The Pact_A gripping psychological thriller with heart-stopping suspense

by S. E. Lynes

  You know, Rosie darling, nerves are all part of it. She lays her hand on mine again: her right, my left. Her palm is dry and warm. This time she leaves her hand there. We all get nervous, my dear. It’s the business we’re in. Nerves, emotions, feelings, they’re what we trade in, aren’t they? We emote. We give. So those emotions, those nerves, what have you, they’re important. They give us access to the things we need to convey. They allow us to move people through our art, do you see?

  I nod my head, yes.

  And I know you suffer, because I too suffer. We artists, we suffer. We suffer more than most – it is the cross we must bear, my dear. But nerves, or super-sensitivity, or whatever you wish to call it, give us the energy we need to shine. And I know you can shine, Rosie. I have seen you. We should maybe think about finding ways of coping, how do you feel about that?

  Do you mean like CBT? Auntie Bridge did CBT. She’s taught me some things to help with anxiety.

  As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel miserable. You’re not supposed to tell others what the people closest to you tell you not to tell, especially if they’re family. You taught me that, Mum. And I’ve just told Emily something Auntie Bridge told me to keep to myself.

  We had CBT classes after the accident. I only say this to try and make up for what I said before, but I think I’ve made it worse even though I know she knows about the accident and everything. Mum saw a counsellor for ages. That’s definitely worse. That’s private. I shouldn’t have said that either. I think I saw one too, but I can’t remember. Auntie Bridge gives me exercises, like I have to say the notes: do re mi fa so la ti do, and I do breathing and it calms me down. That’s how I got the part of Little Red. It’s how I go on stage.

  Emily gives me a big smile, as if I’ve done something brave. She sips her coffee and puts the cup back into the saucer so slowly and gently it doesn’t make a sound.

  Good, she says. Good girl. That’s a start. It’s good that you’ve all had help. Sometimes we need help. It’s natural, under the circumstances.

  I stare at my black, scabby nails. I am heavy with guilt. You tell me guilt is a wasted emotion, but I think it is telling us to look at what we’ve done and ask ourselves if we should have done it, and if the answer is no, then it’s a way of thinking, well I won’t do that again. I can’t go back and not say those things, can I? I can’t not tell Emily our family business because I’ve told her now. It’s too late to put the words back in, and I have a pain of shame in my gut.

  But I can promise not to say those things again, can’t I?

  It’s not too late, is it? Is it, Mummy?

  Thirty-Two

  Toni

  They never found that girl who went missing from that café in Putney. There was a follow-up article asking whether her disappearance was linked to that of another girl who had gone missing ages ago and had never been found either. She had the same profile: shy, pretty, but not an overwhelming beauty – a nice girl. I wonder, do we bring our girls up to be too nice? Are their manners putting them in danger?

  It’s the photographs that break my heart.

  I wonder if they’ll find those girls now, once they discover the body. It’s possible he’s behind them too. They’ll be dead, of course. They might even be buried in the garden. My God, just the thought makes me feel sick. One day you’ll understand how that feels. Once you’re a mother, you’ll watch the news and there’ll be that kid, the kid who’s gone missing or who has been found dead, and you’ll feel it. You’ll feel it, Rosie, and you’ll feel the fragility of this life like a blown eggshell in your hands. Because that child is yours and mine, that child belongs to all mothers everywhere, and when you put your baby to bed that night, you’ll take her in your arms and you will not want to let go. You will never want to let go.

  When you went for your cosy coffee with Emily, shall I tell you what I felt most of all? Jealous. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but I could see how well you and she got on. You came to life around her. You were lighter, your smile readier, your very bones looser. She knew how to tease you, how to take you seriously, how to be your friend without smothering you. I wanted to be your friend too, but that’s not what I am, my love. I’m your mum, and there’s no dad on the scene so I’m the A, the B, the C and the D. It’s down to me to do all the jobs, the shitty ones as well as the lovely stuff like seeing you up there on stage. By shitty, I don’t mean laundry and shopping and all that, although yes, there’s that too. I mean like nagging you about homework, tidying your room, filling the dishwasher; worrying to death when you’re out later than you said you would be; freaking when I realise you’ve forgotten to take your phone with you yet again and I have no way of getting hold of you. I mean having to endure a love for you so strong, so utterly consuming, that some days it feels like terror.

