Wreck

by Fleur Ferris

  About the Book

  Tamara Bennett is going to be the first journalist to strictly report only good news. Finished with high school, Tamara is ready to say goodbye to her sleepy little town and part-time job at the local paper.

  But things take an unexpected turn when Tamara arrives home to find her house ransacked and her life in danger. What is the mysterious note her attacker wants –and why is he willing to kill for it?

  A tragic boating accident five years ago holds the clue that could keep Tamara alive. But how can she find the truth when she can’t tell who’s lying?

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE: TAMARA

  CHAPTER TWO: WILLIAM, FIVE YEARS AGO

  CHAPTER THREE: TAMARA

  CHAPTER FOUR: WILLIAM, FIVE YEARS AGO

  CHAPTER FIVE: TAMARA

  CHAPTER SIX: WILLIAM, FIVE YEARS AGO

  CHAPTER SEVEN: TAMARA

  CHAPTER EIGHT: WILLIAM, FIVE YEARS AGO

  CHAPTER NINE: TAMARA

  CHAPTER TEN: WILLIAM, FIVE YEARS AGO

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: TAMARA

  CHAPTER TWELVE: WILLIAM, FIVE YEARS AGO

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TAMARA

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: WILLIAM, FIVE YEARS AGO

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: TAMARA

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: WILLIAM, FIVE YEARS AGO

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: TAMARA

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: TAMARA

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: TAMARA

  CHAPTER TWENTY: TAMARA

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY FLEUR FERRIS

  RISK

  BLACK

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  For David, Zoe, Tia and Eve

  Tomorrow morning, at ten thirty-two, my train will pull away from the station and take me to my exciting new city-dwelling grown-up life. This chapter of my existence will be called ‘Deliriously happy university student’. The chapter after that will be called ‘Journalist changes the world one good-news story at a time’. I am going to be the first journalist, probably on the planet, who strictly reports good news. By spreading stories of triumph and happy endings, I will inspire and change the world. I will have my own TV show so people can tune in to escape the bad. I might even cause world peace. A girl can dream, right?

  ‘This is Tamara Bennett, with only good news.’ I say it out loud as I stop my parents’ car just short of the garage. It’s almost midnight, but I’m not tired. I probably won’t sleep a wink. Tonight at the airport I cried saying goodbye to my parents. I always thought they’d be there the day I moved out of home; Dad carrying my suitcase, photographing me in front of student res, and Mum hugging me with tears of pride in her eyes. But now, home alone, bags packed and by the door – doing it on my own somehow seems better. It makes me feel more grown up.

  My phone rings. It’s Relle. She’s already at uni. I pick up straight away. ‘Hey, how’s it all going?’

  ‘Hi Tam, it’s awesome, so many fantastic people. I’ve already made heaps of new friends. Cute guys too. You need to get here!’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I just got back from the airport, but I’ll be there before lunch tomorrow. Do you need anything from home?’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling, actually. Mum’s going to put a bag in your mailbox on her way to work early tomorrow morning. Could you bring it? It’s dress-up stuff for a party on Friday night.’

  ‘Sure. What’s the theme?’

  ‘Superhero. You’ll be able to show everyone your Captain Safety moves.’

  We burst out laughing. When I was doing year twelve, Mum and Dad had suggested I attend self-defence classes because I’d be moving into the city for uni. I’d rolled my eyes, but decided to give it a go anyway, and absolutely loved it. I tried to teach Relle everything I knew in case she was ever attacked, only she was the worst student imaginable. She would scream and yell and thrash and play dead until we fell on the ground in hysterics.

  ‘My tactical defence pen is in position as we speak,’ I say. Relle loves me playing along with this. My classes entertained her for months. For Christmas, as a joke, she even gave me a tactical pen she found online. Of course, she knows I don’t really carry it. ‘So it’s really better than we imagined?’

  ‘I can’t even explain. So much better.’

