THE TRIP
Sarah Linley
Copyright
One More Chapter
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Sarah Linley 2020
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com
Sarah Linley 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.
Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008368142
Version: 2020-06-26
Dedication
To Mum and Dad, who encouraged me to follow my dreams.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four: Eight years ago
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight: Eight years ago
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen: Seven years ago
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen: Six years ago
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One: Five years ago
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five: Five years ago
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Cambodia, five years ago
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One: Cambodia, five years ago
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six: Vietnam, five years ago
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Vietnam, five years ago
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three: Thailand, five years ago
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven: Thailand, five years ago
Chapter Forty-Eight: Thailand, five years ago
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two: Thailand, five years ago
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
‘Stay a while. You know you want to.’
A shaft of sunlight, as sharp and sour as lemon, pierces the curtains and illuminates the bed. Tom wraps his arm around my waist, drawing me in to the warm cocoon of his tangled sheets. For a second, time stands still as I bask in his attention, but our sixty minutes are nearly up.
‘You know I can’t. I have to get back to school.’ I kiss him as I release myself from his hold.
He watches me getting dressed. A strip tease in reverse, carefully orchestrated to leave him wanting more. I grab my mobile phone from the bedside cabinet and check my messages. I’ve missed a call from my mum, but I haven’t got time to call her back.
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’
‘Can’t, sorry. Playground duty.’
I retrieve my ID badge from the floor and swing it around my neck. In the tiny
en suite bathroom I reapply my make-up and tidy my hair. I don’t want anyone in the staff room to guess what I get up to at lunchtime. I kiss Tom goodbye and promise to call him later.
‘I love you …’ My heart jumps, but he hasn’t finished. ‘… coming round like this.’
I try to hide the disappointment from my voice. ‘Me too. We’ll get together again soon.’
I make my way down the stairs, stepping over discarded Lego and toy cars. I leave by the back door, hoping no one sees me emerge from the side path into the driveway. The suburban street is quiet during the day, but you never know who might be watching behind closed windows.
The school is only five minutes’ walk away from Tom’s house; I should make it back before the bell rings. The day is unseasonably warm for October. The leaves have turned the colour of popcorn and the nights are drawing in. I walk over the ancient stone bridge, crossing the river which is swollen from recent rainfall. The water flows down from the surrounding fells, breaking over large stones, depositing branches and debris on the banks. Occasionally the river floods, leaving the village cut off from the rest of the world, damaging the riverside properties people pay a fortune for and making the roads impassable. Most people around here drive 4x4s and not just for show.
I can see a group of kids, laughing and showing off on the muddy bank of the river below the bridge. They are too old to go to our school and there is no secondary provision in the village, so they must be bunking off. A teenaged girl balances precariously on a large rock, a can of drink in her hand, as the water streams around her. The others egg her on, perhaps oblivious but more likely exhilarated by the danger. People underestimate the power of the River Wharfe, only seeing its picturesque beauty as it wends its way through the Yorkshire Dales, but the water here is deep with a vicious undercurrent. Almost in slow motion, the girl raises one leg like a ballet dancer and wobbles dangerously. As I walk away, I hear a scream and a splash followed by a cacophony of shouts.
I look over the bridge and see the girl struggling in the water, her arms flailing. Her friends are panicking and shouting at each other. I race down the steps, nearly slipping on the wet limestone, and run towards the group. My brain is on autopilot, focussing on what needs to be done and clouding everything else out. The mud sucks at my heels, slowing me down, and I am forced to abandon them and run barefooted.
One of the boys has stripped off his jacket and looks like he is about to jump in after the girl, but I hold him back. I don’t need two of them to rescue.
‘Get a branch, quickly,’ I say, pointing to the nearby woodland. I lie on the ground, ruining my white blouse, and stretch out my arm as far as I can but I can’t reach her. The girl, who looks about fourteen, is now clinging onto the rock but the water is pulling her downstream. Her eyes are wide and terrified, and she’s shivering uncontrollably. If she lets go, she will be pulled under, the force of the current throwing her against the rocks like a rag doll.
‘What’s your name?’ I shout at her above the roar of the water, which is ice cold and seeping through my clothes.
‘Samantha.’
