What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller (36 page)

His eyes focus on mine. They are his mother’s eyes, pupils dilated, blacker than the night sky. He holds me captive in his stare and then he smiles. It’s not his smile. It’s an imposter’s smile: fake, taut and entirely without warmth.

I close my eyes tight and count to ten, my breath held.

When I open them again, there’s no one there.

Much as I enjoy writing, I think I might give up but for the help of friends and family. During the writing of
What Goes Around
I owe a special thank you to the following people:

Stephen May, Emma Unsworth and my classmates on an Arvon course at Lumb Bank in Yorkshire: April, Beccy, Steph, Philippa, Lorraine, Ariela, Sophie, Emily, Carmen, Chloe, Shirley, Sharon, Tammy and Douglas.

My brother John and his wife Mags who left me alone in their house for two weeks so that I could wander the Edinburgh streets to find my setting.

My mum for making me meals and keeping me company.

Lottie for the supply of chocolate (!)

Regan and Gail Schreiber for their generosity (I will miss you!)

Cristina Thomas, therapist and friend, who read the first draft and kindly corrected my mistakes.

Neil and George for reading the early chapters and steering me in the right direction

Mel Parks, writer and friend, who is always there with a listening ear.

My editor at Hodder – Cicely Aspinall: patient and perceptive. I couldn’t have asked for more.

My agent Euan Thorneycroft who blends encouragement with good sense.

My three sons, Mike, Sean and Matt. You make me happy. You make me proud. You mean the world to me.

What inspired you to write
What Goes Around
?

For me, writing a novel involves the germ of an idea that gradually grows into a story. The germ for
What Goes Around
was the idea that, as a betrayed person, if you were given the opportunity for revenge, would you take it? How far would you go? And would your actions come back to bite you?

Ellen and Leila are very different people. Why did you choose to tell the story from both their perspectives?

A couple of years ago I spent time with a friend whose husband had left her for another woman. For the duration of their acrimonious divorce, my friend told me that what she thought the other woman was thinking turned out to be completely wrong. I think we all have imaginary conversations in our heads where we make up the replies for the other person. In
What Goes Around
, Ellen is convinced that Leila as a particular type of woman but she’s wrong. By writing both voices I was able to show this.

This is now your fifth novel. Did you approach it differently to your previous novels?

Yes and no. When I first started writing I was given the advice – ‘write where the energy is’. I always find that the first third of the novel, when I’m setting up the major plot points, is the most difficult to write so often I will jump several scenes ahead in order to give myself a break from the balancing act of intriguing the reader while not giving too much away. (Holding back information is difficult!) This is my first novel with two first person voices and that made the writing process easier as, for example, when I was getting frustrated with how to reveal Ellen’s intentions, I would switch to writing in Leila’s voice and could then go back to Ellen with a fresh perspective.

One of the things I love about
What Goes Around
, and something that is a theme in your other novels, is that horrible possibility that it could really happen to you. What appeals to you about writing about bad things happening to ordinary people?

I genuinely believe that none of us are ordinary. My work as a nurse has been a window into other people’s lives and has informed my writing. All five of my novels contain the nub of behaviours I witnessed as a nurse: the way people act under pressure, the secrets people keep (often with the best of intentions) and the justifications people give themselves for behaving in ways that hurt others.

In the novel you raise questions about whether ‘evil’ is a product of nature or nurture. Did you do much research into this idea? And did you come up with a conclusion of your own – is there such thing as being ‘born evil’?

I’m fascinated by the structure and function of the brain and how it develops. I regularly watch TED talks where neuroscientists share their latest research and debate the influence of nature versus nurture, often through identical twin studies. I read recently that the brain waves of small children are exactly the same as adults who are hypnotised and in a suggestive state. I work with children and have had three of my own and I have seen this in action – small children are like sponges, they soak up the behaviour of the people around them and then imitate it, for good or for bad. I don’t believe a child is born evil but I do think that nurture is crucial. As Leila says at one point in the novel – nature loads the gun but nurture fires it.

Psychological thrillers are having a real moment. As something of an expert, what do you think it is about this genre that is so addictive?

Writer and philosopher Albert Camus said that, ‘Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth’. I think that fiction entertains us but it also helps us to make sense of the world. Psychological fiction keeps us turning the pages because it engages the brain – we are being given clues and have something to work out – but it also shows us what can go wrong when we don’t behave as carefully or as well as we should!

Finally, Ellen comes up with a brilliant plan to get revenge on the woman who stole her husband. What’s your favourite real-life story of revenge?

Before I started the novel I googled revenge stories and found some gruesome tales of real-life revenge that were way beyond anything I’d want to write about! But I am at the age where several of my friends have been through separation and divorce and, over a glass of wine or two, ways of ‘getting back at him and the other woman’ have been discussed, from informing the other woman’s boss/children/parents to sharing emails/photos online. Honestly? Having gone through a difficult time myself, I think that the best revenge is to pick yourself up and live a good life. Be the better person. And if Ellen had done that in
What Goes Around
then – well … I’ll let the reader make up her/his own mind on that one!

If you were hooked on
What Goes Around
, you’ll love Julie’s debut novel

Tell Me No Secrets

They say that everybody has a secret. Mine lies underground. Her name was Rose and she was nine years old when she died …

Grace lives in a quiet, Scottish fishing village – the perfect place for bringing up her twin girls with her loving husband Paul. Life is good.

Until a phone call from her old best-friend, a woman Grace hasn’t seen since her teens – and for good reason – threatens to destroy everything. Caught up in a manipulative and spiteful game that turns into an obsession, Grace is about to realise that some secrets can’t stay buried forever.