  You were still out with Emily when Bridget got home. Unusually for her, your auntie looked strained. Her eyes were rimmed in red, as if she’d been crying. But Auntie Bridget never cries, does she?

  ‘Are you OK?’ I said.

  ‘Hay fever,’ she replied. ‘Where’s Rosie?’

  She had put the kettle on and was rooting around in the biscuit jar. She took out a digestive and ate half in one bite, then opened the fridge and pulled out an onion, a carrot and some bendy celery.

  ‘She’s gone for a cup of tea with Emily. Sit down, Bridge. I’ll make dinner.’

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘So she’s meeting her agent, eh? Meryl Streep watch out.’

  I told her about how I’d freaked out, how you’d sassed me. Bridget made us both tea and listened without interrupting. She left her mug on the countertop, where she began peeling the onion.

  ‘Do you think I’m mad?’ I asked.

  ‘No madder than anyone else.’ She turned from her task, her eyes even redder now, on account of the onion, and reached for her third digestive biscuit.

  ‘You’ll spoil your dinner.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ She grinned, crumbs on her teeth, before ramming the rest of it in with a rebellious flourish.

  ‘Your eyes look sore,’ I said. ‘Is it definitely hay fever?’

  She sniffed and turned back to her task. ‘Probably. Something to add to the post-menopausal cornucopia of delights alongside stiff joints and back fat, I suppose.’

  We both laughed.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said after a moment. ‘Teenagers. They’re twats, aren’t they? Sure I read that in Good Parenting.’

  I don’t need to tell you she was only joking. I smiled and sipped my tea. I don’t take sugar, but Bridge always puts half a teaspoon in because she knows I prefer it that way. It was like nectar, as they say, and I wondered why I bothered trying to drink it without – why any of us bother with these sticks we use to beat ourselves.

  ‘What’ve you been up to?’ I asked her.

  ‘Website job up in East Sheen, then a mate of his in Strawberry Hill with a blocked iPhone. Called in on Helen on the way home.’ Somehow she’d already got the frying pan on the gas, and the smell of fresh garlic in olive oil filled the kitchen.

  ‘How’s lovely Helen?’

  ‘Good. She’s off to LA, remember? Tonight, in fact.’ Her back straightened a moment before she bent again to her task. I heard the chop-chop of the knife on the board. ‘That big script I told you about, jammy bugger.’

  ‘The romantic comedy?’

  ‘The very one. Musical, would you believe? Did I tell you that? She said she wouldn’t have got it, but one of the commissioning bods had seen that indie she did last year.’

  ‘How long will she be there?’

  ‘Six months. She’ll be even more loaded when she gets back.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Like you say.’ Bridget slid the onions hissing into the oil and turned down the gas. She reached for a piece of kitchen roll, pressed it to her eyes.

  ‘Bridge?’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Course,’ she said and gave a loud sniff. �
�Bloody onions.’

  Thirty-Three

  Rosie

  So, Rosie my love, next time you have an audition, do you think you can try some of those marvellous exercises your auntie Bridget gave you? Maybe start the day before you go, even a few days before, and sort of build up?

  I stir my cappuccino and nod, but I don’t meet Emily’s eyes because I feel too awkward, and I still wish I hadn’t told her about your counselling.

  I did do them this time, I say, but I’d got sick the time before so I think I was, like, worried about getting sick again. You know, like, on top of being worried about the audition? And that was, like, too much worry.

