Run Away

by Laura Salters

  “That makes no difference. Jesus Christ, the thought of his greasy hands all over you, his disgusting lips kissing yours, that’s vomit-­inducing enough. But to think it was forced . . .” He thumped his already fractured hand against the flimsy hostel wall, wincing on impact but too pumped with fury to acknowledge the pain. He was visibly shaking, his eyes narrowed. His black eye was swelling, framed by a perfectly straight cut that traced his brow bone.

  “Sam, what happened to your—­”

  “Sorry, Kayla, can’t chat. I have vermin to kill.” He pushed past her, through the doorway behind her, and stormed down the corridor, flip-­flops slapping against the linoleum floor. Kayla didn’t bother shouting after him. She’d never seen that look on his face before, and had a feeling it wasn’t one she wanted to mess with.

  If she didn’t detest Oliver with every fiber of her being, she might consider warning him.

  WAVING GOODBYE TO the vast majority of the ­people they’d spent the last two months with was a strange feeling. While some of them would not be missed—­Ralph’s obscene poshness and Xiang Qiang’s complete lack of personality hadn’t made them the most likable travel companions—­there were certain quirks and dramas that had provided endless entertainment, such as Francesca’s unique sense of humor (she was “grieving” on behalf of them all, wailing as she embraced Russia, Kayla, and Bling).

  There was a sense of uneasiness too, on account of the terrorist attacks over the last few weeks. Officials were still insisting it was perfectly safe to travel and that they had the situation under control, but Kayla, for one, was glad not to be traveling home today. And, for some reason, even more glad that Sam wasn’t. The thought of anything bad happening to him made her shudder. She absentmindedly drew a row of crosses in the dusty sand with the edge of her flip-­flop, the dried out weeds tickling the inside of her foot. Before Gabe died, she’d always thought tragedy would never happen to her. Now that it had, she felt personally targeted—­like a threat was around every corner. Waiting for the ­people she loved.

  She chanced a peek at Oliver. He was sitting in the front row of the bus, checking names off the list and ensuring everyone’s luggage was on board. Through the glaring, sun-­dappled glass windows, she couldn’t make out whether his face was beaten or if his expression showed he was hurt. She nudged Sam, who was standing next to her, trying to disguise the fact that he was breathless. “Sam? What happened? What did you do?”

  He offered a strained semismile. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I have every reason to worry about it,” Kayla hissed. “Anything you did, you did because of me.”

  “I said don’t worry about it, Kayla.” His voice was alarmingly neutral. He walked away toward Ralph to say goodbye—­an awkward pat on the back and “See y’later, mate” in a predictable display of testosterone.

  Case closed, then.

  Several farewells, baggage checks, and tearful waves later, the remaining group was finally alone. After watching the bus drive off down the dusty Thai road, a contemplative silence ensued. The realization that being on their own for the first time was scarier than they’d expected struck them all at once. Like birds flung prematurely from their nests, they blinked rapidly and looked around as if dazed by the sudden blinding freedom.

  “Right, then,” Bling said authoritatively to her four remaining comrades. Sam was staring at the ground. “Guess we better find somewhere to sleep tonight.”

  RATHER THAN STAYING in a place Kayla had tarnished with her paintbrush of emotional destruction, the fivesome decided to move on to Phuket. The heat had engulfed their desire to sightsee and explore—­relaxation and recovery were at the top of their agenda. Russia had insisted on a trip to Phang Nga Bay, and after one quick look at the relevant Lonely Planet pages, the group agreed that the sheer limestone karsts jutting vertically out of the emerald-­green water were worth making a detour for. Promising to visit the bay after they’d settled in, Bling worked her magic in a run-­down estate agency in Phuket Town and found them a relatively cheap, not-­overly-­dingy villa on the outskirts to rent for a month.

  The town itself was bursting with character. Sino-­Portuguese splendors and funky shops lined the heart of Phuket’s sleepy provincial capital. But despite its intrigue, Kayla was secretly pleased not to be staying in the center. She didn’t know whether she was just experiencing a paranoid come-­down, but the leers of local men sent invisible ants crawling up and down her goose-­pimpled skin. There was a vise grip on her guts, alleviated little by the pungent smell of warm fish flesh and moldy apples seeping into the air from the nearby market. She thought she might vomit.

