“I’m just . . . sorry. I’m so sorry, Kayla.” He ran his hands through his hair. He looked like he might say something else, but he didn’t.
“What for?” It felt polite to ask, but she already knew why he felt sorry. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. All she wanted was to be kissing him again, feeling his firm body press against hers. But the tortured expression on his face was impossible to dismiss.
“You know what. Everything. Just . . . everything.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. Nothing is okay.” He kneaded his thumb into the palm of his fractured hand, which had started to heal. At first Kayla assumed it was therapeutic for him to massage it, but then she noticed the force with which he was pressing down. The pain in his eyes. She took both of his hands in hers and kissed them, one after the other.
He whispered, “Why are you being sweet? I don’t deserve it. I’ve been . . . horrible.”
“Honestly? It’s just nice to be talking to you now. And touching you . . .” She tilted forward to kiss him again, but he pulled back. The hurt must have been written all over her face, because Sam looked instantly guilty.
“No, but seriously, Kayla. Why do you even still want to kiss me?”
“I don’t know.” She leaned back. It felt colder, just moving a few inches away from him. She picked up the half-smoked cigarette balanced on the edge of her ashtray and took a long, slow drag. “I guess when you get older, and shit stuff starts to happen, you learn to appreciate the amazing things in your life when they come around. And part of that is realizing that something doesn’t have to be perfect to be amazing. I mean, our whole group of friends is insanely flawed. We’re all idiots, let’s face it—we’re selfish and immature and ignorant, like most people our age. But we like each other regardless, and we have a bloody good time together. It’s the same with you. You’re a twat sometimes.” Kayla chuckled, and planted another kiss on the back of Sam’s hand. “But you’re kind of amazing, anyway. And that’s why I want to kiss you.”
And because I love you.
“By that logic, do you also want to kiss Dave?” Sam joked.
“Oh, hell yes. And Russia. The things I’d do to Russia . . .”
“What about Bling?”
Kayla screwed her face up in fake dismissal.
Sam laughed, but only for a second, then sighed and squirmed his fingers out of her grasp. She tried to keep her disappointment from playing across her face. “Kayla. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It . . . it kind of is.”
“Oh.” Kayla wondered, for a split second, if he was going to tell her he loved her. But if that was the case, he probably wouldn’t look like a policeman on a doorstep delivering bad news to a newly bereaved widow. She slid her legs out from under her and closed her book.
Silence made way for more silence. Sam’s internal battle over the next few minutes was so loud that Kayla could almost hear it: Tell her. Just tell her. Just start talking, the words will come. You’re not going to tell her, are you? Bugger.
Kayla soaked up the image of the disheveled boy in front of her. She hadn’t been in such close proximity to him for weeks. His broad shoulders and big arms were deeply tanned, and his hair was in desperate need of a good cut. His strong, masculine jaw was stubbly; it seemed red raw, like he’d been scratching at the skin below his patchy afternoon shadow. He wore a plain white T-shirt and khaki shorts, with a wooden beaded necklace dangling around his neck. He kept absentmindedly nibbling the shark tooth charm.
After the long silence, he sprung up abruptly from the sagging bed, as if a wasp had stung his backside. Or as if a pressing thought had suddenly leapt into his mind. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.” He walked toward the door.
“What? Sam?”
“Just forget it. Forget I said anything.” He didn’t even turn to look back at her. Kayla felt a dull ache form in her chest. She knew she was about to lose him again.
“No, Sam, I want to know,” she said as he moved to the door. “Please. You can’t just waltz in here, kiss me, say you have something important to tell me, then disappear as fast as you—”
Slam. The door shut mid-sentence.
Kayla hated herself for loving Sam despite his infuriating tendency to walk away from her.
Chapter 31
July 31, England
“HOW MUCH LONGER do you think I’ll have to keep seeing you?”
“Well, that’s really up to you,” Dr. Myers said. “Nobody’s forcing you to come here against your will. Do you feel like you’ve made any significant progress in the past few weeks?”
Kayla was silent. She did not.
Her mum was still down south. Her nan was still in Oban. Her dad still worked all the time.
Loneliness. Fear. The omnipresent questions: What really happened? What am I missing?
What happens next?
“I really want to help you, Kayla. Your case . . . it’s got under my skin, I have to admit. Between our weekly sessions, I’ve been reading journals and theories about why you’re unable to connect with what happened, why you can’t get into a mental place where you can start the grieving process.”
Kayla nodded, but she felt sick. She was sick of the words “grieving process.” The whole concept seemed totally abstract to her. Like the idea of being model-beautiful or Einstein-intelligent, it was something desirable but by no means attainable. It was tempting to give up all hope and exist eternally in state of psychological limbo.
“I have an idea. It’s slightly unconventional, and some practitioners would . . . frown upon it, I suppose. It might make you feel uncomfortable, and if that’s the case we’ll stop straightaway. But it might help you, so I think it’s worth a shot.”
“You’re not going to electric-shock me, are you?” Kayla joked.
