The Pact_A gripping psychological thriller with heart-stopping suspense

by S. E. Lynes

  I’m in the kitchen. There are Rice Krispie cakes, my favourite, on that three-tier cardboard cake stand we’ve got.

  Can I have one, Mummy?

  Not now, baby girl. You’ll spoil your appetite. You can have one after dinner.

  The tabletop comes up to my chest… how old am I? Eight? Nine?

  I’m in the Italian café. I’m with Auntie Bridge. She is wearing her black leather trousers. I have hot chocolate with little pink and white marshmallows. It is after school. I’m maybe eleven? It’s afterwards…

  Auntie Bridge always picked me up from school afterwards. Auntie Bridge drinks black coffee: an Americano. She goes to the gym and she’s quite dench. But your arms are even more dench than Auntie Bridge’s. You always twist the lids off jars when we can’t. Auntie Bridge has a patch on her bicep. Trying to give up smoking. Again. Auntie Bridge is six years older than you. Six piercings. I was six when Daddy died in the accident. I was six before.

  We shared a room when we were little, me and your mum, Auntie Bridge says.

  Was that in Hounslow?

  Yes. At Granny and Grandad Jackson’s in Benson Close. That’s your great-grandparents, Squirt. Your grandad Casement, that’s our dad, ran off with another woman, back to Scotland, we think, and your granny had no job and no money so she moved in with Great-Granny and Grandad Jackson. And Uncle Eric lived there too. Our uncle, I mean. He was your great-granny Jackson’s son from her first marriage, to a guy called Patrick. She had your auntie Patricia with him as well. I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this to you very well.

  I get it. I try and keep it in my mind, but it’s complicated, and even as I’m holding on, it floats away. I know Eric is my half-great-uncle, but I’ve never met him. I think he’s in a mental hospital, but I can’t remember. You told me he was ill. Ill-in-the-head ill, you said. You never tell me the whole truth. Auntie Bridge told me what happened. Not in detail or anything.

  Uncle Eric started on her when I left for drama school.

  Started interfering, you mean?

  We are talking about you. I am trying to be mature; I am using the correct terms. This isn’t in the Italian café now – this is at the flat. It’s another time. I am older. I already know about your uncle Eric. I have Doc Marten boots that Auntie Bridge bought me, and she didn’t buy me those until Year 9, so I’m thirteen or fourteen. You are out. You are probably at your charity meeting or at work, because you never go out anywhere else, like to the pub or anywhere, except to see one of Auntie Bridge’s gigs, but even that’s only, as you would say, once in a blue moon, because you are always tired.

  Auntie Bridge nods, but it’s a grim nod, like when they identify bodies on the television.

  He only got to her because I wasn’t there to protect her, sick bastard.

  Auntie Bridge swears in front of me sometimes when you’re not there. She says the F-word, but she told me not to tell you, because when you guys were growing up, she always told you never to swear. People like us have enough holding us back without a foul mouth, she used to say to you when you were growing up. Hmm, where have I heard that before? LOL. That’s why you’re strict about table manners as well. Hold your knife and fork properly, don’t hunch over the table, put your cutlery together to show you’ve finished… blah. Auntie Bridge smokes on the back patio, too, when she’s supposed to have stopped.

  Why didn’t you call the police? I ask, even though I know our family don’t trust the police.

  She shakes her head. The pi— the police are useless. Were, anyway. We called them once, when Dad… when your grandad gave our mum a black— when he hit Granny Casement. They stood outside and did nothing. There’s Mum with a shiner like a big bloody plum and Dad fobbing them off with some bullsh— some rubbish about the cupboard door…

  Why didn’t you tell them what happened?

  We did. They did nothing, Squirt. Sweet FA. Said they couldn’t intervene unless it was physically happening in front of them. And they would have done nothing to that sick, feckless bastard Eric either. Sorry. Anyway, I did it. I beat him up myself.

  My mouth drops open. Your uncle Eric? What, like, with taekwondo?

  She smiles. Something like that.

