The Pact_A gripping psychological thriller with heart-stopping suspense

by S. E. Lynes

  You come over to me and put your face so close to mine your eyes go all blurry. You almost slap me! I hate you when you’re like that, Mum, you’re soooo savage.

  We made up; we always do. I sat on your lap and kissed your cheek.

  I’m sorry, no, I’m sorry, I love you, love you more, wrong, I love you more…

  But I kept my roll-up stuff hidden after that.

  Like other things.

  Like my Instagram account.

  Like Ollie.

  Four

  Toni

  So here we are, my love. West Middlesex University Hospital. West Mid, as it’s known locally, the place you were born, where I have worked for most of my life. It’s my hospital – that’s how I think of it. Only today I’m not organising patient data, I’m not giving birth in a delivery room and no one is saying Congratulations, Mrs Flint. This time – oh my love, my darling girl – this time, fifteen years on, your dad is long gone, and you’re lying in a bed. Saline drips into your arm through a tube. And I… I’m right here by your side with nothing better, nothing more productive to do than bury my own stupid head in my own useless hands.

  This is my fault. How did I let things get this far?

  Come back, darling girl. I can make everything right if you just come back. I don’t know what to do, where to put myself without you.

  Without you, I make no sense. I am alone. I am pointless.

  Come back…

  * * *

  We were all right before all this, weren’t we? We thought we weren’t but, looking back, we were. We were so much more all right than we realised, as all right as anyone, our good days as happy as anyone else’s, our bad days no worse: the car not starting, or getting soaked in a sudden downpour, or a bank card getting eaten by the machine. Normal bad stuff – black-sock-in-the-white-wash stuff.

  Maybe it had taken us so long to get to that level of all right that we didn’t realise we had got there, that we had made it.

  Did we forget to start living afterwards, Rosie? Yes, at first. Of course we did. We were taken up with the business of surviving. But I like to think that, these last couple of years, we had started to live, you know, in the sense of taking joy in everyday things, like laughter, food cooked for deliciousness and company rather than for the sole purpose of nutrition. Each other. Your auntie Bridge, you and me, we were getting on with it, weren’t we? We felt joy; we achieved joy, didn’t we? Not all the time, but sometimes, and that’s enough, isn’t it? For anyone.

  And now here I am by your side, alone with my thoughts, but I can’t tell you what I’m thinking, or that I’m sorry, because you can’t hear me. I hope we’re going to be all right again. Sometimes I call your name, but you don’t respond. I hold your hand, but it is limp in mine. They said you will wake up, not to worry. But worrying is what I do, Rosie – you know that. Your auntie Bridge says I’d win gold in the Worry Olympics, doesn’t she? When you wake up, then we’ll talk. We’ll really talk this time. We’ll move on from all of this, if you allow us to, but first I must tell you I am sorry. I am so very sorry.

  The floor squeaks.

  ‘How’s you?’ A nurse appears at my side. She lays a hand on my shoulder a moment, unhooks your chart from the end of your bed. Overdose, that’s what she’s reading there. That’s the word on the sheet. I fight shame, the urge to explain. The less I say, the better. She puts the chart back on its hook and looks at me with a compassionate expression. ‘Can I bring you a cup of tea, Mrs Flint?’

  Tea. The British cure-all. Makes me think of World War II, of the poster that was all the rage the other year: Keep Calm and Carry On.

  ‘Call me Toni,’ I say. ‘Everyone does. I work here, actually, in Records.’

  ‘Do you?’ She smiles and folds her arms over her chest. She doesn’t have a large bosom, a bosom you could lay your head on and cry, but she should have, do you know what I mean? She has that comforting manner about her. ‘So you know your way about then.’ It’s a statement, not a question, but I answer anyway:

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So.’ Eyes on mine, she raises her eyebrows for a new question. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘That’s very kind.’ I check her name badge. ‘Thank you, Linda. Milk and half a sugar.’

  She touches my shoulder again, lightly, before walking away. Her white rubber clogs squeak, squeak, squeak as she disappears into the corridor.

