Run Away (2 page)

Chapter 2

June 17, Thailand

“Y
OU ARE THE
island and the traffic is the stream. Let it move around you.”

Kayla rubbed her eyes, partly to remove any traces of sleep that might be nestled in the corners, and partly in an attempt to relieve the stinging sensation caused by the cloud of smog hovering over Bangkok. There seemed to be more cars, scooters, and motorbikes than there were ­people, weaving through the nonexistent lanes in a manic frenzy. Noting the bashed-­up hoods and dented doors, she wasn’t sure she trusted Chanarong, their native tour guide, and his advice on road safety.

Angry car horns blared in Kayla’s ears. The swarms of pedestrians spilled off the packed pavements and onto the roads like ants, with no regard for the havoc they were causing the flow of traffic. But the buzz was infectious. The air was alive with the jovial sounds of old friends greeting each other, authentic Thai music jingling from stallholders’ radios, and street carts flogging their spicy, fragrant-­smelling fare to passersby.

Their English rep, Oliver, was still asleep at the front of the coach. He’d spent the entire journey in silence, hiding behind mirrored aviators with the pained expression of someone who was trying desperately hard not to be sick in their own mouth. Nursing a hangover, Kayla suspected. She’d heard that Khao San Road, the location of their first hostel, was a notorious party street, bustling with backpackers from around the globe. She couldn’t wait.

If I can cope with partying in this heat, that is
. She twirled her long, chocolate-­brown hair deftly in her fingertips and fixed it in a messy bun on the top of her head. The whisper of a breeze on the back of her neck provided some relief, however subtle. She nudged the petite Asian girl next to her. She had a delicate face, caterpillar eyebrows, and skin like a porcelain doll. “I can’t believe we’re finally here. Are you as excited as I am?”

Zhang Qiang—­a name Chanarong had clumsily mispronounced when taking the school-­style register outside Bangkok International Airport—­looked unfamiliar with the concept of communication. “Oh, erm, yes, very excited.” She quickly buried her bespectacled face into a guidebook. 
Charming
.

Someone behind Kayla tapped her right shoulder. She swiveled around to see a broad, towering figure—­the lagger who’d held them up at the airport. He’d taken over an hour to get through customs. When he’d finally clambered onto the bus, he’d been met with countless sighs of impatience from his fellow ravelers. She’d almost felt sorry for him, with his bashful demeanor and apologetic half smile. Almost. “Yes?”

“On a scale of one to Saddam Hussein,” he asked, “how much does everyone hate me?”

She stifled a laugh, fixing an expression of deep consideration on her face. “I’d say Osama Bin Laden. At least.”

“Crikey. How do you think I can swing the trial for heinous hate crime in my favor? Reckon a round of Jägerbombs would do it?”

“Possibly. You’d have a better shot if you threw in some pizza. We might’ve had time to eat by now if you hadn’t taken three decades to navigate airport security.”

“Oops, sorry about that. I’m Sam.” He extended a tennis-­racket-­sized hand to shake.

“Kayla. A handshake? Very formal.” She shook his hand, cringing about how sweaty hers was.

“What can I say? I’m a true gentleman. I give blood and tell my mother I love her on a daily basis.” Sam smiled. The papery skin around his eyes crinkled and a slight dimple appeared in his right cheek.

Praise the Lord, this one has a sense of humor
. He wasn’t bad-­looking either, though not conventionally handsome. He was extremely tall, possibly around six-­foot-­five, and very broad. She’d overheard two posh guys on the bus ask him if he was a fellow rugby player. He must be, with his huge frame and crooked nose. “Nah,” Sam had replied. “I have the athletic capacity of a concussed slug.”

“So wh—­” Sam was cut off as Chanarong began announcing who’d be sharing rooms with who. “I bet I’m with those private schoolboys. I bet you anything.”

Chanarong was mid-­flow, and Kayla had missed who she’d be sharing with. She struggled to hear him over the noise on the street. “All of the boys will be together, so that’s Ralph, Thomas, Daivat, Sam, Evan, and your English rep, Oliver.” An eye-­roll from Sam. “I’ll be making some occasional appearances, usually on your day trips, and in the meantime, you’ll be left in the, erm . . . capable hands of Oliver. If he ever wakes up.” He laughed.

“I feel like we’re on a school trip,” Kayla said, turning to Sam, who was fiddling with the straps on his backpack. Despite his size, he looked awkward and uncomfortable with the huge contraption on his back. “Have you ever done anything like this before? Or even, I don’t know, left the house?”