I recognise her now. Her little brother Nathan is in my class. ‘Samantha, I’m Holly. Hold on, it’s going to be okay.’
The boy hands me a branch and I test it with one hand to check it is sturdy enough. He has had the good sense to pick up a strong, thick one. I hold it out to Samantha.
‘One hand at a time, grab on.’
She looks uncertain, weighing up her options, too scared to release her grip on the rock but knowing the strength in her cold trembling fingers won’t last much longer. She doesn’t look like a cocky teenager anymore; she looks like a little girl. Gingerly, she releases one of her hands and grasps the branch.
‘Now the other one. Quickly.’ My steady voice belies the terror racing through my head. I can’t let her see how scared I am.
She whimpers and shakes her head, paralysed by fear.
‘Come on, Samantha. You can do this.’ I try to sound as calm as possible even though I am struggling to maintain my grip. If either of us let go now, the result could well be fatal.
She takes a deep breath and snatches the branch. Her sudden weight pulls at my arms and I slide closer to the water’s edge. Adrenaline shoots through my body, every instinct telling me to let her go and save myself. I take a deep breath, dig my elbows into the ground to keep steady and use all the strength I can muster to drag her towards me. Once or twice I think one of us is going to let go of the branch but, somehow, we make it and inch by inch I pull her towards the bank. As soon as they can reach her, the teenagers take over, grabbing on to Samantha’s sodden clothing and hauling her to safety, collapsing in a great muddy heap. Samantha lies on the ground, coughing up dirty water.
‘Call an ambulance,’ I gasp as I help her to sit up. She is shaking so I wrap one of the boys’ discarded coats around her and rub her arms to warm her up. Eventually her shivers subside. Apart from the shock, she doesn’t seem to be hurt.
‘I’m going to be in so much trouble,’ Samantha says, looking around at the empty beer cans and discarded tab ends.
‘Better in trouble than dead.’
I look down at my clothes. My thin white blouse is saturated, see-through in parts, and covered in grass stains. My black pencil skirt is ripped, and my feet are caked in clay-like mud. There is no way I can go back to school looking like this. I check my watch. I’m already twenty minutes late for class. They will be wondering where I am by now.
The ambulance eventually arrives, parking at the top of the bridge and two paramedics make their way across the slippery bank. I feel a sense of relief as they take control of the situation. One of the paramedics assesses Samantha while the other wraps a foil blanket around my shoulders and asks me questions. As he does, an overwhelming sense of panic rises up from where I had suppressed it. The roar of the water seems to be getting louder and there is a ringing in my ears. My vision blurs and it’s difficult to breathe. I can’t understand what he’s saying.
‘Look at me,’ a sharp command. I struggle to focus on the handsome paramedic who is crouched in front of me. ‘Breathe.’
I can’t. It’s as if my air passages have been blocked. My breaths are coming out as loud rasps and my lungs hurt as I battle for air. What’s happening to me?
‘Hold out your hands.’
My hands are trembling and seem strangely disconnected from the rest of my body as he takes hold of them. I look into his kind, reassuring face and force myself to relax.
‘You’re OK, you’re doing fine, now breathe … nice and slow.’
My breathing calms down as I obey his instructions. My vision returns to normal and my heart stops racing. I am so embarrassed.
‘Just a panic attack,’ he says. ‘Have you had one before?’
I shake my head.
‘I think you should come to the hospital and get checked out.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’
He checks my pulse and seems satisfied with the result.
‘OK, well at least get someone to walk you home.’ He shouts over to one of the lads to come and walk with me.
I am acutely conscious of my dirty clothes and bedraggled appearance. I reluctantly agree to the teenager accompanying me home and we all make our way slowly back up the steps like a funeral cortege. The boy looks relieved when I dispense of his services as soon as the ambulance sets off.
I’m shattered and Tom’s house is closer than mine, but I turn the other way towards my own cottage. I need to be alone right now. Seeing Samantha in the water has brought the bad memories flooding back. Memories of a different place and a different time, a different body in the water and a very different outcome.
CHAPTER TWO
I strongly suspect it was my boss who tipped off the local newspaper about my ‘heroic rescue’. Trevor loves the media and anything that reflects well on the school and, by implication, his leadership.
