

  ‘The job, of course. What else?’

  I breathed in deeply, then frowned. ‘I can smell that bloody shrew up here now.’ I looked around wildly, then fell to the floor and checked under the dressing table. ‘Where the hell can it be?’

  ‘Oh Rose, there is no shrew. It’s all in your head.’

  ‘Just because I couldn’t find it yesterday doesn’t mean it’s not here.’ The smell of decay had grown stronger as the weekend went by, and I’d spent the previous afternoon with a crowbar, prising off the skirting boards in the library in search of the little blighter. When I’d started on the skirting in the hallway, Eloise had taken the crowbar from me and guided me into the front room, where she’d sat me down with a cup of tea and a couple of chocolate digestives in front of Countryfile. But if she’d hoped the craggy John Craven would take my mind off the shrew’s rotting corpse, she was mistaken. I’d just waited until she’d gone to bed, then jemmied them off. But I hadn’t found the dead shrew.

  I realised Eloise was staring at me as if I had a blob of raspberry jam on my chin.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I said, rubbing at my face with my sleeve.

  ‘I was saying, hadn’t you better get going? You don’t want to be late on your first day.’

  I checked my watch and groaned. ‘Shit. Shit.’ I pulled on my jacket and slid my feet into my shoes. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  Eloise handed me my handbag and smiled. ‘Knock ’em dead,’ she said.

  The reporter from the Faversham News was already in Eddie’s office when I arrived, hot and bothered and ten minutes late. Eddie beckoned me to join them and I held out my hand and said, ‘I’m so sorry. Car trouble.’

  ‘No problem at all,’ the reporter said. ‘Nice to meet you.’ His handshake was firm and assured, even though he looked barely old enough to shave. He surreptitiously wiped his hand on his trousers before reaching for his notebook.

  ‘Gosh, it’s warm in here,’ I said brig
htly. ‘Mind if I open a window?’

  The other two murmured their assent and when I’d opened the window as far as it would go, I took the empty chair, cocked my head, laced my hands in my lap and, with a smile, said, ‘Let the interrogation commence!’

  A look of bemusement flickered across the young man’s face, but he quickly rallied. ‘Interrogation, yes. Funny.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Eddie’s been telling me you have ambitious plans for Sisterline. What’s your first major project going to be?’

  My mind went blank. What was my first major project? ‘That’s a great question,’ I said, frantically searching my memory for the answer and finding nothing. As the silence stretched uncomfortably between us, Eddie jumped to my rescue.

  ‘Rose has already been talking about collaborative opportunities, such as working with local secondary schools and making the most of social media to spread our message,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right. Social media and collaboration,’ I agreed, tugging at the neck of my blouse. Despite the blast of cold air blowing in through the open window, my palms were still clammy, and I could feel a trickle of sweat sliding down my spine.

  The reporter jotted something in his notebook. ‘And what made you want to work for Sisterline in particular? Was it because you know someone who committed suicide?’

  My eyes widened at his cheek and my first reaction was to tell him it was none of his bloody business. I stole a look at Eddie. Perhaps she’d mentioned I’d lost a friend while they were waiting for me to arrive.

  ‘You shouldn’t say “commit suicide”,’ I said. ‘It infers suicide is a crime and suicidal thoughts are a sin.’

  He looked flustered. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to…’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ Eddie interjected. ‘It’s just that we’ve been campaigning for the media to stop using the phrase for a couple of years now. Unfortunately, the message is taking a while to filter through. We prefer “die by suicide” instead.’

  ‘Got you.’ He turned back to me. ‘So, I was wondering if one of your loved ones died by suicide and that’s why you wanted to work for Sisterline?’

  ‘I did have a friend, a friend who…’ I licked my lips and tried to ignore the sensation of intense heat that was rushing through my body from my feet to the top of my head in waves, leaving me drenched in sweat. I could feel beads of perspiration on my forehead and a red rash on my chest. It was like I was on fire, and as I dropped my gaze, I quite expected to see flames licking around my ankles. But of course there weren’t any.

  ‘Rose, are you all right?’ Eddie asked.

  I brushed her concern away with a wave of my hand. ‘You’re the second person to ask me that today. I’m absolutely fine. In fine fettle, you might say. Hunky dory, in fact. Just a bit hot.’ I fanned myself with my hand. ‘Is it me or is it like a furnace in here?’

  I looked from Eddie to the reporter and back again. Both were wearing the same slightly baffled expression.

  ‘I suppose now you come to mention it, I do feel as though I might be coming down with something,’ I said, touching my temple. ‘I don’t suppose you could email me your questions instead? I can have the answers back to you by end of play today.’

  The reporter nodded a little too vigorously. ‘That would be great. I’ll just take a quick picture of you at your desk, then I’ll leave you in peace.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ Eddie asked, as we watched him leave a few minutes later.

  ‘A hot flush, I think. And a total brain fog. Sorry, Eddie. I’ll make sure he has everything he needs.’

  She patted my arm. ‘No need to apologise. But are you sure that’s all it is? You seem a bit on edge.’

