TRACY BUCHANAN
The Atlas Of Us
Copyright
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2014
Copyright © Tracy Buchanan 2014
Cover photographs © Bill Brennan, Getty Images, Christophe Boisvieux
Cover design © Rose Cooper 2014
Tracy Buchanan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007579358
Ebook Edition © July 2014 ISBN: 9780007579365
Version: 2015-08-06
Dedication
To the two atlases of my heart: my husband Rob and Scarlett, the daughter I thought I’d never have.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Read an exclusive extract from MY SISTER’S SECRET
Acknowledgements
Author Q&A
About the Author
About the Publisher
Prologue
Everyone runs except her. Their movements are panicked, eyes wide, arms flailing. But she can’t move, legs frozen as she takes in the ferocity of the wave eating up the beach ahead of her. She takes a deep breath and wraps her arms tight around the atlas, her heart beating a strange beat against its cover: slow then fast then slow again.
Just a few moments before, she’d been walking along the shoreline, toes sinking into the warm sand. The soft beach had stretched out vast and gold before her, the walk to the bungalows seeming to take longer than usual.
Now the sea is buffeting against the bungalow three rows in front. It blasts around the sides, its bamboo walls rattling then breaking apart before disappearing into the watery depths.
Someone to her right screams. She turns, sees a long-tail boat thrashing about on top of the oncoming wave. It smashes into a palm tree, its wood splintering as the tree bends back. A man she’d seen swimming in the sea moments before is clinging to it. His eyes catch hers just before he tumbles into the whirlpool of water below, spinning around among deckchairs, beach bags and God knows what else.
Her legs find traction and she stumbles back, breath stuttering as the water surges towards her.
She peers behind her. There’s nowhere to run, just more flat ground, more palm trees.
The wave engulfs a small palm tree in front of her, its roar filling her ears. A food stall topples over in its path and careens towards her, fruit churning in the relentless gush of water.
The sharp smell of brine and seaweed fills her nostrils.
It’s so close now.
She suddenly feels a strange kind of serenity. She refuses to live what might be her last moments in a state of hopeless panic. This is what she has learned lately, a calm acceptance of what must be. It wasn’t always like this. She once fought against her fate, twisted out of its grasp, stumbled on regardless.
Not now.
She tries to face the wave, stand tall and strong, the atlas held against her like it might somehow protect her. But it’s no use, fear prevails. She runs into the tiny bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her and sliding down the wall until she feels the cool of the tiles against her thighs.
Maybe she’ll survive? She can swim, kick her way to the surface, see the sun and think how lucky she was. She’ll go back home, hold tight to the people she let down and never let them go.
Tears flood her eyes as she thinks of all she is leaving behind; of mistakes that may never be remedied.
Thank God she sent the letter.
There’s a creaking sound followed by a loud thud. The bathroom door quakes and she realises something has fallen against it.
She’s trapped. No chance now.
She quickly scours the room, eyes settling on the plastic bag used to line the bin. She grabs it, wraps the atlas in it then shoves the atlas into the bag slung around her chest, yanking at the adjustments until they’re so tight they hurt. She won’t let the atlas get destroyed, not after what she went through to get it back. The walls around her vibrate as objects are flung against them. She thinks of the man on the palm tree. That might be her soon, another piece of flotsam on the tide.
Dread overwhelms her.
There’s a thunderous rushing noise and someone screams, someone close enough to be heard over the roar.
It’s here.
The wall in front of her begins to crack, water tracing a long line down it, finding its path towards her. She pulls her knees up to her chest, pressing the bag against her stomach, taking comfort from the feel of the atlas’s bumpy cover against her skin. She closes her eyes and sucks in an urgent breath.
This is it.
As she hears the walls start to tumble, feels specks of water on her cheeks, an unbearable sadness takes over her.
Did she do enough for those she loves?
She closes her eyes as the wall in front of her smashes apart, water ploughing over her. She’s lifted with the wave and flung against the sink. The porcelain cracks against her shoulder, pain slicing through her.
The bamboo walls around her crash apart and she’s propelled outside with the wave, her body spinning with the force of it as it gallops towards the line of palm trees nearby.
She manages to keep her head above water, gasping for air, and tries desperately to grasp at something, anything, her dark hair blurring her vision as it lashes around her face.
Her fingers graze what she thinks must be the branch of a palm tree and, for a moment, she thinks she might have a chance. But the strength of the wave whips it away from her, thrusting her underwater and spinning her so erratically, she can’t tell what is sky and what is ground.
