No Escape: The most addictive, gripping thriller with a shocking twist

Previously published as The Blue

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

The News Building

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published as The Blue by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Lucy Clarke 2015

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Lucy Clarke 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: 9780007563364

Ebook Edition ©JULY 2015 ISBN: 9780007563371

Version: 2018-06-20

Dedication

For Thomas Oak, who was growing inside me during much of the writing of this novel. My world is so much richer because of you.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1: Now

Chapter 2: Then

Chapter 3: Then

Chapter 4: Now

Chapter 5: Then

Chapter 6: Then

Chapter 7: Now

Chapter 8: Then

Chapter 9: Now

Chapter 10: Then

Chapter 11: Now

Chapter 12: Then

Chapter 13: Now

Chapter 14: Then

Chapter 15: Then

Chapter 16: Now

Chapter 17: Then

Chapter 18: Then

Chapter 19: Then

Chapter 20: Now

Chapter 21: Then

Chapter 22: Then

Chapter 23: Now

Chapter 24: Then

Chapter 25: Then

Chapter 26: Now

Chapter 27: Then

Chapter 28: Then

Chapter 29: Now

Chapter 30: Then

Chapter 31: Now

Chapter 32: Then

Chapter 33: Now

Chapter 34: Then

Chapter 35: Then

Chapter 36: Now

Chapter 37: Now

Chapter 38: Now

Chapter 39: Now

Chapter 40: Now

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

Discover More From Lucy Clarke

Reading Group Questions

About the Author

Also by Lucy Clarke

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

A body floats, unseeing eyes fixed on the brooding sky. A pair of cotton shorts has darkened, pockets gulping with water. A shirt billows, then clings to the unmoving chest. The streak of blood across the right temple has washed away now, leaving the skin clear and greying.

Below, the sea teems with darting fish carving through the water in great shoals, while tiny flecks of nutrient-rich plankton spin in the light. Deeper still, milky-eyed predators patrol the sunless depths where the seabed is scarred with the markings of currents, and broken coral lies as hard as bone.

But above there is only a body.

And a yacht.

On board, as bare feet move across the sun-bleached deck, a thread of fear begins to weave amongst the crew. Within minutes the pitch of voices becomes raised; footsteps turn hurried; eyes narrow as they press against the dark rings of binoculars scanning the horizon.

It doesn’t take long for the fragile film of order to begin to tear, slowly working itself loose in the breeze. As a pair of hands reaches for the wheel, turning the yacht into the wind, the sail flapping loose, the truth is already drifting out of reach.

1

NOW

The paintbrush slips from Lana’s fingers, turning through the air as it falls. It clatters to the floor at the foot of the easel, splattering tiny flecks of blue acrylic paint against her ankle.

Lana doesn’t glance down, doesn’t notice the spots of paint that decorate the small tattoo of a wing inked on her ankle. Her gaze remains fixed on the radio that sits on the windowsill, her fingers raised as if still holding the brush to the canvas. That silver box of metal and wires holds the entire sum of her concentration as she focuses on the voice of a news presenter.

‘… has sunk a hundred nautical miles off the north coast of New Zealand. The yacht – The Blue – was believed to have left Fiji eight days ago with a crew of five on board, including two New Zealanders. A search-and-rescue operation has been launched from the Maritime Rescue Centre at the Bay of Islands. The coastguard has described the sea state as moderate with wind speeds of up to twenty knots.’

Lana blinks, struggling to absorb the information, as if it’s rain running off hard, scorched earth. Her gaze bores into the radio, willing it to disclose something more, but the newscaster has already moved on to the next story.

She turns on the spot, lifting a hand to her head. She feels the cool silk of her headscarf keeping her hair off her face. It has been eight months since she stepped from that yacht, her skin tanned, her feet bare, a backpack heaved on her shoulders. She’d walked along the shoreline with dark hollows beneath her eyes, and hadn’t looked back. She couldn’t.

As she turns, she catches sight of herself in the long mirror that leans against her apartment wall. She stares: her face has paled and large green eyes glare back at her, wide with questions. Was Kitty still on board after all this time? Had she stayed even after Lana left? It’s possible that Kitty could have returned to England. Lana tries to picture her riding the Tube with a script in her hand, glossy dark hair loose over her shoulders, her lips painted red. But the image won’t form, not clearly. She knows that Kitty wouldn’t have left the yacht, because how could either of them go home after what’d happened?

