The Pact

by Amy Heydenrych

  ‘I don’t think I can stomach anything right now.’

  Hattie walks in with a tray of chicken broth and hot toast. ‘You may think that, but I promise that you will feel better once you have something lining your stomach. Trust me, I’m a WebMD-qualified hypochondriac.’

  They watch her in silence as she tries to force down a slice of toast.

  ‘Jeez, guys, be creepy why don’t you!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Jasmin laughs. ‘We’re just so worried. You have worked so hard for this day. Remember when you thought you wouldn’t get the funding to stay at college after your first year, but then after looking at your results you got through? Or when you spent the entire summer break going to extra classes that you paid for from your waitressing job, just so you could get ahead? You deserve this, Freya. You’re almost there!’

  Their heads turn as the door opens. It’s Kate.

  ‘What am I missing out on over here?’

  ‘We’re just trying to help the patient gather strength to get to her last exam tomorrow,’ says Hattie. ‘But she’s battling.’

  ‘I am not!’ Freya protests.

  ‘You are super depressed,’ says Jasmin, ‘I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘Wait. I have an idea.’ Kate walks back into the room with armfuls of pillows, and on the next trip lugs in the Smart TV her parents got her over Christmas. Then, half an hour later, she arrives with a tray of steaming banana fritters and a can of whipped cream. ‘To help with those cramps,’ she says, as if it’s the most logical solution. ‘Is everyone ready for some Netflix?’

  Freya knows they all have other places to be. Jasmin also has an exam coming up in the next few days, Hattie usually goes to spin class on Wednesdays, and Kate was supposed to be spending the night with her new sort-of boyfriend. Instead, they cuddle up on Freya’s bed that is hot with fever. They select one show, then another, and another. Jasmin’s head lulls onto her shoulder as she falls asleep. Beneath the queasiness, an unexpected feeling of joy rises up, uncomplicated and whole. These are her best friends, her family, her source of strength when hers is lacking. How lucky she is to have a group of women who know what she needs, before she has the courage to say the words herself.

  Chapter 65

  Isla

  Eighteen days after the murder

  Isla scans the morning’s papers. More information on Nicole is starting to seep through. Alleged old boyfriends have come out the woodwork, calling her loaded names. Her family is from Zimbabwe, and cannot be reached for comment, but the information frames her firmly as an immigrant, someone taking a high-profile job on American soil. Nothing is said out loud, but Isla can feel the sympathy for Nicole waning. The words no longer paint her as vulnerable, or worthy of compassion.

  In the first paper is a feature with a large photograph of Julian in a suit looking both handsome and troubled. The headline, ‘Is Atypical under attack?’

  Atypical is the tech company on everyone’s lips. No other business has made such a tangible impact on the world’s poor with cutting-edge technology. Julian Cox, still a decade shy of forty, has built a name for himself as an industry maverick, a role model who shows that you can combine care with commercial success. But, after the murder of one of his staff members, it is feared that this wholesome business is under attack. There is no doubt that when billions of dollars of investment are involved, a crime perpetrated against the company, or an employee, is purely political.

  Isla wipes her eyes roughly. Soon, nobody will even remember Nicole’s name. Men like Julian and Jay will be forgotten too, left free to move on and live another treacherous, hypocritical day, still pulsing with promise, and with life.

  Chapter 66

  Freya

  Eighteen days after the murder

  It’s the weekend, and Freya finally has the time to brave the queues at the cellphone store. Now, she has a new phone number. It took an hour of queuing and what felt like hundreds of forms, and at the end she felt light-headed, but she did it. If Spark can’t help her, and if she can’t get to the bottom of the technology herself, this is the next best thing. She breathes in the fresh, rain-soaked air. Sweet freedom. At least one of her problems solved.

  There is still the matter of seeing Jay for the first time in the office on Tuesday morning. Her mind is already spinning. Will everyone just pretend the arrest didn’t happen? That they haven’t read the tweets and news stories about the proof that he slept with Nicole the night she died? Thank God she has her own office now, a space to hide. No matter how angry she is, as soon as she looks into his eyes, all she will feel is hurt. He is still the man she loved a few weeks ago, and that love doesn’t just dissolve into thin air.