Water gritty with sand and debris rushes into her mouth. She snaps her lips shut, desperately trying to hold her breath as she’s pulled deeper and deeper, her chest bursting with
the effort.
But the need to breathe is overpowering, every part of her yearning to exhale. Her chest expands, her head ringing. And then she’s giving in, mouth opening as she takes one last blissful breath, the faces of all those she loves strong in her mind.
For a brief moment, she thinks she sees red hair, green eyes. She reaches her hand out, but then everything is gone.
Chapter One
Krabi, Thailand
2004
When I close my eyes, the water comes: the violent thud of waves, the tart smell of salty dampness seeping through the cracks of my dreams. But when I look out of the bus window, it’s nothing but mangled cars again; boats that have somehow found their way onto the roofs of two-storey buildings; suitcases flung open, their innards spilling out onto the dusty pavements below.
The bus takes a turn and I’m facing the sea again. It looks calm, ebbing and flowing like it’s forgotten the devastation it caused a few days ago.
My phone buzzes, a text from Will. I force myself to look at it.
Did you get my voicemail? You shouldn’t have gone. Call me.
‘British, love?’ There’s a woman watching me from across the aisle. Stark white lines dart up from the strapless top she’s wearing, disappearing over the fleshy mounds of her shoulders. I feel the urge to tell her about my friend Simone who nearly died of skin cancer.
Instead I nod. ‘Yes.’
‘Thought so. I saw you at the airport earlier. We’re going to see about our son, he’s eighteen.’
My heart goes out to her. How would I feel if it were one of my girls missing? ‘I’m sorry. I hope he’s okay.’
‘We hope so too, don’t we, Roy?’ The woman peers at the man next to her, but he just continues staring bleakly out of the window. ‘His friends say he met a girl, spent the night with her. Now he’s missing.’
Missing.
That’s the word I’ve been using to describe Mum’s status too since getting a call from her friend Jane on Boxing Day. But now that I’m heading to the temple – the endgame – missing seems too optimistic.
‘What about you?’ the woman asks. I can see she’s desperate for the comfort blanket of talk her husband obviously can’t offer. He’s probably like Will, always telling me I talk too much. Even after I’d got the phone call about Mum, he was too engrossed in his new iPod to listen properly as I tried to tell him how desperately worried I felt.
‘My mum’s been travelling around the islands over Christmas,’ I say to the woman now. ‘She’s not tried to call anyone to let us know she’s okay. We’re really worried.’
‘Oh, poor luv. You’ve come out here all alone?’
‘Yes. I’m all my mum has. We’re very close.’ I don’t know why I lie.
‘That’s lovely. You’re very good to come out here for her.’
Or stupid. That’s what Will had called me when I’d woken him in the early hours to tell him I wanted to fly out here to find Mum.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I am bloody stupid to leave the girls with their dad and come alone to a country more alien than I’ve ever known. I can smell the foreignness in the scorched spicy air drifting in through the windows; see it in the wires that hang precariously from the pylons; hear it in the strange urgent accents of the Thai people outside.
I feel my chest start to fill with apprehension but quickly swallow it away.
‘Have you been putting photos of your mum up on the notice boards?’ the woman asks.
I nod. ‘Yes.’
‘Strange, isn’t it? All those smiling faces?’
She doesn’t say why. I know what she means though. Strange to think half of them might be dead now, bloated corpses laid out in a temple like the very one we’re heading to now.
What if Mum’s one of those corpses? Oh God.
‘Did you check the patient list at the hospital?’ the woman asks.
I clear my throat, trying not to show the fear building inside. ‘Yes, I did.’ I’d gone into the hospital too, waving my mum’s photo in the faces of harassed-looking staff whose accents made my head buzz with confusion, the phrase book I’d bought in a hurry at the airport useless.
‘You never know, someone might call,’ the woman says, looking down at her mobile clutched in her plump hand. ‘The embassy photocopied the picture we brought of our son. So nice of them. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.’ Her hand flutters to the small cross around her neck. ‘I’m sure we’ll …’
Her voice trails off, her eyes losing focus as the bus slows down. A large spiky roof with gold spires comes into view, a mountain shrouded in trees behind it. As the bus draws closer, the whole temple appears before us, curved and ornate with tiered icing-sugar walls and arched windows fringed with gold. Two painted tiger statues adorn its entrance, looking ready to pounce on the frantic relatives and tired-looking officials hurrying around the busy area in front of it. This must be where the foreign embassies are: white canopies, rows and rows of photo boards, lines of desks weighed down with paperwork and flags. I try to find the Union Jack among all the other flags, as if it might blur the strangeness of this place a little. But all I can see is a tiny beige monkey that is weaving in and out of the table legs. I make a mental note to tell the girls about it. They’ll want to know things like that when I get back. They don’t need to know about the bodies I’ve seen floating in the sea, nor the turned-over cars. Just this little sprite of a monkey and the bright green lizards I noticed while waiting for the bus.