It has been eight months since they’ve last seen each other – the longest time in their friendship they’ve ever spent apart. She thinks about Kitty’s emails still sitting unread in her inbox. At first, they came in thick and fast; then there were gaps – a few days, sometimes a week. Lana began imagining the patterns of the yacht as it sailed through remote island chains, wondering what was happening on board, who Kitty was spending her time with. Eventually, with her head too full of images, she stopped reading the emails. Stopped thinking about Kitty.

Now a beautiful memory gusts into her thoughts, bright as a kite. She and Kitty, eleven years old, sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor plaiting friendship bracelets. ‘This is yours,’ Kitty had said, holding up a slim cotton bracelet woven with turquoise and yellow threads – Lana’s favourite colours. Kitty tied it firmly over Lana’s wrist, using her teeth to get the knot in exactly the right position. When Kitty pulled away, there was a small smear of strawberry lipgloss on the back of Lana’s wrist.

In return Lana had plaited a pink and white bracelet for Kitty, and the two of them had held their wrists side by side and made the promise, ‘Friends for ever.’

Lana had worn her bracelet for eighteen months, until it had faded and frayed to a dishwater-grey. It had eventually snapped in the bath, so she’d hooked it out and dried it over the towel rail. Then she’d put it away in her memory box with the photo of her mother.

Friends for ever, they’d agreed.

A guilty heat crawls across Lana’s skin as she thinks of that failed promise: she’s cut Kitty out of her life, like slicing a bowline and letting a boat drift out to the open ocean.

*

Lana waits desperately for another news bulletin. She needs to hear exactly what’s happening out on the water – whether the crew have made it to the life raft, whether any of them is injured – but the radio station is playing a soft rock song that comes strumming into her apartment. She paces to the windowsill and snaps off the radio.

She stays by the open window. Outside, the morning light is thin and hazy, a salt breeze drifting into the room. She pushes up onto her tiptoes, peering beyond the treeline to where she can glimpse the sea. It’s one of the reasons she agreed to rent the apartment with its cracked wooden floorboards and noisy electric heaters that she has to huddle against in the depths of the New Zealand winter to feel any warmth.

Now that summer is on its way, she’s grateful for the wide windows that let the light flood in, as she sets up her easel in front of them so she can paint before work. She’s made a life of sorts here: she has a job, a place to live, an old car. Her days may not be filled with friends and laughter and noise as they once were, but perhaps it’s better this way.

Sometimes she thinks of her father back in England in his tired terraced house, spending his evenings alone doing the crossword or watching the news. After all those years of riling against his quiet routines, the irony of how her life has taken on the same lonely rhythm as his hasn’t escaped her. She writes to him every couple of months – just brief letters to reassure him that she’s safe – but she never includes her address. She’s still not ready for that.

Lana arrived in New Zealand eight months ago now, stepping from the plane into the start of autumn, shivering in a sun-bleached cotton dress, her salt-matted hair loose over her shoulders. She’d had a backpack on her shoulders and $500 left of her savings.

She’d spent that first night in an Auckland hostel, lying on a bunk with her eyes closed, waiting to feel it sway and shudder. If someone had walked into her dorm, laid a hand on her shoulder and asked, Are you okay? Has something happened? she would have told them – told them everything; about the canvas backpack thrown from the side of the yacht, drifting in the sea like a body; about how a horizon curves and wavers when there is no land to break it; about the red sarong pooled on the floor of the cabin, soft beneath Lana’s feet; about a kiss in a cave carved from limestone; about how you can look at your best friend and no longer recognize her. But no one had asked. And, as the minutes had crept into hours, and the hours stretched through the night, Lana had pushed down each of those memories, sealing them off.

When dawn had arrived, she’d showered the salt from her skin, letting the water run long and hard, marvelling at its seemingly endless supply. Then she’d pulled on her dress, followed by her backpack, and started to walk. The rubber V of her flip-flops rubbed between her toes; she’d been barefoot for weeks. She’d stopped at a sidewalk café and ordered breakfast and a coffee. As she’d wolfed down a salty bacon-and-egg bagel, a car had pulled up with a surfboard strapped to its roof and a handwritten sign taped to the back window, reading, ‘For sale. $500.’ Lana had got up from her table and asked the car’s owner, a young Spanish guy whose visa was expiring in two days’ time, if he’d take $300. He said if she dropped him at the airport first she had a deal.