Cassandra smiled genuinely; a rare occurrence. Kayla felt disproportionately proud. “No, I’m not. Though I’m not ruling that out just yet.” She winked. She looked even younger when she smiled and winked. “Okay, the most important thing for you to know is that we can stop this at any time. If you feel uncomfortable, or triggered, or panicked, just tell me. And we’ll stop.
“I’m going to get you to list the cold hard facts. We’ll start with Gabe. I want you to tell me, in kind of vocal bullet points, exactly what happened on the day he died. Include as many details as you can. That sounds odd, but bear with me. You’ve probably never said any of this aloud, not in this way, apart from maybe to the police all those months ago. To say it all again once the shock has worn off might act as a trigger in making it seem more real. A psychological electric shock, if you will.” Another warm smile. Kayla wondered if someone had slipped narcotics in her coffee.
“Okay. Sounds good to me.” She actually didn’t dread the thought. Talking in cold, hard facts seemed much more appealing than being trapped in a web of gooey emotions.
“Ready when you are.”
“Right. Well. As cliché as this sounds, it was a day just like any other. I just . . . went about my business, as usual. With absolutely no idea what was going to happen that night. You always think you’d have an inkling, a sense of foreboding. That you’d wake up that morning and know instinctively that something bad was going to happen. But you don’t.
“So I went to work at eight-thirty, like I always did. I liked to get there early and read the paper with a coffee before my day started at nine. I was interning at my dad’s business in central Newcastle at the time. I suspect you know all about that from my mum?” Cassandra nodded. “Yeah, well my day was just the same as all the other days I spent working there. Making tea, photocopying documents, making sure databases were in order, stuffing envelopes. I had my lunch—a tuna baguette, isn’t it weird the things you remember?—and the rest of my afternoon wa
s fairly uneventful. At half five, I stuck my head around my dad’s door. He looked stressed, and said he was going to stay a bit longer, as he had a conference call with some clients. I usually shared a car journey home with him. I could have driven myself and just let him get a taxi later on, but I decided to stay in the city and go to the theatre.”
Cassandra’s ears pricked up. “By yourself?”
Kayla shrugged. “Yeah? I was in a good mood, and I hadn’t been to the Theatre Royal since school. There was an RSC show on that night, and my dad had been offered tickets he didn’t want. Thought I might as well put them to good use. It was brilliant, the show. King Lear. Phenomenal. So then I came out and rang my dad, asking if he was ready to come home with me, but he wasn’t. So I just drove back myself.
“I was so happy, I remember. I drove home with my favorite album blaring, singing along as loud as I could. It was early spring, and even though it was dark, you could just tell everything was starting to bloom. I’d just seen an amazing, inspiring show in a beautiful theatre, and I was going home to a nice warm cup of tea and a cozy bed. I can’t explain it. It was the kind of happiness you sometimes experience for no reason at all. It just creeps up on you when the right song is playing, and you smell really good, and you remember something someone said that day that made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Nothing major, but the little things just add up and make you feel untouchable. Like you have your whole life ahead of you and you’re so excited because you assume it’ll be full of those little slices of pure joy. Those moments that make everything worth it. But now . . . now I can’t imagine ever feeling like that again.” A tear rolled down Kayla’s cheek. Cassandra looked pleased at the emotional progress, though she tried her very hardest to hide it.
Kayla wiped the rogue display of emotion away. “So I got back to the house. No one else was in, apart from . . . you know. My nan didn’t live with us at that point, and my mum was out at some charity ball. An excuse to get pissed, basically. So I expected the house to be quiet. I didn’t know whether Gabe was in or not, so I just pottered around, made some dinner, watched some TV in my room. It’s so weird to think that while I was doing all that, Gabe was just down the hall. Or at least, his body was.”
Cassandra shuddered. She couldn’t help herself.
“So nobody discovered . . . him . . . until your parents got home?”
Kayla paused. “Not exactly. I . . . I found him. But that’s where it all gets a bit hazy.”
Cassandra raised an eyebrow, just a fraction. She sat up in her seat, straightening her back. “What does?”
Kayla gulped. This wasn’t going to sound good.
“It’s so blurry. You’d think something like that would be vivid in my memory. But all I remember is the blood. How cold and wet it felt on my skin. How dark it was, and a little bit sticky.”
Cassandra tried not to react. “Oh.”
“And how much of it there was. I’ve only ever seen that much blood one other time in my life.”
Veiny hands around Gabe’s throat. Or was it Sam?
His eyes bulging.
Kayla dialed 999. She got through to an operator but hung up right away. She knew there would be no time.
The Sam-Gabe hybrid’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 Kayla.
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 definitely a woman. A woman Kayla knew very well.
After all, she’d looked in enough mirrors in her life to know her own face when she saw it.
Even when it did have its hands wrapped tightly around a man’s throat.
Kayla woke up screaming.
Chapter 32
June 16, Thailand
KAYLA WAS HOT. Hot from sunstroke, and hot from anger.
Sam hadn’t spoken to her since he came into her room and kissed her like he loved her.
I’m clearly bloody delusional. He doesn’t love me. He never has.