  And then there is her pregnancy, a fact that fills her with shame. She was meant to be the girl who was careful, the girl who was good. She shudders. If Kate finds out that she has wasted her one shot like this . . . well . . . she’s not sure what she will do. Five weeks is early. She can hide any early signs with her newly made kimono, and can quickly sew a few other items that deliberately shroud her stomach. Good tailoring can cover up a multitude of sins.

  She checks her email.

  A new device has just signed into your Gmail account.

  Strange. Must be because she just changed her phone number.

  Then, a phone call.

  Wait.

  A phone call?

  She hasn’t given her number to anyone yet. Not Kate, not Jasmin, not Hattie.

  An unknown number. It’s probably the cellphone store confirming the line for her new number is active.

  ‘Hello?’

  A thin, reed of a voice, both needy and sinister: ‘Freya, why are you trying to hide from me?’

  Chapter 67

  Isla

  Eighteen days after the murder

  Pacific Heights is not Isla’s kind of place. The picture-perfect, dollhouse-like buildings fill her with a sense of unease, as do the scrubbed-clean families running with strollers, or the super-rich kids vaping in two-hour queues for Saturday morning brunch. One of the immaculate masses is her old friend Kirsty.

  Isla and Kirsty met back when they were scene kids, swaying in the front row of underground gigs with mussed-up hair and scuffed sneakers. When the attack happened, Kirsty was the only one who came over with small offerings of comfort like graphic novels, cigarettes, and the new album from her then-favorite band, System of a Down. Back then, Kirsty was the one who knew which party to go to every night and who was dealing the purest drugs. Now, Kirsty knows the best place for a Vitamin IV and which Montessori school the Zuckerberg kids are going to next fall. Isla tries not to feel jealous at the shiny aura of comfort she exudes, especially when she’s not sure if she’ll be able to afford her meal at the expensive restaurant they’re meeting at.

  ‘Isla sweetie, it’s so divine to see you. You’re looking so well!’ Isla smiles weakly. This falsity is the heartbeat that keeps their friendship alive. They care about each other, and hope that if they fake a rapport for long enough, their relationship will return to what it once was.

  ‘Nice place!’ she says, taking in the edgy, monochrome fittings and the menu, featuring several different iterations of avocado on toast.

  ‘This old place? It’s just my local. The kids and I come here every day before the school run.’ Kirsty runs her fingers through her caramel hair. She launches into a story about the second one, whose name Isla always forgets. It’s something exotic. Peony? Carnelia? Isla tries to focus but a familiar silhouette catches her eye.

  She would recognize that patronizing mince anywhere. It struts through her worst nightmares. He looks slightly awkward in his active wear, his hair shower-slicked and clinging to the nape of his neck.

  ‘Oh shit, my boss, Kenneth, is here.’

  ‘Is that a bad thing?’ Kirsty says, turning around and craning her neck to get a glimpse of him.

  ‘Yes! Yes, oh my God, don’t turn to look at him! Jeez, Kirsty! I don’t want him to see me.’


  ‘Sorry,’ she says, laughing. ‘Anyway, what were we talking about?’ Kirsty continues her story, and Isla tries to be a good friend and reach between the divide of who they were then and who they have become. She doesn’t value the same things Kirsty does, and her new crop of Lululemon-legging-wearing mom friends seem like another species entirely, but they’ve shared too much for her to just let go. Apart from Lizzie, Kirsty was there for her when nobody else was, and there’s not enough money that can erase that.

  Every now and then, Isla looks over to the corner table where Kenneth is sitting, nursing a cup of tea and poring over the latest edition of their paper. He must live here, and if that is the case, he earns more than she thought. Her heart pounds at the prospect of him humiliating her in front of her successful friend.

