Forgotten: a truly gripping psychological thriller by Heleyne Hammersley Page A

without so much as a smile so it’s a bit hard to respond. I wish the British were more like it. How often have I wished for intervention from a passing stranger before an argument went too far? How often have I wanted someone to step in when I saw the warning signs? It could have saved me a lot of trouble and a lot of pain. I suppose our traditional reserve is simply another way of saying we’re too embarrassed to get involved with the lives of others. Or too afraid of what we see of other people’s relationships.
    Anyway, the undertaker followed me on to the bus and sat at the back without giving me time to say ‘ xie xie ’ and I soon forgot all about him as the journey grew puzzling and then completely terrifying. I threw my rucksack on to the pile of luggage at the front of the bus and squeezed myself into a window seat next to a young woman with a drooling baby. We set off around town with the conductor, a young guy who looked like he was just along for the ride, shouting at anyone who looked like they were waiting for a bus. When he was satisfied that he’d found all the passengers he possibly could we hit the open road, stopping every few minutes for him to shout our destination at unwary passers-by. I was pretty uncomfortable but I was glad to be squashed in when we hit the first of the mountain bends.
    It was a wonderful road and I would love to have driven it in my own time. The mountains surrounded us on all sides, some covered in scrubby looking trees, others rocky and inhospitable. The road itself was wide and comforting but the driver seemed determined to milk every possible drop of terror out of it. He took each bend as wide as possible, offering me a glimpse of my own mortality over each hair-raising precipice, and only slowed down at the last possible minute, ensuring that I was completely terrified at every turn. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse and my nerves were tested to breaking point I heard a loud blast on a horn coming from behind us. To my horrified fascination another bus drew level with us and a race ensued. The other driver seemed slightly more skilful, or reckless, so our driver decided to improve his chances of overtaking on the straight bits by throwing fruit at the other bus. This sounds quite harmless but it involved him opening his side window, holding the wheel with one hand and throwing the fruit as hard as he could with the other. All the time we were speeding along with a vertiginous drop on one side. The other passengers were either laughing or dozing. I was praying!
    When I finally got off the bus, in Wutaishan, my legs were like jelly and I collapsed on the nearest wall trying to get my bearings. This turned out to be a big mistake as it made me easy prey for the hospitality-vampires lurking around the bus stand. A small woman with her hair scraped back into a severe pony tail showed me pictures of a hotel then simply stood in front of me thrusting the leaflet under my nose repeating ‘Very nice’ in a bored sounding voice. I tried to will her away by ignoring her but she was very determined. I stood and began to walk away from her but she followed me down the street, changing her chant to ‘Nice hotel’. After a few yards I saw a sign for No. 8 Guesthouse. It stood out amongst the other signs and posters as though it was drawing me towards the alley where the guesthouse was hidden. It reminded me of the bed and breakfast sign in that spooky Roald Dahl story about the psychotic landlady who stuffs her guests. I should have taken this as a warning but I ducked into the courtyard and threw myself through the door.
    So here I am, in No. 8 Shithole. There’s no hot water, the stains on the sheets are less than welcoming and the TV only receives one channel. I asked the room attendant for toilet paper and was rewarded with a smile and ‘ Meiyou ’ which literally means ‘is none’ but in practice is used more like ‘don’t be silly’ or ‘piss off’.