He didn’t even afford her the decency of hostile comments and evil glares this time. At least those had told her he cared, albeit in a negative way. Hate and love are cut from the same emotional cloth.
No, this time he preferred to act like she no longer existed. That hurt much more than she thought it would. You don’t miss what you’ve never had, and she was starting to wish she’d never met Sam.
The wish became more intense one day when the group were lying by the lake, which was rapidly becoming one of Kayla’s favorite spots in Thailand. It was one of the only places she could cool down, in more ways than one. That day, the water was glimmering in the mid-afternoon sun; flecks of dazzling light woven together with slices of deep blue water. Everything seemed still. There were no clouds in the sky drifting on the wind, or birds squawking overhead. Just a ball of fire in the sky, a heat haze in the air, and vast mountains surrounding the lake. Nature was staggeringly constant—human trials and tribulations were fleeting inconveniences in comparison. There was no better place for perspective.
It would have been quiet too if Russia and Dave weren’t rolling around nearby, giggling and play-wrestling over the book Russia had stolen from between Dave’s fingertips. “I’m a cripple! You can’t be stealing from your crippled boyfriend! Rush!” Russia was laughing hysterically. She had a wonderful ability to be lighthearted in the face of Dave’s illness.
Bling was lying flat on her back, spread-eagled like a starfish and lathered in baby oil to darken her tan. She had headphones plugged in, and Kayla could hear the vague pounding of the drum and bass music her friend was so fond of. She’d been quiet since the terrorist attacks. Pensive. Even though her family were all safe in the end, terror never felt too far away.
When would the next attack be? Where?
Why?
Although many decibels away from peaceful, the scene by the lake would have been fairly blissful had it not been for Sam. He was huddled beneath a tree, clinging to the shade for dear life. His face was contorted in a gargoyle replica of his formerly handsome features.
His personality had suffered a similar metamorphosis. The anxiety beamed off him in waves. Kayla thought it might be contagious, but it didn’t seem to affect the other three the way it did her. Whenever she saw his twisted face, heard his strained voice, or sensed his tense presence, her mood plummeted, her stomach knotted. A rather different effect than the one he used to have on her.
She couldn’t bear it any longer. She was tired of mourning what they used to have. She stood up and strode toward the lake, plunging into the cool water with no hesitation. She was in up to her waist, then her chest. She stopped and tilted her head back, soaking her long hair and splashing water all over her face. The cool relief soothed her, and she wanted more. She took a deep breath and sank her whole body into the lake.
Quiet. Real, genuine quiet. The loudest quiet she’d experienced for months. Was this what death felt like? Her thoughts and fears seeped out of her ears and melted into the water. It was peaceful. Purifying. She thought of Virginia Woolf, one of her favorite writers, filling her pockets with stones and walking into the River Ouse. If I was to take my own life too, I’d like to drown in a lake.
Kayla ran out of breath too quickly, and pushed herself up through the surface again. She felt relieved that her body instinctively forced her above water to gulp for air—sometimes it acted of its own accord, as though it knew what her heart wanted before she did. But today it wanted to stay alive. And she was thankful for that.
She didn’t return to the bank straight away, though. She floated around on her back, the w
ater lapping at her ears, and closed her eyes against the glare of the sun. After ten minutes she still couldn’t face going back. So she stayed for ten more.
Eventually, her feet found the lake bed and she held her hand up to her forehead to shield the sun from her eyes. Her face felt hot and stinging. Sunburn. Peering across the grassy bank where her friends lay, she noticed Sam had gone, and there was a bottle of something alcoholic where he’d been sitting. Excellent. She had never swam back to shore so fast.
“Gimme that,” she said, grinning at the sight of the dusty bottle of rum that had been in the bungalow since before they arrived. She flipped her hair around to her side and squeezed the excess water out of it before taking a seat next to Dave.
“Sure thing, Kay-layla,” Dave slurred. Kayla laughed—he had always been a lightweight drinker.
“Jesus, Dave, I was in the water for less than half an hour. How did you manage to get so pissed so quickly?”
“It’s my talent, Kayla, I’m a cheap date. It’s why Russia loves me.” His eyes were wide, his smile sloppy.
“Us Russians have a bit more stamina,” said Russia, who still looked sober as a judge. She grabbed the bottle back from Kayla and took an impressively long swig. Kayla’s throat was burning after a mere sip. It tasted like paint stripper. Russia offered the bottle to Bling, who shook her head. “Sweet. More for us!”
“Where did Sam go?” Kayla asked, attempting a casual tone.
“Dunno. I have no idea what’s going on with him,” Russia said, shaking her head. “He’s acting so strangely. I’d ask him what’s up, but . . . I don’t know. He’s kind of scaring me. Is that weird?”
“I know where you’re coming from,” said Kayla. “It’s like he’s fighting himself. He wants to be part of the group, he wants things to be good, he wants to . . . kiss me.” She didn’t look up from the ground to see whether her friends had registered the reference to her and Sam’s romantic relationship, or lack thereof. “But something’s holding him back . . . He seems so conflicted. I wish I could help, but he won’t talk to me.”
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