  My mouth is still open with shock. I’ve never heard either of these stories before. At that moment I think Auntie Bridge is more than a legend; she is a double-hard kickass legend! But at the same time, I can’t imagine it because she is so peaceful and chill. I don’t know when any of what she’s telling me was, except that it was in the past.

  So that’s when I got my first tattoo. She sips her Americano. We are back in the Italian café, so I suppose I’m at primary school again. She must have told me different versions of this story at different times. Grown-ups do that. You have to get those versions and slide them on top of one another like coloured filters until you build a picture that looks real.

  I stroke the inside of Auntie Bridge’s wrist with my fingertips. I trace the Celtic sign that isn’t. Her wrist is soft, and I think about how she has the same blood as me and you. What does it mean, Auntie Bridge?

  It’s a pact. Like a promise.

  Like your band, The Promise?

  A bit, yeah. Except a pact is maybe more serious.

  Like a contract?

  Yeah. Except there’s no paper. And you can end a contract; you can pay your way out or give notice or whatever. This is forever.

  But what does it actually, actually mean? As in this pact, yours and Mum’s one?

  It means… She looks out of the window. Her eyes dart like fish as the traffic goes by outside. It means I’ll never let your mum down again.

  Eleven

  Toni

  On the way home from your first night, the three of us were screeching with excitement, laughing at nothing, ecstatic. You had done so well, overcome so much. You had the whole theatre in the palm of your hand and I was so proud. In the van, you imitated Emily to perfection. Your auntie and I were helpless. We weren’t cruel about it – well, maybe we were, a bit – but Emily really is a funny one, isn’t she? And besides, I didn’t know her then. And I had no intention of getting to know her – nor of letting you sign up with a total stranger. But I didn’t tell you that there in the van, because, well, because I didn’t want to burst your bubble.

  ‘Oh my God, Mum,’ you said when we got home. You could barely get your arms into your PJs for excitement. ‘I can’t believe, like, a proper agent wants to sign me! I could end up being on telly or in the West End or something!’ Your eyes twinkled.

  ‘Let’s talk about it in the morning, eh?’ I said, pulling back your duvet. I hoped that if we waited until you’d had a full night’s sleep, you would have calmed down. I hoped you’d be able to see sense.

  ‘Can’t we just have a peek at her website?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ I stroked your hair, kissed your forehead, gave you a last congratulatory cuddle. ‘Now lights out and get your rest. You’ve got to do the whole thing again tomorrow.’

  ‘Night.’

  ‘Night.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This has been the best night of my life.’

  * * *

  Your auntie Bridget was in the kitchen. I thought she might be out on the patio, having a cheeky cigarette, but she wasn’t. Your auntie has the odd roll-up, you know. Don’t tell her I told you.

  ‘What a night,’ I said.

  ‘She was something, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She absolutely smashed it.’

  Bridget had brought out her best whisky. ‘A small nightcap to celebrate, methinks. I was just sitting here trying to figure out if I recognised Emily from Central.’ She eyed me in the way she does, then poured out two small measures into the Edinburgh-crystal glasses that someone, I can’t remember who now, gave me and your dad for a wedding present. ‘Good confidence boost for Rosie though.’

  ‘“The whole package”,’ I said. Scoffed, actually. ‘Honestly. She’s a person, not a d
esigner sandwich. And who talks like that? She sounded like one of those people from Radio 4.’

  ‘That’s drama school. Projection, darling.’

  I did understand that Emily had been talking commercially, honestly I did. It’s just that, well, a) I didn’t trust her, and b) I hate all the pressure on kids these days: to be half supermodel, half athlete; to be perfect; to be a beautiful person living a beautiful life – it’s why I limit your phone time, why you’re not allowed Instagram, and why I’ve never pressured you into any after-school clubs or anything. It was your auntie Bridget who suggested the theatre group. And the taekwondo for that matter.

  ‘An actor is a product just like any kind of talent,’ your auntie Bridge said. She was scrolling through her phone.

  ‘I know that,’ I said. ‘But some of your auditions have been brutal, haven’t they? And what about that director that came on to you that time?’