  ‘You’re the second person today to tell me that, too.’ I gave Eddie a quick smile. Her eyes were full of concern and I longed to unburden myself to her. But how could I tell her that the previous evening I’d crept into my mother’s room, ransacked her medicine cabinet, ripped pills from their blister packs and crushed them with a pestle and mortar until they resembled chalk dust, stirring the powder into a tub of organic lemon curd yoghurt I’d bought from the supermarket because I’d read online that lemon masked the bitterness of the pills? How could I tell her I was planning to feed the yoghurt to the man I was keeping prisoner in a concrete bunker in the middle of my woods? How could I tell her that?

  I couldn’t.

  So, I summoned another smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine,’ I said.

  Chapter Forty

  JULY 1999

  * * *

  Danny’s funeral was a surprisingly touching affair. Grief hung heavily over the red-bricked crematorium as the mourners shuffled in. Misery was carved into the faces of Danny’s parents, because to lose a child was unthinkable. It was the wrong order of things. His friends were red-eyed and silent, still reeling in shock. Death was never easy, but the sudden death of a young man in his prime was even harder to stomach, because it was a stark reminder that the line between life and death was perishingly thin.

  And as for Juliet… well, Juliet was an enigma. I’d expected her to be a sobbing, snotty mess, but she was pale-faced and composed. Almost tranquil. I could only suppose she was in denial and that any minute the grief would hit her like a steamroller, and she would fall to pieces.

  As we traipsed into the crematorium and took our places behind Danny’s parents, I felt the heat of eyeballs on my back. Although my eyes were trained on the coffin, I knew people were staring at me, some curious, some sympathetic, and I knew what they were thinking. Is that her, the woman Danny was training when he died? The one who couldn’t save him?

  When the paramedics had stormed through John’s front door, the flat was hazy with steam. After I’d checked Danny’s pulse, I’d set the stage carefully, stowing his inhaler in the bottom of my holdall, switching on the kettle and heating pans of water on the hob before I phoned 999. I even made Danny a coffee, which had grown cold by the time the ambulance arrived.

  ‘He had an asthma attack,’ I sobbed, as the paramedics hurried into the lounge. ‘It happened so quickly. I tried everything I could think of,’ I added, waving an arm at the hob. ‘But he collapsed, and I think he’s… I think he’s gone.’

  One of the paramedics guided me to the sofa while the other checked Danny’s vital signs. He looked up at his colleague and shook his head. I clamped my hands over my face and imagined Smokey being hit by a car, his lifeless body flung onto the verge like a piece of rubbish. As the tears came, I buried my head in my hands, my shoulders shaking.

  It wasn’t long before two police officers turned up, closely followed by a doctor. While the doctor bent over Danny’s prone body and spoke quietly to one of the officers, the second led me onto John’s narrow balcony, shot me a sympathetic look, and flipped open her notebook.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘Danny’s a personal trainer,’ I said. ‘He was helping to train me for a charity run. We’ve been friends for years, you see. Since university, in fact. Anyway, we were just sitting on the sofa talking when he started wheezing. The next thing I know he’s having a full-on asthma attack.’

  ‘Did you know he suffered from asthma?’

  I nodded. ‘He had an attack in front of me when we were at uni. I managed to get him through it.’ I gazed at the officer’s polished boots and lowered my voice to little more than a whisper. ‘I couldn’t save him this time.’

  ‘Did he have an inhaler?’ she asked.

  ‘He always used to, but this is the first time I’ve seen him for years. I don’t know if he still did.’

  ‘Did you look for one when the asthma attack came on?’

  ‘Everywhere. The bathroom, his bedroom. I couldn’t find one anywhere.’

  She wrote something in her notebook. ‘Have you any idea what triggered the attack?’

  I shook my head. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No matter.’ She closed her notebook and smiled at me. ‘Apologies for all the questions, but we have to file
a report to the coroner for all sudden or unexpected deaths.’

  ‘Of course. What happens next?’

  ‘We’ll contact Danny’s next of kin and arrange for his body to be taken to the local mortuary. The coroner may ask for a post mortem examination to confirm the cause of death.’

  ‘But it was his asthma, surely?’

  ‘It seems likely on the face of it, but let’s not count our chickens.’

  Even though I knew that asthma was the only conceivable cause of death, a shiver of unease still ran through me.

  ‘Three people die from asthma in the UK every day,’ I blurted.

  Surprise flickered across the police officer’s features.

  I gave a self-conscious shrug. ‘It’s the kind of useless fact you pick up at med school.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘You didn’t say you were a doctor.’

  ‘I’m not. I had to leave at the end of my third year to look after my parents. But I had a particular interest in chronic lung disease because my mother had emphysema.’ The lies were tripping off my tongue. Was she buying it, or did she think I’d had a hand in Danny’s death? I watched her face carefully, but it was impossible to tell.

  And then she patted my knee awkwardly.

  ‘So, if anyone could have saved Danny’s life, it was you.’

  I smiled, relief coursing through me. ‘I guess you’re right,’ I said.

  The wake took place in a pub a short drive from the crematorium. Juliet and I found a table in the corner while John went to the bar for drinks: a large red wine for me and an orange juice for Juliet.

  I took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Are you OK?’

  She sucked in a breath, then let it out slowly. ‘I will be.’

  After the private ambulance had arrived to take Danny’s body to the mortuary, John and I had gone straight round to Juliet’s to break the news. We sat on either side of her until her tears ran dry. When John disappeared into the kitchen to make us tea, Juliet turned to me and said, ‘I should have told you, Rose. We were back together.’