girls were growing up, and Grace had maintained that impression of them well into adulthood. But if something was wrong they needed to know, she reasoned.
She had little doubt now that something was wrong, but what on earth was she going to do, she wondered. She felt helpless relying on emails when her friend mightn’t even be checking her account. After sending yet another email to Kirsty, she opened Facebook, feeling slightly foolish for the idea that had entered her head. Kirsty would have mocked her for it, she was sure. She clicked through to Kirsty’s profile hoping there’d be something there to explain what the hell was going on, squinting as she tried to read the tiny screen.
Kirsty juddered awake in the middle of the night. Half delirious, she looked around, not recognising her surroundings. Slowly coming to, her heart stopped racing, and she remembered the Australian who was currently snoring softly on her left side. She became acutely conscious of the dry trail of drool that snaked down her cheek to her chin.
Rubbing her face, she lay back on the cramped bunk, hoping to get some more sleep. She switched on her camera and could just make out the face of her watch in the dim light. It was 5am: there were still several hours to go before they would reach Vientiane.
So far on the journey, time had flown by: she’d spent the first couple of hours chatting in whispers to the Australian – who had introduced himself as Grant – and sniggering at the elephantine snoring of the middle-aged men surrounding them. At some point she’d drifted off to sleep: no mean feat when she considered the confined nature of her quarters, and the fact that what looked like an entire Vietnamese family was sharing the two beds on her right. In the first hour, the bus had stopped several times to load up with the most random combination of items imaginable: sacks of grain, crates full of Pepsi, electrical goods, garden strimmers. Various extra passengers had also boarded the bus, sought out the floor space that wasn’t covered in bags and boxes, and lain down to sleep. She had enjoyed picturing Grace on that bus, imagining how her friend would have reacted had she been asked to share her seat with a gallon bottle of bleach or an old-fashioned radio, as some of the other passengers had had to.
She was suddenly aware of a gnawing hunger, and regretted not bringing any food. All she had was a small water bottle, around three-quarters empty, the remaining water now warm. She had no idea when – or if – the bus would stop for food.
She was shaking the water bottle disconsolately and debating whether to pry open the corner of one of the sacks at her feet, when she heard movement beside her.
“Hey, I’ve got some noodles left from earlier. Wanna share?”
She smiled in the darkness.
Chapter 9
Grace couldn’t focus her eyes on her phone’s tiny screen any longer. She had spent hours in the bar the night before trying to make sense of Kirsty’s non-appearance. After breakfast, she stared blindly at the colourful cafe wall in front of her. It hadn’t seemed real until the day before: she’d been angry at Kirsty, but she had pictured them strolling around Bangkok in a huffy silence for a couple of hours, before Grace inevitably thawed, as she always did. Now though, she was worried for her friend. Should she call the police? How did one call the police in Thailand? Wearily, she paid the waitress and returned to the hotel with a thousand questions for the receptionist.
Lumpini police station was thronged with people; the air thick with the frenzied hum of a language and culture she didn’t understand. She scanned the room for some semblance of a queue. Seeing none, she pushed her way apologetically to the desk on the far side. The officer – an affable looking young man with brilliant white teeth, who looked several years her junior – smiled brightly as she approached, before bursting into a torrent of
She had little doubt now that something was wrong, but what on earth was she going to do, she wondered. She felt helpless relying on emails when her friend mightn’t even be checking her account. After sending yet another email to Kirsty, she opened Facebook, feeling slightly foolish for the idea that had entered her head. Kirsty would have mocked her for it, she was sure. She clicked through to Kirsty’s profile hoping there’d be something there to explain what the hell was going on, squinting as she tried to read the tiny screen.
Kirsty juddered awake in the middle of the night. Half delirious, she looked around, not recognising her surroundings. Slowly coming to, her heart stopped racing, and she remembered the Australian who was currently snoring softly on her left side. She became acutely conscious of the dry trail of drool that snaked down her cheek to her chin.
Rubbing her face, she lay back on the cramped bunk, hoping to get some more sleep. She switched on her camera and could just make out the face of her watch in the dim light. It was 5am: there were still several hours to go before they would reach Vientiane.
So far on the journey, time had flown by: she’d spent the first couple of hours chatting in whispers to the Australian – who had introduced himself as Grant – and sniggering at the elephantine snoring of the middle-aged men surrounding them. At some point she’d drifted off to sleep: no mean feat when she considered the confined nature of her quarters, and the fact that what looked like an entire Vietnamese family was sharing the two beds on her right. In the first hour, the bus had stopped several times to load up with the most random combination of items imaginable: sacks of grain, crates full of Pepsi, electrical goods, garden strimmers. Various extra passengers had also boarded the bus, sought out the floor space that wasn’t covered in bags and boxes, and lain down to sleep. She had enjoyed picturing Grace on that bus, imagining how her friend would have reacted had she been asked to share her seat with a gallon bottle of bleach or an old-fashioned radio, as some of the other passengers had had to.
She was suddenly aware of a gnawing hunger, and regretted not bringing any food. All she had was a small water bottle, around three-quarters empty, the remaining water now warm. She had no idea when – or if – the bus would stop for food.
She was shaking the water bottle disconsolately and debating whether to pry open the corner of one of the sacks at her feet, when she heard movement beside her.
“Hey, I’ve got some noodles left from earlier. Wanna share?”
She smiled in the darkness.
Chapter 9
Grace couldn’t focus her eyes on her phone’s tiny screen any longer. She had spent hours in the bar the night before trying to make sense of Kirsty’s non-appearance. After breakfast, she stared blindly at the colourful cafe wall in front of her. It hadn’t seemed real until the day before: she’d been angry at Kirsty, but she had pictured them strolling around Bangkok in a huffy silence for a couple of hours, before Grace inevitably thawed, as she always did. Now though, she was worried for her friend. Should she call the police? How did one call the police in Thailand? Wearily, she paid the waitress and returned to the hotel with a thousand questions for the receptionist.
Lumpini police station was thronged with people; the air thick with the frenzied hum of a language and culture she didn’t understand. She scanned the room for some semblance of a queue. Seeing none, she pushed her way apologetically to the desk on the far side. The officer – an affable looking young man with brilliant white teeth, who looked several years her junior – smiled brightly as she approached, before bursting into a torrent of
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