Afterwards, she’d driven north with no map, no plan, and no one sitting beside her. It had been odd to be behind the wheel of a car after so long and she kept over-steering into bends, having grown accustomed to the yacht’s helm. The speed and smoothness of road travel unnerved her so much that she’d wound down all the windows to feel the wind against her face.

On that first drive across New Zealand, she’d passed serene dark lakes, endless undulating vineyards and staggering hillsides, eventually arriving at the coast. That’s where she’d pulled up – on a gravel track that overlooked a bay. She’d parked facing the sea and watched as the waves rolled in, beaching themselves on the shore. When the sun had lowered itself into the sea, she’d climbed onto the back seat, pulled out her sleeping bag from the bottom of her backpack and wriggled into it, lying with her neck cricked against the door.

If anyone had asked, Why New Zealand? she could have told them that she’d always wanted to travel here – but that would only have been part of the story.

The truth was, Lana had always known that the yacht was going to return here eventually – just as she’d known that New Zealand was where he was from. Perhaps she’d been waiting all these months because, no matter how hard she tried to forget, she still wasn’t ready to let go of The Blue.

2

THEN

Lana found the sketchbook tucked at the back of the stall between bags of cashew nuts and a stack of sun hats. She eased it from the shelf and wiped the film of dust from its cover. The pages were thinner than she’d have liked, but at least they were a bright, crisp white. She took it to the counter where a Filipino boy with crooked front teeth grinned as he searched for the price.

‘Artist?’ he asked.

She was about to answer, No, when on a whim, she smiled and said, ‘Yes. Artist.’ Why the hell not? She was travelling; no one – except Kitty – knew her over here. She could be whoever she wanted to be.

She left the shade of the stall with the sketchbook under her arm. The streets were busy, the heat of the day stored in the roads which seemed to radiate warmth and dust. Her thick amber hair was piled up in a loose knot, and she used the back of her arm to wipe away the sheen of sweat on her forehead. The heat in the Philippines was like a wall, unmovable and solid, both day and night.

She wove through the crowds, skirting a man who stood in the centre of the pavement wafting a straw fan over the embers of a grill. A smoky charred aroma rose into the air.

Beyond him, a diesel generator whirred outside a stall and she felt the heat kicked out from its exhaust against her bare legs. She dodged two crates of glass bottles stacked on the pavement, then navigated a map of cracks and gouges in the concrete. She was a little disappointed with the stalls, having imagined trailing through them and discovering quirky print dresses or interesting handmade jewellery – but most of the stalls sold the same range of bland T-shirts and sarongs.

On the opposite side of the street a young Filipino boy padded along carrying a cockerel, a dog trotting behind him with a coconut husk in its mouth. Beyond the boy she saw Kitty standing in the queue for the bakery, her dark hair snaking over one shoulder. From behind she could almost pass as a local with her petite figure and her skin tanned a rich mahogany. She was talking to an elderly man with a stooped posture who was laughing at something she was saying. Kitty had a wonderful knack of making friends wherever they went, drawing strangers into conversation with her inexhaustible supply of stories and questions.

Lana slowed to cross the road and meet Kitty, a tide of people moving and bustling around her. The sweet, yeasty smell of bread drifted towards her on a warm wind as she waited for a gap in the procession of brightly painted tricycles. There were no cars in Norappi, only tricycles weaving, racing and beeping their way along the streets. They made her think of the Bangkok tuk-tuks she’d seen pictures of, with their decorated metal sidecars attached to the driver’s motorbike.

Across the street there was a sudden blur of movement and noise. The boy carrying the cockerel gave a high-pitched yelp of surprise as the bird burst free from his grip and made a dash for it across the road. A tricycle coming towards it swerved sharply in a squeal of brakes, and the passenger – a young Western man with large headphones clamped over his ears – was shot out of his seat, slamming to the other side of the vehicle, making it veer further off course.

The tricycle careered onto the pavement, crashing into a street grill, and dragging it along the roadside towards Lana, metal raging on concrete in a hideous cacophony of noise. Stunned by the eruption of chaos, she didn’t manage to move back swiftly enough and the grill caught her foot, pulling it out from under her.