  Excitement builds inside me. ‘I can’t wait to get there.’

  ‘Well, bloody hurry up! You should have driven straight from the airport.’

  ‘Yeah, right. There was never any chance of Mum and Dad letting me have their car in Melbourne while they’re away.’

  ‘I guess you don’t need it once you’re here. And you’d have to find somewhere to park it, so it’s probably best.’

  ‘True. Well, I’m still sitting in my driveway so I’m going to go.’

  ‘Okay, I’ve got to go too. A girl at the end of the hall has invited me to her room for a little party. The rooms are tiny, so it really will be very little,’ Relle says.

  I glance at the time. Midnight. ‘Okay, have fun. See you tomorrow.’

  Hooking my finger through the keyring, I twirl my house keys as I walk up the driveway. I spring up the two small steps and unlock and open the front door in one fluid movement. This house is a part of me. I’ve lived here my entire eighteen years of life and have such happy memories. I’ll be sad when the door closes behind me tomorrow morning. I flick on the light.

  Clothes from the suitcase I’d left packed and ready to go are strewn across the living room floor. The drawers beneath the TV hang open, contents spewing out. Mum’s new fluffy cushions are gutted, stuffing everywhere. The couch has been pulled apart. It takes my brain a few seconds to take in the scene, to make sense of the visual cues, but my heart already knows. It bangs hard in my chest well before my brain clears its confusion and a loud gasp escapes my throat.

  I need the police.

  I reach into my bag for my phone.

  Someone grabs the back of my neck and squeezes tight, their leather glove cool against my skin. The shock of it freezes me to the spot.

  ‘Don’t move.’

  The voice is deep and gruff. I do as he says. Hard metal presses against the side of my head. The coldness of it through my hair is enough to cause pain, a strange, penetrating ache. I can’t breathe, I can’t speak, I can’t move. Panic incapacitates me. I always thought I’d have a chance against an attacker. I did so well in my self-defence course and know how to fight enough to get away. But I never accounted for debilitating fear.

  The man’s grip crushes my neck like a vice. His gun – I assume it’s a gun – is hard against my head. I squeeze my eyes shut, wait for the explosion, picturing my skull splintering into a million pieces.

  ‘I want the note.’ He spits the words like I’m the intruder, like I’ve stolen something from him.

  I open my eyes.

  The note, the note … I can’t think.

  I don’t know what he’s talking about. He must have me mixed up with someone else. If I had his note I would give it to him, even if he wasn’t going to put a bullet into my brain.

  With my bag still in one hand, I slowly move my arms out to the sides to show I surrender.

  He loosens his grip on my neck. Perhaps he has mistaken my gesture as an answer to his question. I hope he doesn’t think the note is in my bag. It’s not. I don’t have his note. What will he do when he can’t find it … When he thinks I tried to trick him? Questions fire through my mind, too fast for any answers. Will he keep me alive? Will he kill me as soon as he realises there’s nothing interesting in my bag? Will he torture me because he thinks I have it? My self-defence instructor said if I was ever attacked I should do whatever it takes to avoid being taken to
a secondary location, but do I fight when he has a gun? If I run, will he shoot me in the back? Oh God, I don’t know what to do.

  The gun pulls away from my head as his focus shifts to my bag. I probably have less than a second to try something. Anything.

  Clenching my fist around the strap, I spin with as much force as I can muster, whipping my bag at him like we did in the self-defence class. The bag connects with his jaw, takes him by surprise and he staggers back one step.

  I run.

  I sprint down the hall and, expecting gunfire, take the first door. It’s the bathroom. It’s good because the door has a lock, but bad because the window is high and small.

  I stand on the edge of the bath and reach up to the window. My breath comes in ragged sobs when I realise my mistake.

  The doorknob rattles behind me.

  I open the window. There’s no way I’ll fit through. The window has two sides; one opens and the other is immovable frosted glass. I’d have to smash both and remove the metal divider to make it big enough. I’ll never be able to do that. I can’t get out. I’m trapped.