  Why won’t that man stop staring at me? Kayla shakily smoothed down her wrinkled sundress and turned away from the fruit and vegetable stallholder who’d cocked his head and refused to break eye contact. And why is it so bloody hot? Her sweaty inner thighs were beginning to chafe. The rawness made every step burn. She squirmed uncomfortably, wishing their taxi would hurry up.

  An hour later they’d eventually made it to Villa Phleng Chat. It was a small bungalow with little in the way of modern amenities, painted in a palette of pretty pastel shades. Its exterior was a sky blue color, with a cobalt corrugated roof, window shutters, and front door. The small patch of backyard was overflowing with tropical plants that looked like they might bite your hand off if you dared pluck the flowers from the stems. A few hundred meters away was a vast, glistening lake surrounded by rolling hills and smatterings of leafy mango trees.

  The Lotus Agency, the villa specialists they’d rented the property from, had said the reason the bungalow was so cheap was because it was in an authentic residential area away from the tourist hot spots. This had sold it to the group—­the village was deserted in the middle of the day as the natives worked, and this, in turn, meant a capacious lake became their own private swimming pool.

  Russia, Dave, Bling, and Sam rushed excitedly around their new home like bluebottle flies buzzing frantically in a greenhouse. But Kayla stood back. She felt faint, as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks, and was growing tired of the tickling paranoia that sat on her shoulder, breathing coolly down her neck and whispering eerie messages in her ear. I’m watching you. Then, I will find you. Even worse, There’s nothing you can do to stop—­

  Russia grabbed Kayla by the waist. She flinched as if she’d been stung. She hadn’t even seen Russia approaching. Beads of sweat trickled down the sides of her forehead and dropped off her jawbone. Her friend looked at her quizzically, raising her eyebrows. Though their friendship had never been touchy-­feely, Russia clearly hadn’t expected her spontaneous hug to have such an ill effect on Kayla.

  “We’re just going to dump our bags in our rooms then head out to explore,” she said. “I can’t wait to skinny dip in that lake! Are you coming?”

  “I think I’m going to take a cold shower and lie down,” Kayla replied. Her own voice sounded miles away. “I don’t feel great.”

  “Yeah, you don’t look it either.” Russia smiled and squeezed her clammy hand. Kayla shivered. “Do you want me to get you anything? We’re going to stop by a supermarket to pick up some fridge supplies. You look like you could do with some soda?”

  “That’d be great, thank you.” Kayla could barely finish her sentence. It felt like too much energy—­energy she no longer had. She had a strong urge, an inescapable urge, to drop to her knees and sit on the floor in the exact spot she was standing. She mustered one last burst of animation and propelled her wobbly legs into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

  Steadying herself with both hands on each side of the small porcelain sink, Kayla retched, gagging on the musty air. She switched the shower on. Partially to allow it to run cold, and partially to disguise the sounds of her dry-­heaving into the washbasin.

  Once her stomach had rid itself of every last drop of nonexistent vomit, Kayla peeled her dress off and climbed into
the shower in her underwear. The water was warm—­not the icy-­cold stream her body, mind, and conscience had so intensely desired. It was a lukewarm trickle that did absolutely nothing to assuage her aching joints. She slid down and sat in the shower basin, the irregular jet of tepid water pounding her back in staccato bursts.

  For the first time since Gabe’s death, Kayla allowed herself to cry.

  GRIEF DIDN’T STAND a chance against the pounding dance music and the group of ladyboys parading in front of Soi Bangla’s moonlit bars in feathered, sequined outfits.

  “We have to watch the Moulin Rouge Cabaret Show later!” Bling yelled over the roaring bass line that was yet to drop. She was sucking her fluorescent straw furiously. Kayla stared at her feet.

  Picking up on the stilted conversation and awkward glances between Sam and Kayla, Russia gripped Dave’s hand and said, “Sounds good to me! Dave, let’s go and play giant Connect 4. Bling, you can take on the winner.”

  Bling looked reluctant to leave Sam and Kayla alone. “I’m okay, I don’t really fancy—­”

  “Bling. Now.” Russia hissed, shooting her a death stare. Bling meekly followed her and Dave into the crowd, leaving Sam shuffling his feet and staring around three feet to the left of Kayla’s shoulder.