For if Orla reveals what happened on that camping trip twenty-four years ago, she will take away all that Grace holds dear …

Read on for the gripping opening chapter.

They say that everybody has a secret. For some, it’s a stolen extramarital kiss on a balmy evening after two or three glasses of wine. For others it’s that girl, teased mercilessly about the shape of her nose or the whine in her voice until she has to move school.

Some of us, though, keep secrets that make liars of our lives. Take me, for example. The skeleton I fear isn’t hiding in my closet. The one I fear lies underground. Her name was Rose and she was nine years old when she died.

I’m not going to make excuses for what I did. I’m going to tell my story as it is and as it was.

This isn’t the beginning but it’s a good place to start …

I live in Scotland, on the east coast a few miles beyond St Andrews. The east of Scotland is flatter than the west, the scenery less spectacular. We don’t have the craggy peaks or brooding glens dour with dead men’s stories. We have instead a gentle roll and sway of land and sea that lifts my spirits the way a mountain never can.

And the weather isn’t great. After a couple of sunny days we’re punished with the haar that rolls in off the North Sea, thick and cold until you can’t see the hand in front of your face. But this evening it’s exactly as I like it and when I’ve finished preparing the evening meal, I stand at the sink rinsing the knives and the chopping board and watch a couple walking along the beach, their faces turned up to enjoy the last of the day’s sunshine.

The phone rings. I dry my hands and lift the receiver. ‘Hello,’ I say.

‘Grace?’

I don’t reply. I feel like I recognise the voice but at the same time, I don’t. There’s a tingling under my scalp and it spreads to my face. With my free hand I rub my cheeks.

‘Grace?’

Still I don’t reply. This time because I know who it is.

‘It’s me. Orla,’ she says.

I put down the phone, return to the sink and lift the knives, washing and drying each one slowly and meticulously before putting it back in the knife rack. I rinse the spaghetti, toss it in oil and cover it with a lid then bend down and open the oven door. The juice from the berries has bubbled up through the crumble, running scarlet rivers over the topping. I turn off the oven and walk to the downstairs bathroom. I lock the door behind me and vomit so violently and repeatedly that I taste blood on my tongue.

The front door opens then slams shut. ‘Mum?’ I hear Daisy drop her school bag in the hallway and walk towards the kitchen. ‘Mum?’

‘I’m in here.’ My voice wavers and I clear my throat. ‘Give me a minute.’ I splash my face in the sink and look at myself in the mirror. My eyes stare back at me, my pupils huge and fixed. My face is colourless and there is a relentless drumming inside my skull. I swallow two Ibuprofen with a handful of water and count slowly, from one to ten, before I open the door. Daisy is sitting on the bottom stair with our dog Murphy’s head on her knee. She’s crooning to him and rubbing the backs of his ears. His breathing slows and he gives a low, contented growl.

‘How was school?’ I ask.

Daisy looks up at me. ‘You look hellish. Is it a migraine?’

‘Must be.’ I try to smile but my head hurts too much. ‘Where’s Ella?’

‘Walking back with Jamie.’ She rolls her eyes, stands up and kicks off her shoes. ‘I don’t know what she sees in him. What’s for tea?’

‘Spaghetti bolognese and fruit crumble.’ The thought of food makes me want to be sick again. I distract myself by bending down to put her shoes in the rack then think better of it when the drummer in my head plays a five-stroke roll against my temples. I lean into the wall and try to calm myself but when the drumming stops I hear her voice:
It’s me. Orla
.

I follow Daisy into the kitchen where she’s taking a spoonful of sauce from the pot. ‘It’s good!’ She smiles at me, reaches forward and kisses my cheek then wraps her arms round my shoulders. She’s a couple of inches taller than me now and it makes me feel humbled, like somewhere along the way she became the adult and me the child. ‘Why don’t you have a lie down, Mum? Tea can wait.’

‘I think I’ll be okay. I’ve taken some painkillers. They should kick in soon.’

‘If you’re sure.’ She rubs my back. ‘I’ll go and change.’

I tilt my head and give her what she calls my Oh-Daisy smile. Her shirt hangs out over her skirt, her tie is skew-whiff and her tights have a hole in them. The cuffs of her almost new sweater are already beginning to fray.

‘I don’t do uniforms,’ she tells me, her cheeks dimpling.

I run my hand through her cropped hair and she leans against it for a moment before I gently push her away. ‘Go on then. Back into the combats.’

She leaves the room, calling to Murphy who pads along beside her, his tail thumping the air. I sit on a chair and try to think of nothing and no one. All I’m aware of is my breathing and I hold my hand over my chest, counting each breath as it first fills and then empties my lungs.

By the time Paul’s car tyres crunch over the gravel on the driveway, I feel almost calm again. His door clunks shut and I hear the muffled sound of his voice and then Ella’s in reply. When they come through the front door, Ella is half talking, half laughing. ‘I didn’t mean it like
that
, Dad!’ she says. ‘It’s a play on words like two martyrs soup, tomato soup.’

Paul laughs. ‘Don’t tell me one of my daughters is developing a sense of irony. Whatever next!’

They come into the room; Ella is hanging on his arm. Paul bends to kiss me. ‘Darling, are you okay?’ He runs a hand over my cheek.

‘I’m fine.’ I stand up and rest my head against his neck. Immediately, tears flood the back of my eyes and I pull away. ‘How was your day?’

‘Usual procrastination at the departmental meeting but otherwise—’ He stops talking. He is watching me. I’m making tidy piles of the letters and bills that are on the sideboard. He pulls me back towards him. ‘Grace, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?’