“Nope. First time. The sun is quite amazing,” Sam retorted. Kayla grinned. Some ­people thought sarcasm was the lowest form of wit, but she was not one of them. Laughter, or something similar, fluttered in her belly. “Kidding, obviously. No, I’m not exactly the outdoorsy type. More of a textbooks sort of guy. Have you?”

“Nah, but I’ve always loved the idea of traveling. Before I booked this trip, I used to spend my days almost booking flights, reading travel blogs, researching the best hostels, that kind of thing. It’s a bit surreal that I’m actually doing it.” She stopped talking as a short, bosomy blonde sauntered up to them. A flash of frustration caught her off-­guard—­she wanted to keep chatting to Sam.

“Hi! I’m Minya. Looks like we’re roomies. You’re Kayla, right?” Minya was, Kayla had to admit, insanely attractive, with full cheeks, a big smile, and even bigger eyes. They were characteristics that, however jealousy-­inducing, were completely unintimidating. You knew instinctively you’d like her.

“Yep, that’s me,” Kayla replied.

Minya sighed. “Cool. God, I can’t wait for a vodka.” Almost as means of explanation, she continued, “I’m Russian, what can I say?”

I like her already, Kayla thought.

“S
H
A
L
L
W
E
M
E
E
T
up with the others in that bar next door? I think we should all buy outfits to wear from one of those little stalls on the street. Just for a laugh?” Minya hadn’t stopped talking since they’d reached the sweltering cell of a bedroom. If awkward silence had ever been a fear of Kayla’s, it wasn’t now.

A girl named Ai Ling was delicately sifting through the meticulously folded contents of her backpack. She hadn’t said a word to any of them, and was visibly disgusted by her surroundings.

Meanwhile, Francesca, a posh brunette whose hair was so glossy it belonged on a shampoo commercial, seemed to be embracing the grubby mattresses, cardboard walls, and completely alien vibe more wholeheartedly than any of them. “Hey Russia—­can I call you Russia?—­may I borrow some of that deodorant?” she said. “Mine was confiscated at airport security. I smell like a badger’s ass.”

“Of course. You do smell awful.” The newly dubbed Russia threw the roll-­on across the room, narrowing missing Ai Ling’s head.

“Oh, you bitch!” Francesca cackled a deep, throaty laugh. “Thanks babe, you’re a doll. Bling, do you want some? You aren’t smelling too fresh either.”

“My name is Ai Ling. And no, thank you.”

“Oh come on, I was kidding! You smell like a bed of daisies. Or roses. Whatever. Are you coming out tonight?”

“I’m not sure. I’m pretty tired. I might just get some sleep.”

“Some 
sleep
?” Francesca seemed personally offended, smearing the mascara she was lathering onto her eyelashes all over her eyelids. She gaped at Ai Ling. “No! It’s our first night, you have to come out. Do some bonding and all that jazz. Please, Bling!”

“It’s Ai Ling. I might come out for a bit.” Ai Ling was very pretty, and obviously of mixed ethnicity. Her small nose and cheeks were dusted with freckles, and her almond-­shaped eyes were dark and framed with immaculately groomed eyebrows. She was perched on the edge of her bed, trying to connect to the hostel’s ropey WiFi. Kayla shook her head.
Who comes away on the trip of a lifetime just to stay in the hostel and browse Facebook?

“Leave her alone, guys,” Kayla said. “She doesn’t have to come out if she doesn’t want to.” Russia pulled a face and disappeared into the bathroom.

“No, I mean, no, it’s fine, I will come out. It’s fine.” Ai Ling feigned bravery and plastered an unconvincing smile on her face.

Francesca had already lost interest in the Bling saga and was hastily stuffing her cosmetics case back into her rucksack. “Fuck it, I can’t be bothered with makeup. It’s just going to sweat off me anyway. Might as well accept that I’ll be spending this whole trip ugly. Right, I need a cigarette and some booze. When Russia’s finished shitting, shall we go?”

T
H
E
S
U
N
H
A
D
only just set, but Khao San Road was already thriving. Backpackers and travelers, locals and workers, bustled around the suspiciously discounted “designer” clothing stalls, the pavement bars and cafés pouring onto the road, and the myriad markets and minimalls. A part of Rattanakosin, one of Bangkok’s oldest districts, Khao San was dotted with old shop houses and intricate temples, though exploring the region’s heritage wasn’t at the top of the evening’s agenda.

An interesting assortment of the Escaping Grey party were sitting around a table in the aptly named Streetside Bar. The other girls had decided, as Ai Ling almost did, to sleep off their jet lag. Oliver, the utterly useless guide, was nowhere to be seen. The rest were all thirstily drinking cool pints of Chang beer. Well, all except Francesca, who had announced, “I only drink water and wine. I’m like Jesus.”

