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.
Chapter 4
March 30, Thailand
“I THINK SOMEBODY slipped a hangover in my drink last night.”
The girls groaned in unison. Bling, mourning the irreparable damage of her favorite dress on the first night. Francesca, voicing her dismay at the dried vomit in her hair. Russia? Well, it was perfectly possible that Russia might not have survived the night.
“Urgh, I’m sorry I was such a bitch last night, Kayla,” Bling groaned. “If it helps, I think I’m hung over by osmosis.”
“It’s fine. As long as you’re suffering today, we’re good,” Kayla joked.
“What happened?” Russia, it seemed, was alive, if not particularly well.
“The Noodlegate Scandal.”
“The . . . the what?” Bling couldn’t help but laugh.
“Someone threw Singapore noodles at Bling, and she came after Sam and I like we’d pissed on her birthday cake.”
Everyone laughed, and Bling buried her face in her pillow. “Oh God, I’m such a twat.” She looked up, sheepish. “I’ll buy you breakfast to make up for it? I think we all need something in our stomachs besides beer, anyway.”
Kayla hungrily imagined bacon sandwiches dripping in ketchup, or even a full English fry-up with juicy sausages . . . her stomach cramped with hunger. She leapt out of bed, instantly regretting the sudden movement as an invisible man attacked her skull with a hammer. She picked up the beer and sweat-stained T-shirt she’d worn the night before. She pulled it on despite the fact that it failed the sniff test, and shook Russia’s shoulders.
“It’s food time. Food!” No response. She’d fallen back into a comalike state. “Wake up, woman.”
“Leave my hangover and I alone,” Russia grumbled.
RICE SOUP. SINCE when were either rice or soup acceptable breakfast options? While Kayla knew she was in no danger of fading away—she had an Olympic swimmer’s appetite and the curves to prove it—she feared she might be emaciated by the end of the first week if this was what they’d be living off. The soup looked like the vomit Francesca still had cemented in her hair. Russia turned her nose up at the greasy waiter.
“I think I’ll stick to the coffee, thanks. Triple shot, plenty of cream.”
“Make that two,” Kayla agreed. “Today is a hard day.”
The rest of the Escaping Grey crew piled into the tiny, low-ceilinged café, making it completely inaccessible to any other customers. The windows had obviously been cleaned rather haphazardly, still streaked with spirals of soap suds, and exhaust fumes from the road leaked in every time the door opened.
Dave slumped dramatically into a spare seat. “Wow.” Kayla caught him exchanging a sly glance with Russia, who blushed and turned away. “What the bloody hell happened last night?”
“Beats me. Do they sell sausage and egg McMuffins in here, do you reckon?” Sam looked around for something, anything, he could realistically eat for breakfast without throwing up.
“There’s no Ronald McDonald to be seen, sadly. You’re welcome to sample some of this horse semen soup, though.”
“Russia! That’s disgusting,” Bling said, without looking up from the smartphone she was deeply absorbed in.
“Hey Sam, where’d you get a British newspaper?” Kayla asked. Sam was flicking through the same broadsheet Kayla’s dad bought every Sunday morning. CYBERTERRORISTS LEAK INTELLIGENCE AGENCY INFO was the headline.
“Little newsagent round the corner. Cost me more baht than the average house deposit. Won’t be doing that again.” Sam took a sip of the lukewarm coffee the tiny Thai waiter had just plonked in front of him, which Kayla had now discovered was more akin to dishwater. He grimaced slightly as it slid past his taste buds and down his throat. ”Cheers!”
BUS POLITICS: FUELING adolescent insecurity since the invention of the wheel.
For some reason, deciding who sits where and next to whom causes an uproar regardless of age. Ralph, Thomas, and Francesca commanded the back row. Zhang Qiang sat at the very front next to Oliver, who had livened up after sleeping off his life-thr
eatening hangover. He was now faced with the daunting task of making conversation with a young Chinese girl who suffered from a crippling case of shyness. Which left Kayla, Russia, Bling, Sam, and Dave in the exact same position they’d all been in during high school: the middle of the bus, neither cool nor uncool.
Apart from Dave. Dave was desperately uncool. But such was his appeal.
