The Trip

It’s late afternoon and getting dark when I finally set off. By the time I turn off the busy A65 on to the smaller country roads that lead to the village, I need full beam to light up the way ahead. The road is lined by dry stone walls and full of sharp bends and narrow passing places. The rain, that has been a persistent drizzle all afternoon, turns heavy and hammers down on the windows, obscuring my vision. I drop my speed down to thirty.

I consider pulling over until the storm has passed but there is no telling how long that will be, and I really need to get back and prepare for school tomorrow. I’m not that far from home now. I switch on the radio to distract me from my rising anxiety as I make my way down the solitary country road. I sit upright in the seat, clenching the steering wheel tightly, willing the rain to ease. The windscreen wipers can barely cope with the incessant downpour and my car is sliding on the slippery surface of the road. Puddles are forming at the sides of the lane, threatening to meet in the middle, and once or twice my car aqua planes. I try to remember what I learned in my driving lessons; whether to steer into or out of a skid.

I glance down at the fuel gauge. The needle is pointing to empty and I curse myself for not filling it up before I set off. My dad is always telling me off for embarking on long drives without a full tank of petrol. I am miles away from the nearest service station. I turn up the radio and try to concentrate on the presenter’s voice. I am about ten minutes away from home. Hopefully there will be enough petrol left to make it back. I don’t fancy walking in this weather.

A rabbit dashes in front of my car and dives into the dark hedgerow, causing me to swerve. I slam on my brakes and come to an emergency stop, grateful that there is nothing behind me. Taking a deep breath, I release the brake and immediately stall. I turn the key with trepidation hoping the ignition doesn’t fail. There is no mobile phone reception out here. If my car breaks down, I am completely stuck until it gets light or another car comes this way.

‘Please, please, please …’ I pray as I turn the key. The engine splutters, the warning lights flash but the car eventually starts.

I set off again at a steady pace, calming my nerves by breathing deeply. Relief washes over me as I see the lights of another vehicle making its way along the road behind me. At least if something happens now, there will be someone to come to my rescue. The vehicle is approaching fast, and I can see through my mirror that it is a large vehicle, a Landrover perhaps, which is having no problem dealing with the weather conditions.

It catches up with me, driving close to my bumper, pressurising me to hurry up. I look at the driver in my mirror, but their face is in silhouette. I can tell from the profile that it is a man and I feel a surge of fear. Is this the person behind the messages I’ve been getting? Or am I being paranoid? Either way, I am out here, alone, with a man who is driving aggressively but making no attempt to pass me. If I pull over, will he stop or carry on? I daren’t drive any faster in case I have an accident. I take a deep breath and with one hand scrabble in my handbag for my mobile phone. There is a single bar of reception, flickering on and off. Should I try to ring someone? But what could they do?

The car behind me flashes its lights as we approach a passing point by the side of the road. I take a deep breath and pull in, hoping he doesn’t stop as well. I see him shaking his head at me as he drives past. I switch off the engine and try to control my breathing. The rain is easing off now and I can see the moon peeking from behind the dark clouds which are moving further down the valley. Suddenly, all the emotions I have been keeping suppressed all week get the better of me and I burst into tears.

The messages are making me feel paranoid. Someone out there knows what happened in Thailand, I’m sure of it. Otherwise, why would they send that picture? And how did they get hold of it in the first place? What do they want from me? And why now? I don’t know what to do, I don’t know who to trust. Perhaps I should have told Lisa, but then I would have to tell her the full story, and I made a promise I would never tell anyone what we did that night.

There are only two people I can speak to about this and I haven’t been in touch with them for five years. It’s not a friendship I am in a hurry to rekindle.

CHAPTER TWELVE

From the bedroom window of the holiday cottage, he can see brooding hills cast in shadow against an indigo sky. Yorkshire looks nothing like the postcards. It is cold and dark and miserable. The wind seeps through the thick stone walls and it never seems to stop raining. The internet is patchy at best and he can only get mobile phone reception in certain parts of the house. It’s like being cast back in time.