  All right. Right you are. You must try not to worry all the time. Your mum… and I don’t mean this in any way critically… your mum is a super, super mum…

  I understand. I look her in the eye and smile.

  She smiles back as if she’s passing an apple pip through her teeth to spit it out, and cocks her head to one side. She’s very protective of you, isn’t she? Do you think that’s… because of the accident?

  I shrug. I don’t want to talk about this stuff. This stuff is in a box with the lid closed. I’m defo not going to tell her about Uncle Eric, no way. But something bubbles up in me, now, remembering… Emily… this… it’s… this is… this is not the first time we have had this conversation. Or it is the first time but we had it a few times, maybe after. Whatever, it’s déjà vu. This is what they call déjà vu! I’ve never had that before. I’ve always wanted to see what it was like. I’m defo having it now. Cool. Or was I having it then, in the café with Emily? Or later, another time, not that one, not this?

  I don’t know.

  Emily presses her hand onto my cheek just for a moment and her warm palm feels so nice I want to lean my head into it and close my eyes.

  That’s OK, Rosie darling, she says. You don’t have to tell me. It’s just that sometimes, when someone we love worries that we can’t do something or we can’t cope with something, we lose faith in our ability to do that very thing, indeed to do the things we want to do, do you see?

  I nod but say nothing. I feel like I’m going to cry.

  And sometimes that feeling of not being up to the job can make us nervous, do you see? And if we get a case of the old jitterbugs, we can feel sick or even be sick or suffer a migraine or what have you. The mind can make us very poorly. It is a very powerful organ indeed.

  I have tears in my eyes now. I’m trying not to let them spill out. I sniff.

  Oh my darling. She squeezes my hand. Sometimes the people we love most, lovely as they are, are in fact harming us. Do you see?

  She is being kind – I know it. But I don’t like what she’s saying, though I don’t know why I don’t like it.

  Mum would never hurt me.

  Of course not, darling! Not intentionally, no. I would never suggest that – don’t be silly. She stops, pushes the handle of her coffee cup around so it faces the other way, then back again. She takes a breath, like a gasp, and closes her mouth for a few seconds before she speaks again. But if your mother is nervous about you going out into the world, then it could be that you’re picking up on that. Do you think that’s a possibility?

  I nod. She is only trying to help.

  It could be that you’ve internalised the feeling that you can’t cope with the world and its slings and arrows, as it were. And that might be what’s causing the old collywobbles, and hence the sickness, hmm?

  I nod.

  But I’m here to tell you… She says this a bit louder. I, the great Madame Belle, mentor and agent, I am here to tell you that you can cope, Rosie. You are capable and bright, and you can do anything at all you set your mind to, do you see? You can do it.

  I nod. I am properly crying now. How embarrassing.

  She takes her hand away and digs in her handbag. And somewhere inside your mum, she knows that too, all right? She pulls out a tissue and gives it to me.

  Thank you. I dab my eyes.

  We just have to show her that you can do these things, all right? So I need you to work on these naughty nerves of yours and really fight them. Can you do that for me? And that might mean that sometimes, just sometimes, you might need to protect your mummy in return.

  Protect her? I blow my nose. It makes a honking sound. OMG, now I’m going red. What do you mean?

  From what you’re doing. Do you see? As in, you could try not telling her every single thing you’re up to, to protect her from worry. It’s normal not to tell your mum everything. That’s what it means to grow up. I don’t mean go to Timbuktu for a week without telling her, or join the foreign legion. She chuckles. But explore – take a risk or two. When I was your age, I was such a scamp! I used to tell my mummy I was staying at my friend Trisha’s when I was actually staying over at my boyfriend’s.

  I laugh. I can’t imagine her having a boyfriend. Where did you live?

  In Hampshire then. On a farm. Now I’m just over the river from you. Emily is blinking at me from behind her silver glasses. So what do you think, Rosie? Little Red? Do you think you can protect Mummy?