  She shrugged, still looking at her phone. ‘She did that to everyone. You get used to it when you’re as hot as me. Ah, here she is. Emily Wood. Yes, Central. Two years before me. Yep. The Bill, Casualty, An Inspector Calls at the Almeida, View from the Bridge at the Old Vic, Taming of the Shrew… bloody hell, she’s done a shitload of theatre.’

  Your auntie Bridget’s a clever one, Rosie. She was pretending to check for herself, but she was checking for my benefit. She was trying to reassure me that Emily was genuine. Legit, as you would say. Your auntie knew that if I felt reassured, there was perhaps a tiny chance of me letting Emily represent you. Crafty, you see? Except that Bridge and I know each other better than we know ourselves. She can’t fool me, and she knows she can’t. She will have known that I could see right through her. It’s a dance we do.

  And she will have known that there was no way I was letting you get an agent. Not at fifteen.

  ‘If she’s only just starting up,’ your auntie was saying, ‘she won’t have much of a name yet, so it could take her ages to get Rosie anything. Might be nothing more than something on the old CV.’

  ‘CV?’ I took a sip of the whisky, felt the burn in my throat. ‘She’s a child.’

  ‘Yeah, but kids start young now, don’t they?’

  ‘I suppose they do, but that doesn’t mean Rosie has to.’

  Bridget drained her glass and placed it on the table. ‘Did she say anything just now when you said goodnight? Was she excited?’

  I sighed. ‘Yes. She was in heaven.’

  * * *

  Stay calm. That’s what your daddy would say if he were here. There’s nothing else to do but wait, so I suppose I’ll just have to carry on chatting to myself. I remember I did this when I was in hospital after the accident. I had my own little radio station here in my head, broadcasting my life to me like a world-record-breaking episode of The Archers. I can’t face reading. The newspapers are grim, and the magazines in the waiting room are years old; I didn’t realise half of them were still in circulation. So I’ll just rattle on as if we were in the kitchen together, you setting the table, choosing tunes off your laptop, telling me about your day. It’s the only way I can sit here without going out of my mind. It’s the only way to feel less alone.

  I suppose your auntie Bridge may even have crashed out after everything she’s been through in the last few hours. She’ll need trauma counselling, absolutely no doubt about that. I did tell her to grab some sleep, but I doubt she will. I wonder if she’s told Emily – she might even have gone to pick her up in the van. If anyone can cheer you up, it’s those two.

  Talking like this, even here in my head, is helping me. It helps me to run through how we got to this point. One day, I’ll make sense of it. When you come round, I hope you’ll be able to tell me your side of things. I hope to God you’ve not been… that he didn’t… I hope you’re still… I can’t say it. Bridget reckons he didn’t touch you, and you tell her everything, don’t you? But then you’ve not spoken since… Anyway, your auntie Bridget will be here soon. She will know what to do.

  Wake up, Rosie. Wake up and just… be you. That’s all I need. You.

  Twelve

  Rosie

  Ollie is mine… my secret. I’m so stoked to have one secret. I’m gassed to have one space without you in it.

  I met him on Instagram. He plays in a band. Like Auntie Bridge…

  … Mum? Is Auntie Bridge, like, the lead singer?

  That’s my voice. When is this? Where am I? This is afterwards. I am probably eleven… ish. We are in your car. I am in the back seat. I’m not allowed in the front.

  Not lead, no, love, you say. She plays lead guitar and does backing vocals.

  It’s the first time I’ve been allowed to come and see Auntie Bridge play. You are taking me, but I’m not allowed to stay until the end.

  Only backing? I’m disappointed. Auntie Bridge is a good singer. She harmonises with songs on the radio, but she also does the descant over random things in the flat: the washing machine, the kettle, the hum of the fridge. Once, when the smoke alarm went off, she did the bass harmony and we all cracked up. There was no fire, obvs.

  Do you think they’ll play the O2? I am defo quite young, because that question is so lame.

  You laugh. Not the O2, baby, no. Not quite. They play in pubs round here mostly… Richmond, Twickenham, Barnes, Chiswick. But they do OK.

  Secret: Auntie Bridge’s band is so not cool.