They’d all laughed, and Ralph countered, “I’m the opposite. I’ll put anything in my mouth.”

“I’d be careful about shouting that in the middle of the street, mate,” Sam said.

“Ha! Yes! ­People might think you mean penis!” said a scrawny Indian guy whose eyes were already glossed over after half a pint of beer.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” Russia asked him.

“Daivat. Daivat Singh.” He picked up her hand and planted a slobbery kiss right in the center. Russia looked baffled, but not as disgusted as one might expect.

“Basically, he’s called David Smith. We’ve taken to calling him Dave,” Ralph’s wingman Thomas added, as if “Dave” wasn’t sitting right next to him. Ralph and Thomas might as well have been twins, only with different hair colors. They both had tans, deliberately messy hair—­Ralph’s dirty blond, Thomas’s vivid ginger—­and were wearing Abercrombie & Fitch polo shirts and chino shorts.

“Dave! I love being Dave. I should probably be angry that you’re trying to Westernize me or something. I can’t work out if it’s racist or not. But I love it. Dave!” He raised his glass skyward, toasting his new name, and downed the rest of his pint in one go. “Who wants another drink?”

“Yeah, all right, then. This could get messy,” Russia said, following Dave’s lead and polishing off her beverage. “I’ll come with you to the bar.”

Two hours later Russia’s prophecy had been fulfilled. They had relocated to Gazebo, a bustling rooftop bar just down the road, and were borderline hysterical when a man in a fez greeted them at the door. Several of them had dropped off—­Bling left in search of some food, while Ralph, Thomas and Francesca all drank themselves into oblivion and staggered back to the hostel. Russia was grinding against Dave on the packed dance floor as he clutched a bottle of beer in each hand, alternating sips from the two straws in time to the gangsteresque music.

Sam and Kayla were slumped in one of the black leather booths, pretending to be able to hear each other over the pounding bass.

“I can’t feel my face,” Kayla giggled.

“What?”

“I can’t feel my face!”

“What?”

“I SAID, I CAN’T FEEL MY FACE!”

“All right, no need to shout.” Sam grinned. “It’s a very nice face, if that’s any consolation. Congratulations on that.”

“What?”

“CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR FACE!”

And so the stilted conversation continued, until Bling came storming across to them, donning a much more stained dress than she had when she left. The skintight, red number was now adorned with a chow mein collage. “Some wanker threw noodles at me!”

Kayla couldn’t help but laugh. “What? Why? Where? You have a chunk of vegetable on your left boob.”

“At the flipping noodle stand, where do you think? It’s not funny. Ugh, I didn’t even get anything to eat. I hate Thailand. I hate Bangkok. I hate drunk ­people.”

“Just suck on your dress if you’re hungry, it’ll taste like soy sauce,” Sam suggested helpfully.

“What, just because I’m Asian you think I’m bound to like soy-­fucking-­sauce?”

“Well, no, but you do have it spilt over ninety-­eight percent of your dress. Which is lovely by the way. Very pretty.” Sam tried to fix a concerned expression on his face, but his alcohol-­slackened muscles failed to cooperate.

Bling scoffed and turned on her heel, storming away toward the hostel.

“And the events we have just witnessed shall henceforth be known as the Noodlegate Scandal,” Sam said earnestly.

“Are we sure what just happened was actually about noodles? The music is insanely loud. We must have misheard. Who gets that worked up over 
noodles
?”

“WHAT?”

“Never mind,” Kayla said, holding Sam’s gaze for a fraction of a second too long.

She smiled without even realizing she had, and looked away quickly.

This wasn’t part of the plan
.

Chapter 3

June 24, England

W
ALKING OUT OF
Newcastle International Airport’s revolving doors, the rain soaked through Kayla’s T-­shirt in an instant. Everywhere she looked it was gray: gray skies, gray cars, gray roads.

What was that literary device her old English teacher used to bang on about? Pathetic fallacy? Appropriate. The headlights of cars were blurry round the edges as the drizzle-­mist hybrid enveloped the car parks. The air was warm and wet—­if she closed her eyes, she could easily still be in Thailand, embracing the upcoming monsoon season. But she’d never be able to return to Thailand. Not now.

After much investigation, the police had concluded that Sam’s disappearance was linked to the drug debt he’d accumulated. Kayla had insisted this didn’t make sense. Sam hated drugs.