  I turn back to you in hope, but nothing, no change. I can only talk to you here in my head. I’m thinking about you, and I’m thinking about me and about how I thought I was looking after you. I thought I was protecting you, but I think now you were protecting me, weren’t you?

  Me, you, Auntie Bridge. Auntie Bridge looking after me and you, me looking after you and Auntie Bridge, you looking after your auntie Bridge and me. You could put us on a diagram, couldn’t you? We would be a triangle. But would you, would anyone really be able to look at that triangle and know which was the base and which was the point?

  Tell me, Rosie: who was looking after whom?

  Five

  Bridget

  Heart pounding, Bridget searches through her box of memorabilia: old programmes, her scrapbook of reviews and photographs from her TV work, from theatre work, from some of her early gigs. She should be packing some clothes to take to the hospital, making sandwiches, filling a flask; she should be…

  Where is that programme? A Midsummer Night’s Dream… Where the hell is it?

  ‘I’m your only niece,’ Rosie says, loud in Bridget’s mind, as if she were right here in this room, as if she hadn’t just been driven away, unconscious, in an ambulance.

  ‘You’re my favourite niece,’ Bridget will have replied. Yes, she can remember saying it; it’s their script, as old and worn as her leather jacket. ‘You’re going to nail it tonight,’ she remembers telling her. ‘It’s in the genes, yeah?’

  Rosie. Squirt, Bridget calls her when she’s teasing. Her goofy wide smile, her eyes almost shut. Rosie, for the love of God. That cheeky face alongside Bridget in the cab of the van, the gangly teenage legs shrink-wrapped in ripped black skinny jeans, blue Doc Martens crossed on the dashboard. That was the first night of Little Red and the Wolf. April – not quite three months ago. That’s right. Bridget was running her up to the theatre while Toni got herself together after work. Funny, the things you remember.

  ‘You’re so mad.’ Rosie, giggling.

  Bridget pushing her on her skinny shoulder. ‘I think you’ll find madness is the only reasonable response to the world.’ Pulling onto the roundabout.

  Rosie moves her feet down from the dash, wriggles in her seat. She’s pale suddenly, and her smile has gone. ‘I feel sick,’ she says. ‘What if people think I’m crap?’

  ‘Come on, Squirt. Don’t panic. One, feeling sick won’t kill you. The more you think about it, the more sick you’ll feel, so try and forget about it. Two, you won’t mess up, and three, as far as other people and what they think goes, I’ve told you – you have no control over that shit.’

  ‘You said shit.’ The smile is back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

  ‘Stuff, then, smart-arse…’ Bridget grins at her niece, changes back into fourth gear. ‘I tell you what – if I thought about that stuff, I’d never do anything. No acting, no band, no nothing. You can’t worry about what other people think, yeah? Do you get what I’m saying? You’ve just got to do what you do, in the way that you do it, and whatever anyone else thinks is up to them. You have zero control over it. None whatsoever, yeah? I’m not saying go round beating people up or anything, but if people want to laugh or take the mick or criticise, let them. Honestly, it says more about them than it can ever say about you, all right? So do yourself a favour and let that shi— stuff go right now.’

  ‘Thought you told me to put it in a box and shut the lid.’

  ‘Don’t be pedantic.’ Bridget glances at Rosie; the two of them exchange a smirk. ‘You’ll be great. Do your exercises and your breathing, you’ll be
fine.’

  Rosie pulls a silly face and salutes – this Bridget catches out of the corner of her eye. ‘Do re mi fa so la ti do,’ she sings, then makes an exaggerated show of a deep, yoga-style breath. ‘Yes, boss.’

  She was fifteen by then. She’s still fifteen, not sixteen until August. Bridget’s jaw clenches at the thought. She empties the box onto her bed. The paper trail of her life scatters, slides onto the bedroom floor.

  Where is that bloody programme?