He misses London. He misses the frenetic activity, the anonymity of the Tube, the crowds of people from all over the globe pressed together in a constantly evolving eco-system. There is too much space in Yorkshire. It’s eerie to look out of the window and see miles and miles of nothing. He has hired the cottage for a month. It should be long enough. Holly’s not like the others; she’s weaker, more compliant. She won’t hold out on him for long. Not when she realises how far he will go to get the truth.

He returns to his laptop where he is reviewing the contents of Holly’s inbox. Her email account wasn’t difficult to hack. He sent her a phishing email several months ago asking her to confirm her password and the stupid bitch fell for it. Her messages are mostly advertising from various retailers. She has accounts on Boohoo.com, ASOS and PrettyLittleThing. She banks with Barclays. Yawn. There’s not much personal stuff although she uses the same password for her social media accounts and that gives him access to her friends and family. Her cloud storage is a treasure trove of forgotten pictures, messages and documents. He has installed a tracking device on her car and attached a small camera to her front gate so that he can monitor her movements remotely. He needs to build up a picture of her life before he starts his campaign in earnest.

He rests his cheek against the cool plaster, feeling the thick stone that separates hunter and prey. He imagines her just a few feet away from him getting undressed, applying moisturiser, performing the daily rituals women undertake to make themselves more attractive. He imagines her slipping between the cool sheets, perhaps picking up a book to read before she goes to sleep, but more likely checking her mobile phone for those last traces of human contact before the internet falls silent. He wonders if she can feel his presence, if she knows how close he is to her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Seven years ago

We shared a house in the second year of university. The Victorian terrace in the middle of Headingley looked small from the outside, but inside it was huge with high ceilings and original cornices. Kristóf immediately claimed the attic room; he wanted to be a writer, so it suited him to pretend to be a starving artist living in the garret. Meg and I had bedrooms on the second floor and George’s bedroom would normally have been used as a dining room. We played at being grown-ups, planning dinner parties that would make Mrs Dalloway proud and window shopping for posh furniture, but it was the first time any of us had taken responsibility for a house and we quickly discovered that none of us had a clue how to go about it.

Split between us, the rent was cheaper than halls, but we had to find money for things like electricity and a TV licence which caused loads of arguments. Bills were supposed to be shared four ways, but Kristóf was hopeless at budgeting and never seemed to have any money left at the end of the month. George was forever bailing him out. Meg juggled her studies with long hours at her bar job which made her tired and bad tempered. For the most part we got on fine but every so often there were explosive rows which usually ended with either Kristóf or Meg storming out and declaring the other impossible to live with.

George drove us all crazy. He was completely oblivious to the mess he left everywhere. He would eat a sandwich and spill crumbs on the carpet, leave half-drunk cups of tea all over the house and couldn’t cook a meal without using every pot in the kitchen. He never washed up and always left plates piled in the sink until either Kristóf or I, fed up with the smell or not being able to find any crockery, gave in and washed up. George was a great cook though and made up for his slovenly behaviour with lavish feasts on Sunday evenings. The leftovers kept us going all week.

No-one on my course could believe that I would choose to be flatmates with Kristóf. He could be quite sweet at home, but in seminars he came across as aloof and arrogant. I don’t think anyone in our study group liked him. Sitting back in his chair, his legs outstretched, he second-guessed the tutor and patronised the other students. His arrogance was, unfortunately, well-placed. He quoted from Aristotle and Thucydides, shot people down with ease and entangled people in protracted arguments that they couldn’t possibly win. Kristóf loved to make other people look like fools. He thrived off our stupidity.

During the first semester we were studying Victorian literature and it was the module I’d been most looking forward to. Thackeray was on the list, along with Dickens and George Eliot but my absolute favourite writers were the Brontë sisters. Kristóf, of course, thought he was some sort of expert on them. He had studied Wuthering Heights for A-level and got a special commendation for his analysis of Heathcliff as a Marxist hero, but I thought, for once, I could give him a run for his money.