  I nod. The tears are stinging my eyes and my throat is hollow. To agree with her about you feels wrong. Mum? Mummy? I don’t like remembering this. I don’t like remembering these feelings and what I said. I know you only worry because you love me. I know you don’t let me do stuff because you love me. I know all you wanted was to keep me safe. But when Emily said those things, I saw what she meant – you thought I couldn’t cope and that made me think I couldn’t cope…

  And that made me want to get away from you.

  Thirty-Four

  Bridget

  Bridget parks the van and turns off the engine. From the car park she can see the light on in the kitchen, the silhouette of her sister bent forward over the kitchen table. Is she crying? It’s possible. It’s always possible. But Bridget needs a minute, just today, just this once. In her leather-jacket pocket she finds her pouch of Golden Virginia, her tips and her papers. It only takes her a minute to roll a cigarette and, digging her Zippo from her other pocket, she pushes her back into the driver’s seat and opens the van window. The sun is sinking. It’s turned chilly, but her jacket is warm. She hunches her shoulders a little against the cold that blows on her neck. In the momentary peace, she lights her cigarette. The lighter has her initials engraved on the side: BC. A gift from Helen.

  Helen will be at the airport by now, bound for LA. Bridget wonders how she’ll get on, whether she’ll be happy there in the City of Angels. Who she’ll meet. Less than an hour ago, Bridget called in on her way home, to the house they used to share, rooms full of stuff, full of memories, full of so much that still belongs to both of them. She called in, as she often does, but this time to say goodbye. Helen has always stopped writing by late afternoon, so even in the early days after the accident, when Bridget used to pick Rosie up from school, she would take her for a hot chocolate and then on to see Helen. Now there is no need, no reason, no excuse to call in, but it is a habit neither of them seems able to break. And besides, who would feed the cat when Helen is away, if not Bridget?

  ‘I want you to be happy,’ Bridget made herself say in the moments before she left. She’s become superstitious about journeys, and especially about goodbyes.

  ‘I’m not totally unhappy,’ Helen replied, smiling the way a person smiles when they’ve burnt their finger or stubbed their toe in front of people they don’t know well.

  ‘Me neither,’ Bridget said. ‘Not, you know, totally.’

  Helen took Bridget’s hand, rubbed her thumb across the knuckles, down to the silver skull pinky ring. ‘I worry about you, Bridge.’

  ‘You need someone to worry about, Titch.’

  ‘Do you ever call anyone by their actual name?’

  ‘Only my probation officer.’

  ‘Very funny. Stop diverting. You could find someone.’

  ‘So could you.’

  ‘I know, but you could find someone nice.’


  ‘Nice-looking girl like me, you mean?’

  The living-room door was ajar. Through the crack, through the front window of the house, she could see the light already falling. There in the hallway, it was all but dark. Helen’s eyes are green. Bridget thinks of them now as she stares across the backyard at the flat she now shares with her sister, that hunched silhouette crying in the kitchen.

  She tips back her head, sucks, feels the rush of nicotine.

  I’m not totally unhappy. It’s enough, isn’t it? It has to be. The pact with her little sister was made not years but decades ago now. God, she’s old. She feels it then with the force of a punch. She’s always looked out for Toni, ever since they were kids. Too far apart for sibling rivalry, she used to take Toni out in her pushchair, show her off on the streets of Hounslow. She took her into Richmond for her first legal drink (albeit years after her first actual drink), took Rosie to the same pub for hers, illegally, just the other month, when she was fifteen. Not that Toni knows that – Christ, no, she would kill her – but some things belong to her and Rosie. Auntie’s privileges, small comforts. So much has been lost; so much has been broken. The kid has been her consolation. When Rosie was born, Bridget was the first person at the hospital after Stan, and he’d been there for the birth.

  You make a promise like that, a pact, it doesn’t go away because you’ve grown up. It is inked into the skin, branded into the heart. Toni is her sister. She and Rosie are her family. And that is all.