I think of their faces when I’d told them I’d be leaving them for a couple of days to find their nanna. My youngest, Olivia, had got that look, like she might cry any minute, and it had made my heart ache. They’ve not spent more than one night away from me and even then it felt like a small kind of torture for them – and me. To make them feel better, I’d told them Daddy was taking them to the show they’d been going on about; the same show he’s made every excuse under the sun not to go to.
I hope he takes them, I really do. He needs to spend more time with them. He can make their breakfast and ferry them from one friend to another like I do each day, wash their clothes, clean the house, pick up the dog muck in the garden … the list goes on. Maybe he’ll understand life isn’t such a breeze as a stay-at-home mum?
Oh God, what was I thinking? How on earth will he cope? I really was stupid coming here.
We pass under a square blue archway, the red globe lanterns hanging from its ceiling trembling in the breeze. The woman sitting across from me clutches at her husband’s arm. But he ignores her just like Will would ignore me. I want to shake him, tell him his wife needs him. Instead, I reach over and place my hand on the woman’s plump arm. The woman nods, her eyes swimming with thanks. But she doesn’t speak any more.
The bus comes to a stop beneath a lush green tree, and I try to recognise Jane’s son Sam among the crowds from the photo she sent. A man approaches the bus.
It’s him.
His tanned face speaks of exhaustion, of sadness and unknown horrors. People stand, blocking my view of him. I rise with them, smoothing my fringe down, checking the collar of my neat blossom-coloured blouse. Despite it being early evening, the heat’s a nightmare, sweat making the thin material of my blouse cling to all the wrong curves, curves I usually cover with tailored tops and trousers; strands of my fine hair already escaping from the ponytail I’d crafted so carefully a few hours before. I’m pleased I inherited Dad’s height and blond hair, but combine that with my mum’s curves and I’m in trouble.
I catch myself mid-moan. How can I worry about my weight when Mum’s missing?
The bus driver hauls open the door and I step out, blinking up at the sun and trying not to think about what it must be doing to all those bodies. The other passengers hesitate too, faces white with worry as they take in the temple in the distance. A woman leans her face into her husband’s chest and sobs while two young men next to me take frantic gulps of water, the nervous energy throbbing off them.
I feel eve
n more alone now, watching all these people. They’re all terrified of what they might find, but at least they’re not alone. I look at Sam. Maybe I’m not so alone. I shrug my bag strap over my shoulder, heading towards him.
He turns as I approach, frowns a little like he’s trying to figure out if it’s the same person in the photo his mum sent. Then he smiles. ‘Louise?’ he asks, a Northern lilt to his voice.
He’s in his late twenties, a few years younger than me, and is wearing a white linen shirt and cut-off blue jeans. This close, I can see the light stubble on his cheeks and chin, the small jewel in his nose, the wheel pattern of the pendant hanging from his neck. He has tanned skin, fair hair, a mole on his cheek. Will would call him a hippy, like the man with long hair who was renting the house a few doors down with his Chinese wife and two children last year. I’d been desperate to invite them over for dinner; they’d seemed so interesting. But Will had always found some excuse or other not to. Six months later, they’d moved away. I wasn’t surprised. They didn’t look the type to be happy in an estate full of expensive new builds and gas-guzzling family cars.
‘Yes, I’m Louise,’ I say to Sam. I note a hint of surprise in his eyes. Maybe he was expecting someone like my mum, all bronzed and arty with floaty skirts and flowing scarves, instead of a pale, blouse-wearing, stay-at-home mum from Kent. ‘Thanks so much for offering to help,’ I say. ‘Your mum said you’d been helping out? I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’
‘Take up as much time as you want. I promised Mum I’d do everything I can to help you.’ He examined my face. ‘How are you holding up?’
‘The paperwork’s a nightmare but—’
‘I mean about your mum missing. Must be tough?’
‘I – I’m not sure really. It’s been a bit of a blur since your mum called. I’m sure everything’ll be fine, I’m sure we’ll find her …’ My voice trails off. The truth is, I’m terrified. Terrified I’ve lost my mum before I’ve even had the chance to patch things up with her. ‘Jane says you live in Bangkok. Did you travel over here to help out?’ I ask, trying to change the subject. Small talk seems out of place here, but it’s a type of anchor for us Brits, isn’t it?
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