We were squashed onto one of the sofas in our tutor’s office, which smelt of old books and illicit cigarettes. Outside, the wind was howling, and the sky was slate grey. Kristóf was holding court, lecturing us about the religious symbolism in Jane Eyre and the way it reinforced patriarchal ideals. He had been droning on for about ten minutes and most of us had switched off. Ignoring the feeling of anxiety that was rising from my stomach, I raised my hand and tentatively offered a counter-argument.

‘But surely Brontë is using Bertha’s insanity as a warning against the subjugation of women? And isn’t Rochester’s blindness a form of emasculation before balance can be restored?’

The room fell quiet. Kristóf looked at me as if I had committed murder. The tutor gave me an approving smile.

‘Now, that is something we need to talk about further,’ he suggested. ‘Why don’t you two workshop those arguments and deliver a presentation next week?’

I could sense Kristóf glowering at me as I gathered my things quickly, leaving the room before he could berate me. If I had known that this would be the consequence, I would never have spoken up in class. I had landed us a shed load of work, on top of everything else we had to get through this week.

A low rumble of thunder sounded as I walked towards the library to get some books before heading home. Meg and George were holding a Hallowe’en party that night for George’s birthday. They had been planning it since the start of term and had spent hours choosing the decorations and their outfits, what cocktails to make, what music to play. The party had been getting more elaborate by the day and they had invited loads of people. I had promised Meg I would get back early to prepare but I needed to make a head start if I was going to get this presentation done in time. It wasn’t long before I heard footsteps behind me.

‘Nice one.’

‘Sorry, you know I didn’t mean for that to happen.’

‘Well, it might not be so bad if we split the reading. Shall we?’ Kristóf held the library door open for me. Relieved that he didn’t seem as cross as I thought he would be, I accepted his gesture. Meg would have no doubt told him she was perfectly capable of opening doors for herself, but I had no problem with gentlemanly behaviour.

Even by university standards, the Brotherton library was spectacular. Tall marble columns stretched up to a domed ceiling through which sunlight was streaming, bathing the wooden desks in honeyed light. The room smelt of furniture polish and dusty books. The silence was only broken by footsteps echoing across the cylindrical vault as students perused the specialist collections. The computers cataloguing the rare editions appeared anachronistic in these surroundings, more at home in the main library a few steps down the road. In this room, you lost all sense of time and place. I logged on to the online catalogue and typed in the key words for the books we needed.

Kristóf was surprisingly fun to work with. I had expected him to keep his best ideas to himself, but he contributed as much to my side of the debate as his own. We divided the theoretical texts between us, sketched out a broad outline of the issues we would cover, and what we would exclude from the discussion. Kristóf was completely focussed on the task in hand, which inspired me to work just as hard. It wasn’t until I looked up at the clock and realised it was nearly seven that I had to put a stop to what had turned out to be an enjoyable afternoon.

‘We need to get back for the Hallowe’en party.’

‘Oh God,’ Kristóf groaned. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

‘How can you forget? They’ve been banging on about it all week.’

‘I thought it might have been cancelled or something. Can’t you tell them I’ve got a headache? In fact, I think I can feel a migraine coming on just thinking about it.’

I rolled my eyes at him. ‘I’m not telling them anything. You can … if you dare.’

Kristóf hadn’t shown the least bit of interest in the party. He had initially refused to dress up, which had really annoyed Meg, but had eventually conceded to wearing a Dracula t-shirt. It was only because he admired the book. I had considered dressing up as Miss Havisham, but I didn’t think anyone would get it, so had settled for a sexy witch costume with purple and black stripy tights and a black corset. Meg said I looked like a slut but added that she meant it as a compliment.

‘It’s so clichéd of you to be a Charlotte Brontë fan,’ Kristóf sniped as we walked to the bus stop. ‘Champion of the underdog, isn’t she? I suppose you’re waiting for your Mr Rochester to turn up and rescue you, are you? Me, I prefer Emily Brontë. She refused to conform, to bow down to social expectations.’

I glared at him, trying to decide whether to even bother engaging in another argument, and concluded that it wasn’t worth my time. Kristóf may see himself as a Romantic hero, on a higher intellectual plane than the rest of us, but he was a grumpy, condescending arse when he wanted to be. As soon as we got on the bus, he pulled out a book and ignored me all the way home.