  The opening night of Little Red and the Wolf – that was the night Emily introduced herself. Came bowling into their lives pink-cheeked and waddling like a jolly character from a Christmas card. Except it was Easter, not Christmas, and she wasn’t waddling – she was limping, on account of her hip, but they only found that out later. Bridget can see herself and Toni in the theatre bar. Rosie has just that minute come up from the dressing rooms to join them, flushed with adrenalin and beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘Bloody brilliant, kid.’ Bridget recalls her niece’s bony little body in her arms. ‘You beat the nerves and you nailed it. Told you you would. Got your auntie’s designer genes, innit.’

  Rosie is laughing. Blushing crimson with delight. People come over and congratulate her on her performance – wow; amazing; you were awesome; well done, Rosie! – friends from the cast, parents of those friends. Everyone’s so nice, so generous, and it’s so bloody brilliant to see Rosie get the fuss she deserves, see her squirm with pleasure. She’s worked so hard, rehearsing like a demon since January. Toni’s a basket case by this point, of course: can’t speak for tears, bless her, which is understandable after all she’s been through. She just looks so happy. She looks like the old Toni, when Stan was alive. Bridget’s struggling to keep it together herself, but it’s all over when Toni take Rosie’s hands in hers and whispers:

  ‘Your daddy would have been so proud of you.’

  Too much. Bridget has to grab one of the little black paper napkins they put under the drinks and use it to blow her nose.

  ‘Hay fever,’ she says, to no one in particular. ‘Must be the lilies on the bar.’

  And that’s when she notices the middle-aged woman limping towards them, smiling away and sticking out her podgy little hand. As Bridget watches her, a smile forms, even though she has no idea that things are about to go from brilliant to full-on amazing.

  All of this she remembers as if it were yesterday. That feeling, that life was finally getting better for all of them, that this was the break they needed to put tragedy behind them once and for all.

  But like theatre itself, there was already so much going on behind the scenes. And neither she nor Toni would realise until it was too late.

  Six

  Rosie

  I am alone. Alone in the soupy dark. Thick, heavy eyelids. Dead, lead limbs. Still can’t get up off the… my neck is fixed to the pillow… my head… my head so heavy. I… Ollie… Ollie?

  You’re too pretty to play rugby… cool auntie… so tell me, how was school today?

  I like your eyes.

  I like your hair.

  You are so crap at techy things, Mum. Soz, but you are. We had that on our side, Ollie and me. You made me be Facebook friends with you so you could see what I was up to. I couldn’t get Snapchat because hello? Too risky. So I got Instagram. But not as an app. I turned off notifications. I deleted recent history…

  Delete recent history…

  I wish I could. I would delete everything: bleach it out, scrub this sicky shame feeling away…

  Mummy? I want to… please, I…

  But literally all my friends have tattoos. Stella Prince has, like, three, and Naomi’s mum said she could get one.

  This is a different memory. Where am I? When am I? You’re there. This is you and me. We’re in the kitchen at home. This is quite recent, I think – a few months ago. Auntie Bridge isn’t there. I don’t tell you that Naomi’s mum said she can only get a tattoo when she’s eighteen. She’s going to get a Thai letter N, which I think is a mistake because in, like, two years she’ll think that’s lame.

  You’re like, That’s ridiculous. It’s not even legal.

  I’m like, You can get fake ID. Stella’s got fake ID.

  That’s legit, she actually has.

  I don’t care what bloody Princess Stella’s got! You’ll have to wait till you’re eighteen, by which time, hopefully, you’ll have come to your senses and gone off the idea.

  You turn your back on me then. You always do that when you want the conversation to be finished. I’m not gonna lie, you can be pretty savage sometimes.

  So harsh, I say and you tell me off for banging the cup on the worktop, which I didn’t – I just put it there. Auntie Bridge has got tats and you don’t say anything to her.

  You reach for the chopping board. I can’t tell her what to do, can I? She’s my sister! You pull the sharp knife from the drawer. You go over to the fridge and rummage around in the salad-tray bit, but roughly, as if you’re angry with the vegetables. Eventually you straighten up, a big brown onion in your hand, holding it up like, One more word from you, lady, and the onion gets it.