The following day a reporter and a photographer turn up. The journalist is about my age and nervous. She rattles off questions, barely waiting for my response before firing out another. She insists she needs my age and marital status, though I can’t see how they’re relevant. Trevor watches me from the corner of his office, a self-satisfied grin all over his face. He is no doubt picturing himself presenting the article to the governors as part of his monthly media report, lapping up the kudos. I pose dutifully for a picture, wishing that I could cover up the ugly cuts and bruises I sustained during the rescue.
‘It will be on the website later today,’ the reporter promises. ‘We want to break the story first!’
I fake a smile. It’s hardly the scoop of the century, but I am still dreading the publicity and people gossiping about me. I don’t know how my sister stands it. As an actress, Lisa must have to do this type of interview all the time, but at least she has access to a good make-up artist.
‘Do you have everything you need? Only I need to get back to my class.’
‘Of course, it was really lovely to meet you.’ Her voice drips with insincerity as she shakes my hand.
‘And you.’
Trevor shows them out. I can hear him pitching a story about the school choir as they close the door behind them.
Rhona is covering my class. She won’t thank me for it. She hates dealing with the litany of demands the younger ones bring. This afternoon we’re making Hallowe’en decorations. I have laid out sheets of newspaper over the tables and placed glue, tubes full of glitter and colouring crayons in the middle. When I walk back into the classroom, the children are hard at work, tongues sticking out in quiet concentration. They barely notice my return. Rhona is sitting at my desk, watching the clock.
‘Wow, what did you do?’ I ask, dumping my bag at her feet.
‘Threatened them all with expulsion if they weren’t quiet.’ I can’t always tell when Rhona is joking. ‘How was your fifteen minutes of fame?’
‘Excruciating.’
Rhona gathers her things. ‘I think you should be dead proud of yourself. You saved that girl’s life.’
‘Well, anyone would have done it. I was just lucky to be passing at the right time.’
‘Yeah, funny that …’ Rhona says, winking at me. She’s the only one who knows about me and Tom. I blush furiously and glance over to where Jack is sitting. He looks so much like his father. ‘Are you coming for a drink later?’
I’m about to answer when we are interrupted by a high-pitched shriek. Our heads both turn sharply to see one of the little girls throw her paintbrush on the floor. Her cheeks are cerise, her bottom lip is wobbling, and tears are streaming down her face. Rhona takes the impending tantrum as a cue to leave.
I rush over. ‘Hey, what happened?’
Phoebe, a precocious and spoilt five-year-old, holds out one of her curls, now a tangle of white blonde hair, glue and glitter. This is just what I need. Phoebe’s mother is a serial complainer and there’s not a chance in hell this latest sign of my ineptitude will go unchallenged. I lead Phoebe over to the sink in the corner of the classroom and try to wash it out but it’s hopeless and in the end, I have to leave it as it is. I will just have to face the wrath of her mother. From hero to villain in one afternoon; not bad going.
By the time the final bell rings I am exhausted, and I still have a pile of marking to get through before I go home. I stay in the classroom as the sun sets, watching the starlings perform a murmuration against the rose-coloured sky, while correcting the kids’ rudimentary attempts at basic sentences. Some of them haven’t even mastered the alphabet yet and I notice that Jack is still getting his b’s and d’s the wrong way around.
Rhona pops her head around the door shortly after seven to ask if I’m ready to leave but I shake my head dolefully.
‘All work and no play, Holly …’ she scolds gently. ‘I’ll be in the pub if you change your mind.’
I’ll give it another half an hour and go home. I take out my phone and check the newspaper website. The river rescue is the main story. The picture of me is hideous and the reporter has got half the details mixed up. I close down the browser and check my notifications. There’s an unopened Snapchat message from my sister. She befriended me on the app a few months ago but this is the first time she’s contacted me on it. I open the message.
I recognise the picture immediately. It was on my wall at university for three years. I am standing between Kristóf and George while Meg is giving the V sign above my head. Kristóf looks bored while George is beaming at the camera, loving life. It was taken the first night of Freshers’ Week when we didn’t really know each other.
My hands are shaking so badly I drop the phone and it clatters onto the classroom floor. My gut writhes with the mixture of grief and guilt that always arises when I think about that time of my life. Why would my sister send me that photo? I pick up my phone to check the message, but it has already expired.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Teacher saves teenage girl from drowning.’