Suddenly the ground was spinning towards her – her bag and sketchbook flying away. She felt the smack of concrete against her palms, the side of her knee, her ankle bone. Her nostrils filled with grit and dust. Beneath her the concrete thrummed with heat.

There was more shouting, and she lifted her head to see the young boy making a grab for the cockerel. He caught a fistful of tail feathers and yanked it, squawking, towards him, clasping it roughly within both arms. The tricycle was now parked haphazardly on the side of the road, and its driver clipped the boy over the head, scolding him demonstratively.

Lana blinked, bringing her gaze back to the ground. She needed to get up, but couldn’t seem to make herself move. She was aware of her belongings tossed aside, the fresh pages of her sketchbook splayed in the dirt.

As she lay there, a young man in a bright T-shirt crouched to the ground and gathered up her things. He came towards her, fanning the dust from the pages, asking, ‘You okay?’

‘Yes,’ she said, finally heaving herself upright. Her head swam and she touched her forehead with her fingertips.

‘Here,’ he said, taking her by the elbow, and carefully helping her to her feet.

As she stood, he kept hold of her, turning his back to the flow of the crowd to give Lana space while she regained her balance. Her ankle throbbed painfully and she looked down and saw a small patch of blood beginning to bloom just above the bone.

‘I was in the tricycle. The driver was trying to miss the cockerel, but …’ He paused, looking at her again. A faint beat of music slid from the headphones around his neck. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine—’

‘Lana! Jesus!’ Kitty was pushing her way through the flow of people, sunglasses askew on her head, a bag bouncing against her hip. Reaching Lana, she threw her arms around her neck. ‘I heard the noise. Saw you! Are you hurt? How bad is it?’ Kitty pulled away, her hands holding onto Lana’s upper arms as she scanned her. ‘Your ankle. It’s bleeding.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Lana said, wanting to get off the street and sit for a moment. She brushed half-heartedly at the dust on her dress.

‘I think these are yours,’ the stranger said, holding out Lana’s belongings.

Lana thanked him.

‘Take it easy, eh?’

As she turned to move away, her vision seemed to swerve. Everything felt louder and closer: horns honking, quick bursts of Tagalog, the banging of a hammer against metal. She was aware of the hot trickle of blood winding its way down her foot and the sensation made her want to gag. People wove around her, scents of washing powder, food, sweat, rising from their skin. Just walk. Move slowly. Get out of this street.

But as she walked, her legs felt unsteady and her balance seemed to falter. She reached out a hand to find something solid she could rest against, but there was only air.

‘Oh shit!’ she heard Kitty cry, her voice seeming far away.

Then the man was at Lana’s other side, gripping her by the upper arm – steadying her. ‘Here,’ he said calmly. ‘We’ve got you.’

*

They steered her along the street, cutting through a narrow gap between two stalls that led down a shaded alleyway. Chickens roamed and bleached washing was drying stiff in the heat. An elderly woman sat with an empty plate in front of her, watching them through milky brown eyes.

He took a left, crossing a rickety bridge that stretched over a waterway, towards what appeared to be a dead end of rocks. ‘It’s just up here.’

A group of travellers appeared from a gap between the rocks, talking in loud voices, laughing, bashing each other over the shoulders. Lana followed the direction they had come from, hobbling slowly along a cool, stone passageway.

Eventually she found herself standing at the top of a stairway made of hundreds of white pebbles set neatly into concrete. From here a view of a bar opened out below. It was built on stilts over the water, its sides open to the softening blue sky, and almost everything she could see was made of bamboo or driftwood. Backpackers in T-shirts and board shorts, sundresses and colourful tops, lounged in low chairs or on floor cushions, playing cards, smoking, talking. Two girls sat at the very edge of the bar drinking beers with their tanned legs dangling towards the water. The pulse of music throbbed through the space, intermingled with voices and laughter.

The man found them a spot by the water, where a cool breeze drifted in. Lana set her sketchbook on the table, then lowered herself down into one of the wide wooden chairs that sat only inches from the floor. She stretched her legs in front of her, pleased to take the weight off her ankle.

‘I’ll get some ice,’ Kitty said, ‘and drinks. Lana, you need something medicinal.’ Turning to the man, she asked, ‘Beer?’

He held a hand up, saying, ‘You guys go ahead. I’ll sort myself out. I’m meeting some mates here soon.’

‘Just a quick one – to say thanks,’ Kitty insisted.