  You don’t really say that. That’s just me messing about. But you never ask me to pass you stuff when you’re cross; it’s like you’re trying to make some sort of point or something.

  She’s my sister is what you actually say. And she’s a grown-up.

  So?

  Don’t so me. You go all huffy and puffy, as if I’m so impossible. I’m thinking: do re mi fa so la ti do, which is one of my exercises for stress. You put the onion on the board and slice off the top, your mouth closed tight. I feel sorry for the onion. If you want to be an actress, you can’t go covering yourself in tattoos, can you?

  Auntie Bridge is an actress and she’s—

  You hold up the knife – psycho alert. Your auntie Bridget is a grown woman. This discussion is over. Chop chop chop.

  I walk off. You shout after me not to slam the door. But I didn’t – it just closed loudly behind me. In my room, I lie on my bed, pick up my phone. Swipe, Safari, hello, Instagram… a red circle, a message. It’s from him, from him, from him… a message for me… from Ollie, my Ollie… my…

  I only wanted to have a space. Everyone else has Snapchat, Instagram, Facebook, everything. Just FB and Insta, that’s all I have. I’m being completely straight now. I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not going to lie to you ever, ever again.

  Seven

  He would come into my room at night. He would wait until the house was asleep then creep along the landing. A soft knock at the door, a knock I’d been waiting for – and dreading. Why knock, I used to wonder, because he always came in anyway. He wasn’t asking my permission, but he liked to pretend he was.

  I would lie under my covers with my back to the door, pretending to be asleep, my whole body tense. I would wait for the change in the air, the slow creak of the floorboards.

  ‘Hey,’ he would whisper, his breath hot, his mouth right there by my ear, and I would stare at the gap in the curtains, the lamp post outside with the broken bulb, listen for the hoot of an owl, or the violent mating of the foxes. The foxes were the worst. They sounded like babies screaming, and I could not stop myself thinking of babies, hundreds of them, being murdered in their cribs. I would lie still, rigid, and stare at the gap in the curtains. And I would think of those babies.

  ‘Are you awake? Wake up now. I just want a cuddle. You can give me a cuddle, can’t you? No harm in that, is there? A little cuddle?’

  Eight

  Toni

  I wonder if your auntie Bridget is on her way. I wonder if she’s called the police yet.

  No. No, she wouldn’t do that. Not without talking to me.

  She should be here soon. There was no room for her in the ambulance so she said she’d grab a change of clothes, some food and a flask of coffee, and come up in the van. But surely she’d be here by now? Oh my God, what if she’s driven off? Really, what if she’s run away, befor
e it all comes out? I wouldn’t blame her. But please God, I hope she hasn’t. I need her. I can’t do this without her.

  I can’t get hold of Emily either. I’ve sent a text, but nothing yet. When she gets it, she’ll be here as soon as she can, I’m sure.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop wondering if anyone’s been to the house. If they have, they will have discovered the body by now. It’s too soon for anything to be on the news, so I suppose there’s no way of knowing. I suppose it might be days before it’s discovered. Weeks, even.

  I can’t think about it. I can’t.

  * * *

  Do you know what? I’m going to think about when you called me to tell me you’d got the part of Little Red instead. It’s a nice memory, a battery charger for my soul. It was last December, wasn’t it? We were coming up for the Christmas holidays. You’d turned fifteen in the summer and it was a Saturday afternoon; you’d remember it as clearly as me, I’m sure, if you were awake. You’d auditioned in November and you had to go up to the Cherry Orchard to hear the results.

  ‘No matter which role you get,’ I said when I dropped you off, ‘your auntie Bridge and I will be super proud of you just for trying. It’s being a part of something that counts, isn’t it, love? And don’t run, by the way, it’s icy.’

  You kissed my cheek and, as if I hadn’t even spoken, ran into the theatre. I watched you open the door and disappear inside, your red hair flashing behind you like a fox’s tail.

  A couple of hours later, my mobile rang. You were supposed to be doing a workshop – you weren’t due to finish until six, so when I saw it was an unknown number, my heart leapt into my mouth.