Information about the book
THE TWISTY NEW THRILLER FROM THE SUNDAY TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE RUMOUR
As a child, it was just a game. As an adult, it was a living nightmare.
'This time it's different. She's gone too far now.
She really has.'
When teenage friends Lizzie and Alice decide to head off for a walk in the countryside, they are blissfully unaware that this will be their final day together - and that only Lizzie will come back alive.
Lizzie has no memory of what happened in the moments before Alice died, she only knows that it must have been a tragic accident. But as she tries to cope with her grief, she is shocked to find herself alienated from Alice's friends and relatives. They are convinced she somehow had a part to play in her friend's death.
Twelve years later, unpacking boxes in the new home she shares with her fiancé, Lizzie is horrified to find long-buried memories suddenly surfacing. Is the trauma of the accident finally catching up with her, or could someone be trying to threaten her new-found happiness?
Twelve years is a long time to wait, when you're planning the perfect revenge...
EXTRACT:
Then
Thursday, 19 July 2007
There are two reasons to celebrate today. First, it’s not raining.
It’s been raining for weeks and though Mum says that rain is
God’s blessing and we should be grateful for every single drop,
even she’s getting fed up with it now. I heard her tell Dad yesterday
that God’s blessed us quite enough lately, thank you
very much.
The second reason to celebrate is that it’s the first day of
the summer holidays, which means six long weeks of NO
SCHOOL.
I open my bedroom window and sniff the air. Alice and I
have just got to go on ‘The Walk’. It’s our favourite route and one
we’ve done so many times we know each and every landmark:
the kissing gate, the gap in the hedge, the little stream with the
rickety footbridge, the field with the scarecrow that looks like a
dead man on a stick, the line of poplars, the six stiles, and
finally, the railway line, where we always wait till we hear the
tracks sing, and count the seconds till the train hurtles by.
That’s the best bit, in my opinion. I think it’s Alice’s best bit
too, although we’ve never admitted that. We tell each other
that it’s our favourite walk because if we don’t dawdle and we
don’t rush, it takes us two hours from my front door and back
again. Just the right amount of time to discuss everything that
needs to be discussed before our legs start to ache and our
stomachs to grumble. But deep down, I think we both know
that it’s our favourite walk because of the railway line and the
thrill of the open crossing.
I go downstairs and dial Alice’s number on the phone in the
kitchen. I’ve only got a bit of credit left on my crappy old
mobile. Alice’s sister, Catherine, answers. She doesn’t even say
hello, just shouts for Alice in that snotty way she has. She’s a
whole nine years older than us so she really should know better.
Alice says she’s got ‘issues’. She’s got something, that’s for
sure. Once, she even slapped Alice round the face in front of
me. All Alice had done was spray a tiny bit of her sister’s perfume
on to my wrist.
Anyway, I’m not going to let Catherine Dawson’s rudeness
affect me today. I’m going to put on my Teflon coat, as Mum
calls it, the same one I put on at school when Melissa Davenport
and the others start having a go.
‘Shall we go on The Walk?’ Alice says.
‘Dur! Why do you think I’m phoning?’
‘I’ll get the bus to yours,’ she says. ‘See you soon.’
The fifth stile is different from all the others. Higher. My foot
slides clumsily on the second step and its sharp edge jabs into
my calf muscle. Alice pretends not to notice. She never makes
fun of me. Not ever. I’m there for Alice when her mum takes to
her bed with depression. I’m there for her when she can’t do her
French homework or when she has an argument with her sister.
And Alice is there for me when I have a seizure, or when
Melissa Davenport and Co. fall about, twitching their limbs
and rolling their eyes behind my back.
But just as I’m straightening up out of the clumsy squat in
which I’ve landed, I see the flicker of a smile on Alice’s lips. A
strange little smile that seems to say, ‘I know something you
don’t.’ She’s been doing it on and off ever since we set off this
morning. She opens her mouth to say something, then bites
her bottom lip and looks all worried.
‘What? What were you going to say?’
‘Oh, nothing really,’ she says. Then, after a long pause: ‘It was
just something someone said.’
She blushes, and I can guess straightaway who this someone
is. Dave Farley. He must have asked her out. I don’t think I’ll be
able to bear it if he has.
‘You can’t not tell me.’
Alice presses her lips together.
My heart drums in my throat and neck. ‘Why are you being
so mean? Why won’t you tell me?’
‘Because I can’t. I just can’t.’
Something horrible happens to my insides when she says that.
Best friends shouldn’t have secrets. At least, not from each other.
Best friends tell each other everything. Like we always have.
Suddenly, I hate Alice Dawson. I hate her because she isn’t
telling me something. I hate her because she’s pretty and doesn’t
wear glasses or have frizzy red hair or epilepsy. I hate her so
much I can barely breathe.
I accuse her of being two-
faced
– the ultimate insult
– and
we start screaming at each other. Alice marches off towards the
next stile and it’s as much as I can do to keep up with her. We’re
arguing the whole time: me hurling insults at Alice’s back, Alice
stopping every so often to glare at me over her shoulder and
lobbing them straight back. By the time we reach the crossing,
we’re running out of horrible things to say to each other.
We’ve had rows before, where one or other of us has stormed
off
– usually me, to be honest
– but we’ve always made up in
the end. Even after the really bad one we had last month. This
time seems different. More final.
And that’s when everything starts to shimmer. When the
clear blue of the sky and the vivid greens of the grass and trees
collide in a messy blur and the only sound in my ears is the vibration
of the track. The crescendo of that long metallic note filling
my head with unbearable noise.
The next thing I know, I’m sitting in a puddle of wee by the
side of the track and a train has stopped. But trains never stop
here. It’s the middle of a field.
I’m feeling all groggy. Where’s Alice? What’s happened?
Then I see one of the sleeves of her denim jacket, caught up
in the branches of a bush. Only . . . only it’s not just a sleeve.
Hot bile rushes out of my mouth and everything goes black.
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by Lesley Kara
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