But the police had found fairly damning evidence to suggest otherwise. In Sam’s backpack, they uncovered a small bag of MDMA, traces of marijuana, and his wallet, which contained several tightly rolled banknotes and a credit card laced with particles of impure cocaine. A search of his mobile phone showed that Sam had been in contact with several well-­known drug dealers in Phuket.

Whenever Kayla tried to make sense of any of it, her head spun. She’d never seen Sam completely out of it. He always stopped drinking early for fear of losing control. Why would he seek out drug dealers in a new city, acquire a range of illegal substances without paying for them, then snort, smoke, and swallow them in private? It didn’t fit, but there was fairly conclusive evidence to the contrary.

Once the Thais had labeled it as “Self-­entitled Westerner goes on a bender and gets himself in a spot of bother,” they’d rapidly lost interest, and let Kayla catch the next plane back to England. They said the British police would be in touch if they needed anything more from her, but because she wasn’t being charged with anything, she was free to go. She was too shell-­shocked to be relieved.

She spotted her parents’ Range Rover parked in the drop-­off zone. She stopped and took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the onslaught of concern from her mother and up-­by-­the-­bootstraps bravado from her dad. God, she’d love a cigarette right now. But her parents didn’t know she smoked—­that was just one of the many secrets she’d kept from them over the last six months. Sam, by contrast, had known everything. Both good and otherwise.

“Sweetheart! Oh Kay, come here.” Martha Finch sprinted across the zebra crossing to embrace her only living child, enveloping her in a cloud of musky perfume and the vague scent of last night’s whiskey. Straight, no ice.

“Hi, Mum.”

“Are you okay? Oh, what am I saying, of course you’re not. Gosh, you look awful. Have you slept since—­you know . . .” Martha’s eyebrows were tilted upward in the center like a sad-­face emoticon. The damp fur on her coat felt like a dead animal against Kayla’s face.

“Yes, Mum. I’ve been sleeping like a baby. Not a care in the world!” Kayla tried to bite back the sarcasm, but it spilled out before she could stop it. Even when she was on the verge of tears, she couldn’t help but make jokes. She sniffed like a toddler, wiping her nose on her soggy sleeve.

“Of course you haven’t. I am so sorry, my love, I really am. Come on, let’s get you home. I’ll make you a nice mug of hot cocoa. I’ll even put marshmallows and whipped cream on, just how you like it. I went to Sainsbury’s especially.”

Martha had been a beautiful woman not too long ago. But gone were the weekly blow-­dries, shiny manicures, and immaculate clothes—­a long battle with alcoholism and the death of her young son had taken its toll on her appearance. Now, standing in the middle of a road and trying to comfort her bereaved daughter, she looked twenty years older. “We’re just grateful it wasn’t you, sweetheart. What would we do without you?”

Kayla wanted to chastise her mother for being so inconsiderate, for wishing that kind of pain on another family, but she was too exhausted. It had been a long flight. Well, a long six months. She dragged her feet along the pavement and slung her rucksack into the trunk of the car.

“All right, kiddo. Nice to see you back on home turf,” Kayla’s dad, Mark, greeted her on the pavement. He also looked older, more world-­weary, than the last time she’d seen him. “How you holding up?”

“I’ve been better.” She hugged him quickly—­and awkwardly—­then climbed into the backseat of the car, her wet hair dripping onto the leather seats. It took three attempts to shut the door behind her. She felt weak with exhaustion.

“I get that, Kayls. I do. I’m just glad you’re home in one piece. What happened to Sam . . . it’s a tragedy. To be honest, when you left, we were terrified something similar was going to happen to you. You were in a fragile place, emotionally, and in a dangerous country. Frankly, we’re just glad—­”

“Yes, Dad. I get it.” Kayla turned to face the window, dodging the concerned stares in her direction through the rearview mirror. “Glad it wasn’t me.”

I wish I could say the same
.

B
E
R
R
Y
H
I
L
L
H
O
U
S
E
seemed bigger than when she’d left. Perhaps it was because she’d become used to mattress-­in-­a-­box style hostel rooms, or maybe because everything seemed distorted and alien to her. Like she was in a House of Mirrors, except it wasn’t her own reflection that was warped beyond recognition—­it was everything else. One thing remained the same, though. The door to her brother’s room was still locked. It always would be.

God, I miss Gabe
. Her little brother, wise beyond his years, would know exactly what to say. He’d know it hurt her to hear her family so relieved that someone else’s child had violently vanished. He’d talk to her for as long as she needed, and leave her alone when she needed space. He’d bring her hot cocoa just the way she liked it, but not in the patronizing, this-­will-­solve-­everything way that her mum would. God, she missed him.