Google Alerts draws his attention to the article that appeared on the local newspaper site an hour ago. He set up the alert on Holly’s name some time back, but this is the first time it has delivered a result.
He scrolls through the interview, feeling his temper rise. Holly’s quotes are steeped in self-deprecation and false modesty; the bitch is clearly lapping up the attention.
‘Anyone would have done it. I was simply in the right place at the right time.’
The reporter has made no attempt to challenge her version of events. He looks closely at Holly’s photograph. Her face is cut and bruised, and she looks older than she does on her Facebook profile. An honest picture for once, not the stylised, heavily filtered crap she usually posts.
He screengrabs the article and adds it to her folder. It isn’t as full as the others but there are still plenty of files. Private messages she thought no-one could read, deleted emails, and photographs she’s forgotten taking. Hundreds of images depicting a smiling young woman without a care in the world. It makes him sick.
Mia is clattering away in the kitchen and the heady scent of garlic and tomatoes wafts through the study door. He doesn’t have long.
He flicks through the images in her folder and picks one of the four of them. He forwards it to his mobile phone using the encryption software he got from Latvia, opens Snapchat, taps in Holly’s username and sends the photo. No message. Not this time. He wants to see how she reacts first. He removes the SIM card and places it with the others, neatly locked away in his desk drawer.
Mia is calling him down for supper. He shuts down his laptop and switches off the lamp. It is getting dark and above the London rooftops, the sky is a wash of blues with the faintest glimmer of daylight.
He will have to wait for Holly’s reply. But he’s good at waiting; he’s been waiting for a very long time.
CHAPTER FOUR
Eight years ago
It was the first night of Freshers’ Week. Mum, Dad and my sister Lisa had left a couple of hours ago and I was in my room, waiting for the right time to walk down the corridor and meet the people I would be living with for the next year. I didn’t want to be the first to arrive. I was dressed for clubbing: heels, short skirt, glittery top, but I had no idea what everyone else would be wearing. Was I overdressed for a student night? I poured myself another shot of vodka and mixed it with cherryade, hoping the alcohol would calm my nerves.
My new room was small and utilitarian, on the second floor of a block of flats that overlooked a courtyard. The only furniture was a single bed and a fitted wardrobe, desk and shelves. The bathroom comprised a toilet, shower and sink efficiently crammed into a compact cubicle. Everything about my new home was built to withstand the rigour of first-year students. I hadn’t unpacked properly but I had made up my bed with the pretty duvet cover Mum and I had chosen last week. We had filled the trolley with everything I would need for my first time away from home, getting excited over wooden spoons and tea towels.
In the flat opposite, a hot guy was walking around bare-chested. He caught me looking and winked as he walked to the window and closed the blinds. Back home, the only view from my bedroom was the windswept mudflats of Morecambe Bay. On a normal Saturday night, I would be going out with friends I had known since primary school. Dad would be telling me to “knock ’em dead” and Mum would be slipping me an emergency tenner to keep in my shoe. I would know which pubs would ask for ID and which were full of creepy old men. Gemma and I would share a taxi home at the end of the night, and we would stay awake until the early hours chatting, analysing our night in minute detail and choosing which pictures to post on Facebook. Now there were more than 200 miles between us and she would be making new friends in Cardiff while I was sitting in my room feeling clueless.
My mirror was propped up against a stack of textbooks. They were pristine, unread and despite their abstruse titles, full of excitement and mystery. I was a proper university student, at last. School, and the agonising wait for my A-level results, seemed like a distant memory. I checked my phone: it was finally time to make my appearance. I reapplied my lip-gloss, shook out my hair and checked I had money and keys before walking down the corridor to the communal kitchen. I could already hear laughter coming from behind the door. I took a deep breath and walked in.
The large kitchen had a dining area in the middle of the room. There was a collection of bottles on the table: vodka, whisky, cola, wine and a twelve pack of cheap Belgian beer. Tinie Tempah was playing out of a set of speakers attached to an iPod. The smell of pizza was rising from the oven, making me feel hungry. Laminated notices reminded users to clear up their dishes after them and to use the recycling bins.