Don't Look Back

DON'T LOOK BACK

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Quercus

55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London W1U 8EW

Copyright © S.B. Hayes, 2013

The moral right of S.B. Hayes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library

eBook ISBN 978 0 85738 682 3
Print ISBN 978 0 85738 681 6

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk

Also by S.B. Hayes

POISON HEART

For Karen Bond –
there could never have been enough time with you

‘One, two, three, four … come on, Sinead, I'm not far away.'

‘But I can't see you, Patrick.'

‘Five, six, seven, eight … follow my footsteps, it isn't difficult.'

The wind is whispering through the treetops like hundreds of voices telling me their secrets. I arch my neck and see night clouds creeping in. The trees are tall and tightly spaced, which makes me confused and dizzy. ‘Patrick, it's getting dark and I'm frightened. I don't want to play this game any more –'

‘Don't be a scaredy-cat. You're almost there … Just a few more steps.'

The wind whips my hair into my eyes and blinds me. Clumsily I shuffle forward, trying to follow his voice, but it's eaten up by the roar of panic in my ears. The ground is soft and muddy. It imprisons my foot and sends me tumbling into the undergrowth. Solid ground ends and I'm
sliding down a sheer bank of wild grass, shrubs and stones. Somehow I manage to dig in my heels and slow my descent. I grasp a tree growing at an angle to the steep verge. It shakes and dips, its branches vibrating with the weight of my terror. My heart beats so loudly and so fast that I can't catch my breath. I look down and see absolutely nothing; the blackness is densely terrifying. I want to reach out and tear at its fabric to find a crack of light. My foot slips and the slender tree bends even more. I hear a snapping sound and I scream for my brother to help. He's taller and stronger than me, as sure-footed as a mountain goat. And he's so brave, completely without fear. He reaches me in seconds. I clasp my arms around his neck and he drags me back to safety. Blood is trickling from my head, and my arms and legs are covered in scratches, but I barely notice.

‘Your stupid clues, Patrick,' I scold. ‘I almost fell to the bottom, and I can't see how deep it is.'

‘It's fathomless,' he tells me.

‘What does that mean?'

‘It means it doesn't end and you'd keep falling forever.'

I want to peer over the edge again but I can't in case the blackness swallows me up. ‘What's down there?'

‘Can't you guess?'

I shake my head.

His lips curve at the corners. ‘Remember the story Mum told us about the pit? It's where you go when your soul is black and you never, ever get to come out.'

I can feel butterflies everywhere, even in my throat. ‘Thank you for saving me,' I choke out.

Patrick bends down to kiss away my tears and his voice is full of a strange joy that I've never heard before. ‘I'll always be here for you, Sinead, you know that, but you must never stop trying to find me.'

‘Why? Where are you going?'

Patrick grasps my hand in his. ‘When we play our game together, silly. You'll always follow my footsteps, won't you?'

‘Suppose.'

His grip on me tightens and his nails dig into my cut palm, which makes my eyes water. ‘This is important, Sinead. You have to promise.'

I nod gravely. ‘I promise, Patrick.'

He takes hold of one of my fingers and draws two lines across my chest. His eyes are vibrantly blue, just like the sky before it thunders. When I look into them they make me feel as if I'm falling all over again.

‘Now swear, Sinead, swear a solemn oath.'

‘I won't go back on my promise, Patrick,' I answer obediently. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.'

We were in the middle of a July heatwave, the atmosphere fizzing and crackling, charged like it is before a storm. I could tell something was wrong as soon as I stepped through my front door. My mother's eyes were red-rimmed, the whites webbed with tiny red capillaries. It looked as if she'd been crying all day.

‘Patrick still hasn't been in touch. It's over two weeks.'

My bag thudded on to the wooden floor. ‘He's done this before,' I pointed out. ‘Why are you so worried this time?'

She clamped one hand across her heart. ‘Something's wrong, Sinead. I feel it here.'

‘I'm sure he'll be OK, Mum.'