  Kayla couldn’t bear awkward silence. The compulsion to fill it was often the cause of her verbal diarrhea. “I don’t usually like this kind of music, but it’s quite good to dance to, isn’t it?”

  Sam nodded. “Yeah. It’s good.”

  More silence. Kayla thought back to the very first night in Thailand, and how much had happened since then. They’d been so carefree, laughing and misunderstanding each other. It had been the first time she felt anything close to happy in a long time. And the night by the river . . . the contrast between that night and the present moment caused tears to prickle behind her eyes once again.

  Sam’s blank expression was agonizing. Kayla felt her phone vibrate in her pocket, but didn’t have either the energy or the wish to answer it. She clicked it off and forced herself to look at the man who used to make her feel giddy with infatuation. “Listen, Sam, I—­”

  She froze. Sam’s neutrality has morphed into something far worse: a blend of shock, horror, disgust. She followed his line of vision. When her eyes planted on the source of Sam’s abhorrence, the wind was knocked out of her sails in one fell swoop.

  Oliver was standing at the bar. Watching.

  Chapter 23

  July 17, England

  THE LAST PERSON Kayla had expected to see sitting on her beloved tree swing as she jogged breathlessly past was her nan. Even when they were little, nobody had ever come to this part of the garden. It was her and Gabe’s private den. Kayla stopped running and walked over, tapping her nan on the shoulder before realizing just how strange the scene was.

  A paperback novel was open, facedown, on the grass—­Kayla cringed at the thought of the damp grass staining its pages green—­next to her nan’s slippered feet. Nan was wearing a tatty old dressing gown and very little else, and her eyes were bleary and pink. It was the first time Kayla had seen her without glasses in years.

  Iris didn’t jump in surprise. She turned around slowly, sniffing. “Oh hello, Kayla love. I’m sorry I’m dressed like this, I’d just got out of the shower and felt a little dizzy. I think I ran the water too hot.” Her eyes were out of focus and her body was slack and droopy.

  “Are you okay, Nan? You don’t look too good . . .”

  “Nonsense, I’m fine.” A watery smile. “How are you doing, anyway, poppet?”

  Kayla sat down cross-­legged on the grass. She was less than half a kilometer from the house and her legs were already starting to cramp. “I’m all right. Missing Thailand and my friends a bit. And Gabe, of course.” She plucked two daisies from their beds and busied her hands making a daisy chain.

  “We all do, Kayla. We all do.”

  Kayla knew instinctively that telling Nan about Aran’s mission would do more harm than good, but the words were already spilling out of her mouth by the time she’d changed her mind. “I’m finding out who did this to him,” she blurted out.

  Iris appeared confused, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head. “But he did this to himself?”

  “I mean who sent him the messages. Who drove him to it.” Kayla waited for her nan to ask how, but all of the color had drained from her face. “Oh, Kayla,” Iris’s bottom lip quivered. She pressed her lips together to steady it. “Why would you do such a thing? We’re all just starting to move on with our lives and—­”

  “How? By running away and drinking and never talking about it?”

  “Please.” Nan’s voice was almost a whisper. “Please don’t make us go through this again. I don’t know if I can deal with it . . . I’m sick of crying myself to sleep every night as it is, and if we had to go through a trial too . . .”

  Kayla hadn’t considered the criminal implications—­she had selfishly focused on providing a face to direct her own internal anger toward. Typical me. “I’m sorry, Nan, I hadn’t thought of it like th—­”

  Iris let out an animal-­sounding wail. She was trembling violently. “Promise you won’t chase it Kayla. Please. I can’t—­”

  “Nan, I promise. It’s okay.” Kayla clambered to her feet and hugged her grandmother, rubbing her back to try and warm her up. “I’ll leave it alone. I’m sorry, I didn’t think.” Nan’s tears soaked through her cotton workout tank top. Kayla felt terrible. Her nan never cried.

  Iris conjured up a tissue from somewhere deep inside her sleeve and dabbed gingerly at her face. “I’m sorry for getting so upset. It’s been a horrible day. You go for your run, sweetheart, don’t let your silly old nan keep you. It’s nice to see you out of the house, you look so sporty in all your gear.” She smiled bravely.