Kayla grabbed a window seat. It was going to be a long journey, and she wanted to absorb as much scenery as she could before returning to smog central. Sam swung into the aisle seat next to her, landing on her left leg in a clumsy fashion that gave telling context to his wonky nose. She laughed. “Oh hello, you useless twat.” She instantly blushed. Is it too soon to take the piss out of him?
“Excuse me, my name is Sam, if you don’t mind. I don’t know who this Useless Twat fellow is.” Kayla thumped his arm, too tired to construct a witty response. Sam popped the foil circle on his carton of orange juice with the sharp end of a straw and slurped thirstily. Smacking his lips, he said, “I think we should spend this bus journey really getting to know each other, since you don’t even know my name. And after we shared such a tender moment together last night.” He faked a sob.
“What tender moment?” Kayla laughed, trying to jog her memory. The bus whirred into life.
“You know, when I congratulated you on your face. It really was heartfelt. I don’t take these matters lightly.”
“Oh yes, that. What a truly heartwarming compliment. I shall treasure it forever. Now how do you suppose we get to know each other?”
“First things first, let’s start with the basics.” He nodded, stroking his chin and miming a reporter jotting down information in a notepad. “Age?”
“Twenty.”
“Snap! Occupation?”
“Former intern for Greyfinch International, now unemployed beach bum.”
“Hobbies?”
“Running, drinking tequila, talking to strange men on buses.”
“Hilarious. Favorite food?”
“Cheesecake, without question.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
A pause.
“Erm, yeah. I had a brother.”
Sam went pale. “Had? Shit. I’m sorry. I had no idea. I’m an idiot.”
“It’s fine. How could you know?” He bit his bottom lip. She touched his arm. His skin was warm and already a little pink from the sun. “Really, Sam, it’s fine.”
“Was it . . . was it a long time ago?”
“Not really. About three weeks”
“Three weeks? What the . . . holy shit. Kayla, are you okay? I’m so sorry . . .”
“Yeah. It’s kind of why I’m here, if I’m honest. I couldn’t bear to be at home.”
“I can imagine. How . . . how old was he?”
“Seventeen. Can we talk about something else now?”
“Of course, sure. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing! You didn’t know,” Kayla said.
“No. Right. Sorry. Erm, so you interned for Greyfinch? I didn’t know they took on interns.”
“Yeah,” Kayla said, only partly thankful for the change of subject. “My dad partially owns it.”
“Whoa. Wait. Is he the ‘Finch’ part of Greyfinch International?”
“The one and only.”
“Crikey. What’s that like?”
“I don’t really think about it. It’s just my dad’s job, you know?”
“So you’re like . . . loaded?” Sam tried to act nonchalant.
“Yeah, I guess.” Kayla blushed. Her family’s wealth always made her feel uncomfortable.
Sam seemed genuinely interested, angling himself to face Kayla. “So what exactly does he do?”
“The company owns all of the CCTV cameras in the country. The department my dad runs uses the cameras as kind of a marketing tool.”
“How do you mean?”
Ugh. Her hangover wasn’t in the mood to explain. She missed her bed already. “So my grandpa Elijah founded Finch Marketing Limited about thirty years ago. Before the Internet and all that. It started really small. They had a few marketing operatives who would stand outside coffee shops, and they’d record foot traffic at certain times of the day, taking note of the kind of clientele who were buying coffee, what order they tended to place, that kind of thing. Then the experts—like my grandpa—would analyze the data coming in, write up really detailed reports, and sell the information to the companies they’d analyzed, who would then know how best to target consumers, what their spending patterns were like, all of that. They got big pretty fast.”
“Bloody hell. I had no idea that kind of thing even happened.”
“I know. It’s little creepy. So when the government announced that they wanted to privatize national surveillance, my dad jumped at the chance, ’cause imagine what that would do for his marketing? Nobody would need to stand outside anywhere. So they contacted one of the other bidders, Greyhawk Financial. They joined forces, hence Greyfinch. Now, instead of selling reports to a single coffee shop, they’ll sell huge quantities of data to international chains like Starbucks.”