It was a relief to get back to the house and the far less complicated companionship of my other friends. Meg greeted me at the door, removed the books from my arms and immediately led me to the kitchen where she and George had made up jelly vodka shots and a vat of lethal green cocktail.

‘I need your opinion,’ she said, handing me a paper cup, brim full. ‘Too much booze or too little? What am I talking about? Can you have too much booze?’

Meg had managed to swing a discount from the bar where she worked so most of the spirits had come at cost price. George had bought a couple of cases of decent wine that would probably be wasted on most of our guests and I had chipped in for the party food and decorations. Kristóf hadn’t contributed anything; another source of friction in the house. He disappeared upstairs as soon as we got home.

He didn’t reappear until the party was in full swing. He spent most of the evening standing in the corner viewing the party guests with thinly veiled contempt and making no effort to talk to anyone. I wasn’t going to let him spoil my evening. George had put together a Hallowe’en playlist and invited all the girls from his course, including a red head that he had fancied for ages. It didn’t take long before she was following him into his bedroom.

A pang of jealousy shot through me like adrenaline. I necked my glass of vodka and coke and went into the kitchen for a refill. As I poured myself a drink, I was collared by one of the geeks from Meg’s engineering class, who was obviously trying out some new chat up lines that he had found on the internet. I was so drunk, and they were so bad, that I took pity on him and flirted back. I noticed Kristóf standing by the back door, nursing a beer and watching us with a sneer on his face. In defiance, I grabbed hold of the geek and started to snog him. His breath tasted of pepperoni and garlic and I thought I was going to gag. He stuck his tongue down my throat and started to paw me like a pubescent teenager while a dark red colour crept up Kristóf’s neck like a line of mercury. It reached his face and exploded.

He covered the room in a few strides and grabbed the guy’s collar, yanking him away from me and nearly knocking him out on the open cupboard door.

‘Oi, what’s your problem?’

‘She’s drunk and you’re taking advantage.’ I had never seen Kristóf look so angry. He was like a modern-day Heathcliff towering over a gibbering Edgar Linton. My paramour didn’t seem to fancy his chances in a physical fight and walked away, his hands raised in mock surrender.

‘Oh Kristóf, my hero!’ I mocked. ‘Thank you, I needed rescuing!’

He turned his glare at me and I realised he was in no mood for my jokes.

‘It didn’t look like it. You were all over him.’

‘I was only being polite.’ I poured myself another drink and sat on the counter, swinging my legs like a little girl. ‘What do you care anyway?’

‘I don’t particularly. I just didn’t want you to do something you would regret in the morning.’

‘I was only having fun; you should try it some time.’ Where was Meg when I needed her? Last time I saw her she had been in the living room leading a group of students in The Time Warp.

‘Didn’t look like fun from where I was standing.’ Kristóf grabbed the paper cup from me and threw the contents down the sink. I tried to stop him and fell on the floor. Kristóf lifted me back upright. He was surprisingly strong for someone so lean. ‘I think you’d better go to bed.’

I started to protest but couldn’t get the words out. He put his arm around me and helped me up the stairs.

‘Thank you, Kristóf,’ I slurred. ‘You’re a nice guy really, most of the time.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. You’re a pain in the arse when you’re drunk.’

‘I’m sorry.’

We reached my room and I stumbled into bed, fully clothed and still wearing my heels. ‘I’ll have a little nap and then I’ll get back up.’

‘Yeah whatever.’

‘Are you cross with me? Why are you cross?’

‘I’m not cross. Go to sleep.’

‘You sound cross.’

‘Well, I’m not. I just don’t know why you degrade yourself like that. You’re better than that, Holly.’

He looked at me so intensely, and our faces were so close together that, for a second, I thought he was going to kiss me. I didn’t know how I felt about that, but I thought I should at least find out. I moved towards him but before I got any closer, he stood up abruptly and walked out of the room.

‘Get some sleep, Holly,’ he said gently, closing the door behind him.