  As Kayla jogged away, she was surprised by how hard the wave of love for her nan hit her.

  AROUND TWO MILES into the run, Kayla’s mind started to wander. Gabe.

  Could any of them have saved him? Could this have been stopped?

  How could we miss the signs that he was so depressed? So alone?

  But we didn’t, she thought, her trainers pounding the woodland trail. We didn’t miss the signs. They were all there. We just didn’t know what to do with them,. How to help him.

  Five months earlier—­or was it six?—­she’d tried to talk to Gabe. Tried to interject.

  His voice had never sounded so cold. “Go.”

  “Gabe?” she’d whispered, kneeling down and gently touching his shoulder. It was bonier than it used to be.

  “Please. Go.” A frosty mutter. Each word formed icicles as they curled past his lips.

  They had been in their father’s study. Gabe was sitting on the floor, elbows on his sky-­facing knees and his back leaning against a rich mahogany bookcase. The room smelled of tangy wood varnish, musty books, and freshly vacuumed rugs. It was eerily silent. Kayla’s footsteps echoed around the bookcase enclaves and high ceilings.

  She’d sat down next to him and crossed her legs, trying to position herself so she looked less like a worried older sister and more like a warm friend. She plucked a rogue piece of fuzz from her jeans and rolled it absentmindedly between her thumb and forefinger. “Talk to me. Is it Zack?”

  Gabe had scoffed. “If only.” He sat stock-­still. Like he was frozen.

  “What is it?” she persevered, attempting to keep the edge of frustration out of her voice. Why was he being so hostile toward her? she had wondered. Toward their whole family? They’d always been supportive of him. But lately . . .

  “Trust me, Kay. You don’t want to know. It’ll gnaw on your insides like a parasite.” Wisps of exhaustion spiraled around him like steam off tarmac on a hot, rainy day.

  “Gabe, you’re worrying me. Please—­”

  “I said go.” A glacial glare.<
br />
  She’d gone.

  Kayla thought about that day a lot. About how different everything could have been if she’d stayed.

  SHE HAD ANOTHER nightmare that evening.

  Veiny hands around Sam’s throat. His eyes bulging.

  She tried to dial 999. She got through to an operator, who kept demanding credit card payment in order to complete her request. She kept insisting there was no time—­he’d be dead before then. The operator hung up. She crushed her phone in her hand, and pain shot through her palm as the shattered screen sliced straight through the skin. Blood drenched the tiled floor.

  Sam’s face was purple. Frozen in a single expression of terror as his frantic gasps slowed and he realized that this was it. The end.

  The light behind his eyes was snuffed out, like moist fingers crushing a candle flame.

  The person whose hands were wrapped around Sam’s airwaves turned to face her.

  Their features started to come into focus. A dainty nose, long glossy hair, gaping red lips painted on like a creepy clown’s mouth.

  It was a woman. A laughing woman.

  Chapter 24

  June 8, Thailand

  OLIVER BECAME LIKE a shadow in Phuket. Wherever the group went, he was always there.

  On that first night they spotted him in Soi Bangla, Kayla had stormed up to him and demanded to know what he was doing there, how he’d found them, why he wasn’t back in Bangkok awaiting the arrival of the next Escaping Grey group. He explained that his bosses had received some complaints of indecency, petty theft, and a lackluster approach to his job as a rep. He’d been sacked.

  Typical Sam, Kayla thought, hiding a smile. He was too smart to punch Oliver square in the nose, or to reveal the sexual assault and land them with a trial.

  Oliver had also explained that he was friends with Bling on Facebook, and she’d posted a picture of their villa online with the caption “Our Phuket home for the next few weeks!” He said he’d caught several buses back to the area to join those he considered his friends, and Kayla had assured him that he was by absolutely no means their friend, nor would he ever be. Oliver didn’t even flinch, he just took another swig of beer and smirked. Kayla found herself feeling irrationally angry at Bling for betraying their location. Then she felt angry at herself—­if she’d reported the incident when it happened, she would never have had to worry about Oliver’s whereabouts. He’d be behind bars, hopefully rotting in a Thai prison cell.