  I feel bad thinking that. I would never say it to Auntie Bridge or anything. She wouldn’t care if I did – well, she might – but I still wouldn’t say it. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her, does she, Mum? The Promise is, like, a rock band and I prefer bands like Jungle and Hot Chip. It’s not her main job. She does websites and fixes computers for people, or teaches them how to set up a blog, that kind of thing, and acting-wise sometimes she gets work in plays, but not very often. She’s done a bit of television, and she does voice-overs and what she calls corporate work – which I think is when she teaches straight people to have better, more fun personalities.

  Auntie Bridge owns five guitars and she keeps them on these special hooks on the wall in her room. She lives in our flat with us. She moved in… afterwards.

  Why am I telling you this? Am I even telling you this?

  I am telling me this.

  I am keeping me company here under the soup water. Mum? Mummy? If I talk to you, here in my mind, will you hear me?

  If you hear me, will I exist?

  If I hear you, can I come back?

  I want to come back. I’m trying to find my way to you. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. If I wake up, you can tell me what it is. It’s big – I know that. I feel it in my guts, like I’ve eaten something dodgy. Something. I have done… something.

  All Auntie Bridge’s tattoos mean something. There is an H on her other wrist, for Helen. She left Helen and moved in with us… afterwards. That’s why she’s serious when she talks about Helen.

  Putting two and two together, I suppose Auntie Bridge came to live with us because of the pact – the pact she made with you, Mummy. She came to live with us after the accident, which I don’t remember. I don’t even remember much about moving here, just light coming in through the back door, and boxes in my room, and thinking it was cool having everything on the same floor but weird too at the same time not having to go upstairs to my bedroom. I remember before, when we had Dad, and we lived in the house on the river, and afterwards, now, with Auntie Bridge.

  Everything comes around… everything slots into place…

  Hel and me were splitting up anyway, Squirt. Don’t think about it.

  Auntie Bridge said that, but I think now that she said it so I didn’t feel, like, bad or anything. They are still friends, her and Helen. Why am I telling you this? I’m telling me this. I’m pouring words into myself. I’m making myself exist with words. I’m looking for the something very bad. I’m calling out to you, Mummy.

  I’ll keep calling.

  Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

  … Alone at the b
ottom of the sea. A loan at the bottom of the C. C word. C u next Tuesday. #washyourmouthoutwithsoapandwateryounglady…

  A funny smell. Like something from chemistry lessons – a reaction in a conical flask held over a Bunsen burner. A dark tin space. It’s noisy when I bang on it with the side of my head. Ow. My hands are tied… it’s dark. It feels like the back of Auntie Bridge’s van. Why am I tied up in Auntie Bridge’s van? That’s impossible. Why would Auntie Bridge tie me up and put me in a van? It’s… it’s… I’m… hello? Hello? Who is that?

  Van doors opening. Blinding light… I close my eyes… can’t speak… tape on my mouth… someone rips it off. Ouch. It… it kills…

  I can’t tell if I’m crying. I feel like I am. My throat stings like I am. Mum? Mummy?

  I know we’ve had our disagreements. I know I’ve pushed you too hard. I can see that now like I couldn’t before. I have grown up, I think. Whatever I’ve done, I hope you know that.

  Funny… no, not funny, ironic… ironic how, here in the dark, I can see more clearly.

  I can see e.g.:

  That I was stupid.

  That I was secretive.

  That I lied.

  But all my friends were allowed to do more stuff than me. It wasn’t fair. I just wanted…

  You said you never checked my phone. You said you had a friend at school whose mum read her diary and you didn’t like that – you didn’t think it was right. You lied. You did check my phone. And my computer. Not just on our weekly check-throughs when I am there with you…

  We’re close, Mummy. Sometimes you say what I’m thinking before I even know myself. When I was sick, you knew it was nerves before I did. But that’s not from checking. That’s because we’re close. I pushed us apart.

  Hear my mind now, Mum. Hear this: if I make it from the bottom, if I find my way back to you, I’ll always let you know where I am and who I’m with and what I’m doing. What I’m saying is: I get it. I proper get it. I promise.