  Someone slips into the booth next to him. He’s wearing a beanie, sunglasses and puffa jacket, so she doesn’t recognize him at first. The designer yoga mat curled under his arm though gives it away. Julian Cox.

  She knew it! Last time she saw him, there was something off about him that she couldn’t place. Isla is not sure what this means just yet, but it is too much of a coincidence to not be important. The two look around furtively. Isla hunches so as not to be seen. They shake hands and huddle closely together, speaking softly. A third man joins them, short and squat. He has the weathered skin and quick, nervous gait of a soldier who has been in service.

  ‘And then Lisa was like, “I asked for the tiles in duck-egg blue, not Santorini blue!”’

  Isla holds up a hand to Kirsty to stop her story for a second. She reaches for her phone and takes a picture. She doesn’t know what business Kenneth and Julian have together, or who the man is with them. Yet one thing draws at least two of them together: the murder of Nicole Whittington.

  Chapter 68

  Freya

  Nineteen days after the murder

  Sunday evening is supposed to be quiet, but the city has a particularly menacing edge tonight. The voice keeps replaying in Freya’s mind. How did he get her number?

  She runs the phone over in her hands, and tries to pull it apart as she rushes home. The pedestrians around her feel aggressive and impatient, pushing at her from all angles. There must be a tracking device in here, or something. A message comes through. A close-up shot of a penis.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she mutters to herself. Her blood sugar is dropping. She steps out of the flow of pedestrians and holds on to a railing, breathing heavily. The pang in her stomach reminds her that she hasn’t eaten all day.

  She is drawn in by the sharp tang of barbeque pulled pork at a nearby deli. She pushes to the front and orders a large sandwich with extra coleslaw and dressing. There is nowhere to sit so she slumps on the ground outside, eating quickly and downing a Coke to get her strength back. She should call Kate, and get a ride home, but she can’t stomach another glance at her screen.

  Pull yourself together, Freya.

  She thought it was bad a month before, walking into the office with the sickening sense of dread over what abuse Nicole would subject her to. The pain, while fresh, was a continuation of the sense of unease she has always felt in the world. She could have never expected how much she would long for the simplicity of that dread now.

  A block away from her home, she reaches a pedestrian crossing and stands swaying on her feet as she waits for her turn to walk. All she can think about is washing the day off her and lying, warm and clean, under the covers.

  ‘Rough day, huh?’ says a quiet, male voice.

  Freya turns towards him. He is small and thin, with a bike propped next to him. His cycling shirt emphasizes his reediness, as does the helmet that teeters precariously on top of his head. He doesn’t look dangerous, just an average guy making conversation. She doesn’t have it in her to be nice, but she tries anyway.

  She sighs. ‘You can say that again.’ She turns to face the road. Why is the light taking so long to change? The man is silent, but she can feel that he is searching for something else to say.

  ‘Bet you can’t wait to go home, open a bottle of wine and just release the pressure.’ It’s a bit too personal, but strange men crossing boundaries in conversation is nothing new to her. When she was a waitress in college, men used to ask openly about her relationship status and her bra size.

  Finally, the light changes. She offers a thin smile in his direction and walks towards home. Not long now until she can close her eyes and forget. Just a few weeks ago, she was rushing back to meet Jay, to close the door behind them and tangle together, to get lost in the unique tenderness they shared. But now she knows it wasn’t unique, it was standard B-grade lust, laced with the lazy platitudes of a man who is accustomed to juggling more than one woman at a time. Her fists clench.

  Lost in the haze of her own thoughts, she doesn’t register the whir of bicycle wheels beside her. It’s the cyclist again.

  ‘Nearly there!’ he says brightly, swerving his bike closer. The street is quiet, the only sound his wet wheezing.

  Freya is not one for small talk, especially tonight. Had her closed arms and quick walk not given him the message? She shouldn’t have smiled.

  His tone becomes more desperate, jeering. ‘You don’t have to be so coy, Freya!’

  She stops dead.

  Run.

  She scrambles to find something in her bag that she can use as a weapon.