She peeked into the guest bedroom next to hers. Her nan, Iris (though Kayla had never called her that), was towel-­drying her permed, silvery hair, humming a tune Kayla had never heard before. She longed to burst through the door and cuddle her. Kayla loved Nan’s hugs—­she wasn’t spidery and frail like a lot of old ladies, who felt like they’d shatter if you squeezed too hard. She baked cakes and drank sugary tea and served up hearty servings of mince and dumplings with complete disregard to the fat content. If Kayla cuddled her now, Nan would smell the same as she always had: burnt toast and lavender. The homeliest smell Kayla could imagine. Her nan’s scratchy jumper would tickle her nose as she rested her head on her shoulder.

She kept walking to her own room.

The conversation over dinner that night was among the most uncomfortable of Kayla’s life. Everyone was at a loss—­they knew they had to eat, and they knew they had to make an effort to stay together as a family, but all of them wished they were elsewhere. Kayla? Checking the news, trawling the Web, doing anything she could to keep Sam alive in her mind. Mark? Drinking in the golf clubhouse with his business partners. Martha? Just drinking, period.

Iris was their only conversational hope. “Was the weather nice on your holidays, Kayla?”

“It was boiling. I wouldn’t say nice, though. It felt like I was in a sauna most of the time.”

“I know what you mean,” Iris nodded. “It was like that when I went to Portugal last year.”

More silence.

“Did you make lots of nice friends?” Iris persevered.

“Well, yeah. We had a group of five of us that were really close. But then, you know . . .”

“Oh goodness, it’s so sad isn’t it. So sad.” Her Nan removed a congealed chunk of steak pie from her mouth—­her dentures couldn’t chew it adequately. They sounded loose when she chewed. “What was the food like over there? Spicy, I’d imagine. I can’t handle any of that Chinese food, personally. Far too hot. Give me a roast dinner any day.”

“I wasn’t in China, Nan. I was in Thailand.”

“Oh, it’s all the same to me, love. Can you pass the potatoes?”

Kayla wondered how she would survive the night, let alone the next few weeks.
I don’t even know how I’m going to survive tonight
, Kayla thought. 
Let alone the next few weeks
.  The tension was thick, like the cloud of smog hanging over Bangkok on that very first day. It seemed liked a lifetime ago that she’d stepped off that bus. That Sam had tapped on her shoulder . . .
No
. She forced the memory to the back of her mind, locking it away in a box marked “Sam.” She’d reopen it later, when she was alone.

“Kayla, honey, your father and I have been thinking,” Martha started, glancing at Mark for approval. He nodded. “We think you should see someone. You know, professionally.”

“But—­”

“No, please listen to what I have to say. Your father and I, well . . . we’d love to talk to you about all of this, and of course we will, sweetheart, whatever you need. But I know you often get frustrated when we aren’t on the same wavelength. It’s hard for us, love. We’re still grieving for your brother.” Martha’s eyes filled with tears, and she gulped down a large mouthful of sauvignon blanc. “It’s difficult for us to imagine coping with two deaths at once, like you are.”

In the movies when parents suggested therapy, it was standard procedure for the child to kick up a fuss, insist they were fine, run up to the bedroom and slam the door in protest. But it made sense to Kayla, as much as she hated to admit it. She felt a little relieved that she wouldn’t be spending all of her days in her bedroom, allowing toxic thoughts to manifest into rage, depression, or paranoia inside her head. She needed to let it out. She knew that. She wasn’t so blinded by grief that she could convince herself, or anyone else, otherwise. “Okay.”

Martha’s shoulders, which she hadn’t even realized were hunched in tension, visibly dropped. “Oh honey, thank you. Thank you for understanding. You’re such a great kid, you know . . .” More tears slid down her face, forming a river with the trickles of watery snot escaping from her nostrils. “W-­We’re going to get through this. As a family, and with a little outside help. I know a great lady called Cassie. Cassandra Myers. She helped me immensely, but it’s not just addiction she specializes in. She’s a wonderful grief counselor.”

“Thanks, Mum. And Dad. Is it okay if I finish my dinner in my room? I think I need to be alone for a while.”

Mark smiled gently. “Of course, sweetheart, whatever you need. You know where we are if you need anything.”

No sooner had she closed the bedroom door behind her, perching heavily on the edge of her four-­poster bed, did Kayla realize that needing to be “alone” was another one of those clichés that she was simply expected to spout. And, in reality, it wasn’t at all what she wanted or needed. She hadn’t been properly alone for months.

Alone wasn’t good.

Alone was absolutely terrifying.