My complacency seemed to infuriate her. ‘You of all people understand his …
condition
, how vulnerable he is.'

I chewed my lip in frustration. I'd been expected to look after Patrick since I could walk, even though he was three years older than me. It had always been this
way. Patrick's problems were my problems. And the ‘condition' my mother coyly referred to was a toxic mix of addiction, depression and frequent threats to self-harm. I was used to picking up the pieces of his shattered life.

My mother squeezed out more tears, her hands fluttering around her throat like a dazed bird. ‘I really think you should go to his flat.'

There was no point suggesting she should go herself. As usual it was down to me. Resentfully I looked at my watch. ‘But I don't have time now. I've arranged to meet Harry.'

‘Don't have time, Sinead? How often have I heard that excuse from you? You need to get a grip on your irrational
obsession
and think about your brother's welfare.'

It isn't irrational. Time is so precious. Am I the only one who can feel it slipping away from me? Every heartbeat is another second passing, and it's like a drum beating, recording every moment in your life … especially the wasted ones.

I faced her squarely. ‘You know why I'm like this. It's not something I can help.'

She cut the air with one hand, her voice mockingly sing-song. ‘You had an asthma attack when you were a child and thought you were dying.' She shook her head at me. ‘Must you bring everything back to yourself? Patrick is my main concern. Now, will you go to his flat?'

My mother seemed to bring out the worst in me and
sometimes I took a perverse pleasure in frustrating her. ‘I'll go tomorrow.'

She paused and tried another tactic, her tone now softly wheedling. ‘You're so strong, Sinead. Patrick isn't like you. He needs me so much more, and I must do everything I can to protect him. The bond between a mother and a child is sacred.'

What about
our
bond? And you've never given me the chance to need you. Patrick has always consumed all your love and attention. Since Dad left, I'm invisible.

To escape the intensity of my mother's gaze my eyes took in the new decor. The room had recently been repainted, a subtle shade of primrose, and a new beige carpet fitted, but it still felt cold and unlived-in.

‘Patrick is highly sensitive and intelligent,' my mother went on. ‘He lives on a knife edge.' I still didn't reply and she played her winning card. ‘You promised to always look out for him, Sinead.'

I nodded reluctantly in agreement. My mother knew how to make me feel guilty, and deep down I
was
worried about Patrick. I quickly changed into sweats and grabbed my bike, taking the quickest route, which was through the town, trying to avoid buses belching black smoke, the outsize wing mirrors of white vans and drivers in high-performance cars who thought they owned the road. It was late afternoon, the humidity still increasing, and the city felt ready to erupt. Soon I was short of breath and my chest felt tight, a leftover from my childhood asthma. It always
got worse around Patrick, as if his very presence suffocated me. By the time I reached his flat, my clothes and hair were wet and stuck to my skin, rank with the smell of traffic fumes.

Patrick didn't buzz me in when I repeatedly rang his bell, although someone had noticed I was here because a pair of green striped curtains in a ground-floor window twitched. There was a single entry code for all the occupants, which wasn't exactly the greatest security device, but at least it deterred people from walking in off the street. I punched it in and rested my bike against the half-panelled wall in the hallway before walking up a winding flight of wooden stairs. The building used to be some sort of chapel, and it still had one of the tallest spires around and a musty smell of yellowing prayer books, polished floors and candle wax.

Patrick's flat was at the top of the building and included the bell and clock tower, but the landlord was insistent that they were both off limits. When I reached the top stair I remembered our last conversation. Patrick had told me that the sound of ringing seemed to reverberate in his head, although the bells had been silent for years. He hadn't mentioned the clock, but I knew the hands had been stuck on six for ages. If I lived here I would have found a way to get it working again, glad to hear it chime every fifteen minutes to remind me how quickly time was passing.

I thumped on his door with both fists, painfully aware that I was thinking the worst. A feeling in my stomach told me that something was badly amiss and that
this time Patrick might have carried out one of his dark promises.