“Jesus.” Sam leaned back in his seat, taking it all in. Kayla could almost hear the hungover cogs in his brain clunking. “I can’t decide whether it’s some sort of Orwellian nightmare or a genius money-making business plan. So when you interned there, you were a spy? Did you ever catch me doing something embarrassing?”
Kayla laughed. “They aren’t spies! No, I was strictly a telephone answerer and tea maker. Anyway, enough about my dad’s empire. What about you? What do you do? Or did you do, before you started gallivanting across the world?”
“Well, okay. Promise you won’t think less of me?”
“Probably not, unless you’re about to tell me you rob banks or exploit old people.”
“No! Okay, well I got into one of the best universities in the country to study medicine. It was all going well, I aced the first semester exams, then it all went down the toilet. My parents announced they were getting a divorce, I stopped going to lectures and fell behind pretty quickly. I couldn’t catch up at all—the course was so intense that once you fall off the wagon a little bit, you’re screwed. So I’ve dropped out and reapplied to start again next year.”
“Makes sense if your heart isn’t in it. Medicine is pretty hard-core, so I don’t suppose you can half-ass it. Did you reapply at the same university?”
“Yeah, and few others. I’m still not sure I’ll go back at all, though. I did enjoy it, despite the fact it was bloody hard, but I’m just not sure it’s what I want to do with my life.”
“Yeah, I get that. I have no idea who I am outside of Greyfinch. It’s kind of expected of me that I’ll take over the business, now that my brother . . . can’t. But I don’t know. Part of me wants to go to university. I originally didn’t even apply because there was already a career waiting for me at Greyfinch, so what would have been the point? But now . . . now, escaping reality at school for another three years is hugely appealing.”
Sam leaned back in his seat. “Hopefully we’ll both make sense of a few things while we’re out here.”
“Maybe.” Kayla turned her attention to the scenery—a lot of fields, mainly—flashing past the window. She’d been in Bangkok less than a day and she was already missing the countryside. She leaned her head against the glass until the vibrations from the bus’s inferior suspension made her feel sick.
“Hey,” Sam said, slurping the dregs of his orange juice. “Want to know something weird about Dave?”
“Always. How weird we talking? Stalker weird? Foot fetish weird? Quite frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Sam chuckled. “No. Weird as in he’s really sick. He told me last night when I brought him a glass of water to the bathroom, where he was throwing up pretty spectacularly. You woul
dn’t think it, would you? He seems so . . . enthusiastic. About everything.”
“Sick how?”
“Ever heard of ALS?”
“Isn’t that where sufferers become slowly paralyzed?” Kayla mused aloud. Her eyes widened as she realized the implications for her new friend.
“Yeah. Dave,” Sam sighed. “Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. Degenerative motor neuron disease. Your brain and your thoughts aren’t usually affected at all, at least not until the very end. Nor is your eyesight. But it essentially causes your muscles to progressively weaken and atrophy. It’s so scary. Eventually he won’t be able to walk, or move his arms. But he’ll be aware of it all. He’ll still be able to think like Dave, but he’ll be trapped inside his own body.”
“Are you kidding? No way.” A head shake. “Puts everything in perspective, doesn’t it? Tragedy has a way of doing that. Ugh. He’s such a sweet guy. How quickly—I mean—when will it happen? Is that still years away? Or you know . . . soon?”
“I was trying to work that out myself. It’s hard to estimate without quizzing him on when his symptoms began. Basically, there’s this scale doctors use where forty-eight is normal bodily function and zero is severely disabled. Most ALS patients lose around one point per month.” Sam looked across at Dave, who was chatting animatedly to Russia in the seats next to them, gesturing rudely with his hands. She was laughing. Sam and Kayla were both silent for a moment as they watched their hyperactive friend during a moment of candid happiness.
“That sucks,” said Kayla. “Well . . . it more than sucks.”
“Yeah. It does. Don’t tell him I told you, though. I don’t think he’d appreciate pity.” Sam did a funny kind of half smile, his lips curling upward only on one side, and reached into his backpack to produce a small hip flask. “Hair of the dog? Forget all the shit in the world?”
“Good God, no. Are you mental? We’re about to go and stroke tigers. Actual tigers. You could get us all killed.”
Chapter 5
June 27, England
Run Away Page 3