  Run, run, run.

  All she has is a nail file, but if she aims it towards his eyes . . .

  ‘Leave me alone, please!’ she pleads.

  ‘You weren’t so unfriendly online . . . you sounded up for anything.’

  Something unconscious in her knows already. It bubbles beneath the surface. Somehow, she has called him here. Or someone pretending to be her.

  ‘You’re mistaken, I have a boyfriend. I’m not interested.’

  Letting a man down is like handling a loaded gun. You have to be tentative, slow-moving, but quick-witted. A simple ‘no’ could be registered as an invitation to attack.

  He thrusts his phone in her face, for proof. There are lines of messages between them, some extremely graphic. There are pictures of her, taken years before. ‘You little tease,’ he sneers, pushing his bike aside and edging towards her.

  He is stronger than his small frame suggests. His arms wind around her and pull her close to him. He pinches her arm, hard, hisses, ‘I know you live right here. You are going to unlock it, and invite me inside.’

  ‘No,’ she screams, hoping someone, anyone will hear. With a jolt of terror she remembers that it is Sunday night. Kate is at her French class, Jasmin is teaching yoga and Hattie is away for the weekend. There is nobody here to help her.

  He shoves her against the wall, so hard that she loses her breath. ‘Get your fucking keys out right now, bitch!’

  Freya is doubled over, wheezing and crying. She watches his foot, clad in a spiked cycling shoe, rise up to kick her.

  The door opens. Relief floods Freya’s body. It’s Kate. She must have skipped French class.

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’

  ‘Stay out of it,’ the man shouts.

  ‘Look, see this phone in my hand? I’m calling 911. You better run.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Kate rushes at him, shoves and sends him sprawling. As he gets up and runs to his bike, she wraps her arms around Freya.

  ‘Get AWAY!’ Freya screams, long after he has cycled away into the night. ‘Get away, get away, GET AWAY!’

  Chapter 69

  Isla

  Nineteen days after the murder

  ‘I guess my question is, do women have no responsibility at all when they are attacked? If a woman dresses in revealing clothing or makes herself sexually available, are we just supposed to ignore these factors when she is attacked? Why is it politically incorrect to say that a woman may have been asking for it?’

  A picture of Nicole dressed up for Halloween as Wonder Woman flashes on the gi
ant screen behind the circle of women. The tight Lycra emphasizes her muscular thighs. She smiles coyly into the camera, as if she trusted the person taking the image. Now it is looping on daytime television, telling a lie in her name.

  Why aren’t they focusing on the murderer? The scene from yesterday morning replays in her mind. Julian, Kenneth and the mysterious man in the coffee shop. Could squeaky-clean Julian be behind this? And could he be the one harassing Freya? Out of everyone at Atypical, he is the one most likely to have access to her contact details, and he would have the ability to see what took place on his network that fateful night. Maybe he knew that Freya and Jay played that prank on Nicole, and the harassment is his way of punishing Freya? But then what motive would he have to kill Nicole? Isla chews one of her fingernails and turns her attention to her phone call with Lizzie.

  ‘Isla! What is that racket in the background? Are you hate-watching that talk show again?’

  Isla turns down the volume. ‘No . . .’

  ‘Please, I could recognize that high-pitched, grating voice anywhere. Come on, it’s Sunday evening where you are. Go out there and do something good for yourself!’

  She feels a surge of panic. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Think of something, and find someone to do it with. I love you, Isla, but you’re exhausting! Now, I’ve got to get some sleep, it’s almost fucking Monday and I think I’m still drunk.’

  Out of everything from her old life, Isla misses dancing, she misses hearing new music, and being right at the front with the music so loud that it blends with her heartbeat.

  Before she can stop herself, she finds Simon’s number and calls him.

  ‘Hey, Isla! It’s so good to hear from you! Is everything OK?’

  Her heart thuds in her chest. This could be really embarrassing. He’ll probably say no, and she should prepare herself for that.

  ‘Funny question, but are you doing anything now?’