  I jump down and open a cupboard, looking for something to smash the window with. I grab a deodorant bottle and fly back up to the window.

  The bathroom door thuds hard. Bang, bang, bang. The lock is never going to hold.

  I pound the metal bottle against the glass. It’s too high for me to apply much strength. It doesn’t break. I hit it again. Then again and again and again in desperation. Small cries reach my throat, but I hold them in.

  The door shudders back and forth.

  He’s coming in. I need a weapon. Frantically, I search the room. There’s nothing heavy or sharp or long or jagged. In my bedroom there’s a softball bat, a hockey stick and a large window to escape through. In the kitchen there are knives, chunky cutting blocks and a heavy mortar and pestle, and all other rooms in the house have windows or doors to escape through. I’m angry at myself for running into the bathroom, trapping myself with nothing but fluffy towels. Then I see a can of air freshener that perhaps I could use to spray in his eyes. I snatch it up, then also grab the hair dryer. It’s a pathetic weapon, but at least the plastic is hard. With a weapon in each hand, I press my back against the wall beside the door, ready to attack if he comes in.

  There’s scuffling outside the door. Then a heavy thud that shakes the house. The dull thwack of a fist hitting flesh and then a deep guttural groan. Are there two men out there? I gasp at the thought. The door has stopped rattling, so I place my hand on the handle. If they are fighting each other, I could make a run for it. Panic grips me and I pause. I let go of the handle, too terrified to make my move. Tears wash over my eyes so I stop, close them and concentrate on breathing for a moment. Slow breaths, in and out. If I stay in here I will die. If I open the door I have a chance of getting away.

  I drop and try to peek under the door. It’s clear. The sound of the men fighting is further down the hall, towards the lounge room. Opening this door right now is my only chance.

  The doorknob is cool against my trembling fingers. I psych myself into it. It will work, I will get away, I will live. I press my finger against the button so the lock doesn’t make a loud click with the turn of the handle. I twist the doorknob, keeping pressure against the door so it stays shut, then swing it open and run without looking back. My bedroom door is open. The floor is covered with my belongings. I slam the door and run for the window. I don’t want to waste time going to my cupboard for weapons. The window is right there and escaping through it is my best chance. I’m fit and fast. If I can just get out I know I can get away.

  The door flies open behind me.

  I shove the window back and push on the fly screen. It doesn’t budge. I lean on it so hard the mesh pulls away from the frame. It’s enough, I will get through. But then hands are on me, pulling me back. Fury at being so close to getting away then captured surges through me. A scream comes from deep inside me and with it comes fight. I push back off the window frame as hard as I can. The sudden change of direction makes my attacker lose his balance and after a few uncontrolled steps backwards he trips and goes over, taking me down with him. I spring off him to my feet. He comes after me, but now there is space between us. Desperate, crazy, I kick out and punch. This is how I imagined it would be from the start. Me attacking back with a vengeance, fighting fiercely for my life.

  My foot connects with his hip and my fist with his eye.

  ‘Argh! Stop,’ he says. ‘I’m here to save you.’

  I can tell it’s a different voice to the first, but I don’t believe him. I kick him again, right between his legs. He doubles over and groans.

  I shove him as hard as I can and go for the window. Just as I’m about to let go of the frame, my doona blankets my head. I’m thrust into darkness. Strong arms pull me back into my room and wrap something tight around my body, pinning the bedcover over my arms. I’m pushed to the floor and something is tied around my legs. Then my attacker drags me to the window and holds me against the frame while he climbs out. He pulls me through after him and carries me on his shoulder to the road. He opens a car door and throws me onto the back seat. A second later he’s in the driver’s seat, the engine hums to life and the wheels screech as we speed away.

  My breath is hot underneath the doona and I can’t slow it down. I rock around with the movement of the car. I thrash, and writhe, and bang my head against the seat, trying to loosen something. The panic is back and sobs rise in my chest. I don’t want to die.

  ‘As soon as it’s safe to stop, I’ll get that doona off your head,’ the man says.

  I stop thrashing and listen hard in case he says something else. As soon as it’s safe? I’m not sure if I heard him right. Safe from what? Or who? He said he was saving me, but with my head covered and my arms and legs bound, I don’t feel any safer now than I did with the gun pressed against my skull.

  As we turn a corner my head presses hard into the door and I can’t stop myself from being thrown around with the movement of the car. If we crash while I’m like this, restrained yet unrestrained, I could die. Given my situation, I wonder if I will die anyway. How much time do I have left?

  Tears flood my face as I think how unfair this is. My new life was starting tomorrow. My perfect, lovely happiness that I had planned, worked hard for and celebrated.

  I should have never agreed to that extra week at the paper. I’d have been at uni already, with Relle in some little room having a party.

  Where is this guy taking me?

  No one will know to look for me.

  No one will know I’m missing.

  My parents will call when they arrive in London, but if I don’t answer they’ll just think I’m out having fun. Even if they are worried, what can they do from the other side of the world? My last article at the paper is in so Darryl won’t be chasing me for anything. My neighbours knew I was going to uni – they’ll think I’ve gone without saying goodbye. My friends have dispersed in all different directions, travelling, working, at different universities, starting their new adventures … Will Relle look for me if I don’t turn up by lunchtime? She probably will, but tomorrow might be too late. I may already have seen everyone I care about for the last time. This may be the only time in my whole eighteen years of life that my disappearance could actually go unnoticed. I am totally alone. No one can help me. A sinking feeling of doom overwhelms me and more tears come. Then I force my mind back to the situation I’m in. I cannot let fear take hold of me like it did at the house. I need to think this through.

  The note.

  The note, the note, the note …

  I cast my mind back to the last few days. Nothing in the mailbox except the usual bills and catalogues. Maybe the note came from work. We reported on old Mrs Basil receiving a card from the Queen for her one hundredth birthday, but I’m certain that wouldn’t be it. My last article did involve a note, I realise. A message … It couldn’t possibly be that, though. I found it among rubbish, in
a bottle, floating in the sea, and Darryl was handing it to the police. It has to be something else. Or it must be a mix-up. A mistaken identity thing. I’m not sure if that would be a good thing or a bad thing for me. Will they kill me anyway, now that they have me, even though I know nothing about their note?

  I haven’t got time to ponder it now. I have to free my arms. I have to be ready to fight and get away.

  I take a deep breath and edge my legs forward until they fall to the floor. Then I try to use their weight to help me sit up. As we turn again, my body presses back down against the seat and I slide into the door with a solid thud. A muffled groan escapes me.

  ‘Sorry. So so so sorry. I know you must be terrified. Please stay down for a bit longer, until I’m sure we’re not being followed. I’ll pull over as soon as it’s safe.’

  I keep quiet, too confused and scared to talk, terrified I’ll say something that provokes him to hurt me.

  The car speeds up and the road is straight and smooth with no stopping and starting, like we’re out of town and on the highway. Before long there’s the k’tonk, k’tonk, k’tonk sound of crossing Maples Bridge. It’s where the river meets the ocean and is the only bridge into town that sounds like that. I know exactly where we are and which way we are headed. There’s a roundabout on the other side of the bridge. Sure enough, we slow and veer left. We’re heading towards the city. Knowing where I am gives me hope that I might get away if I get a chance.

  I do have a chance. I have a chance, I have a chance, I have a chance.

  Heaps of people escape their captors, don’t they? There were those three American girls who made big international news when they were rescued – but that was after being held captive for ten years. I try not to think about those poor girls. My mind goes blank, and I can’t think of any cases where girls have been abducted and then escaped unharmed. But I’m sure there are loads, I just can’t think of them. Then I remember: Joanne Lees was one. She got away.