Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
Part One
‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’
–Sun Tzu
Prologue
Bianka
Can Xara, Ibiza
Charlotte comes to slowly, though Bianka is increasingly persistent in her attempts at rousing her, slapping her cheek at first gently, then firmly, audibly. She’s on her back on the floor of the farmhouse, her white linen dress smeared with vivid blood and vomit. She opens her eyes briefly, then throws up again, a splash of thin green bile and wine. Bianka helps Charlotte into a half-sitting position, holding her tight to her chest, the way a mother would an injured child.
‘We’re going to get through this. I’m going to help you. Wake up, Charlotte. Charlotte, can you hear me? Here, sit up, oh no, hey it’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ll never let you go, Charlotte. Never.’
Bianka glances around the room. How are they going to get out of this? There has to be a way. At least Bianka is sure of one thing – this will bring them closer together. It has to.
Charlotte makes a low growl, then coughs repeatedly. Her throat must be sore from the shouting and vomiting. Her glossy brown hair flows loose around her shoulders and into the narrow space between them like slivers of silk, and Bianka gently smooths it down. The long metal pin that held it up in a twisted coil is in Charlotte’s hand, its entire length slick with blood. Bianka pulls away slightly and sees that Charlotte’s eyes are fully open now and taking in the impossible and shocking scene.
When she’s certain Charlotte is able to sit unaided, Bianka releases her from the half-embrace that was propping her up.
‘No,’ Charlotte whispers as she recognizes the lifeless figure by the door; dead, beyond any doubt. It’s the absolute, empty stillness that gives it away, and the sliver of white beneath half-open eyelids. Bianka’s stomach turns, and she’s overcome by a vicious nausea, her heart racing.
‘Yes,’ whispers Bianka, catching a fat tear rolling down Charlotte’s cheek with her fingertip. ‘Oh, Charlotte, what have you done?’
One
Bianka
She’s imagined this moment over and over for several months, but when it comes, she still feels unprepared, and a bolt of anxiety rushes through her, settling in the pit of her gut like a cool, hard fist. The house is mostly empty, their personal belongings in transit. All she needs to do is take a couple of steps across the hallway, strangely uncluttered now, then step out through the open door to where Emil and Storm are loading suitcases into the waiting taxi. Storm looks wan and suddenly much younger than his sixteen years, and for a moment Bianka feels bad for all the times she’s looked forward to the time when she wouldn’t need to deal with him every day. That time has come and, in a couple of minutes, a blue school van will pull up at the curb, ready to take Storm and his extensive equipment to his introductory summer camp at his new boarding school.
But it isn’t saying goodbye to Storm that Bianka finds unsettling, it’s the frightening nature of making a change this big, of turning her entire world upside down. She swallows back tears at the thought that their house will just stand there, like an empty shell, all the memories of life as she’s known it for over a decade fading slowly. Who knows whether they’ll ever return? At least they’re not selling it or renting it out, so they’ll have the option to go back, but Bianka knows all too well that big changes are rarely reversible, no matter the intentions. She resists the urge to turn back around to look at the house that gave her shelter and security – a home – when she needed it most. She smiles at Storm, who has placed the last of the suitcases into the boot of the car, but he turns away, and she can tell he’s embarrassed by the sheen of tears in his eyes. How do you say goodbye to a child you’ve raised but who often feels like a stranger?
Bianka feels a little faint, so she gets into the back seat of the taxi and closes the door with a soft click, staring down at her hands, avoiding the eyes of the driver in the rearview. Through the open window carrying a soft, warm June breeze, Bianka can pick out snatches of conversation between father and son.
‘You’re going to love it.’
‘What if I don’t?’
‘I know you will.’
‘Well, it’s not like you’ve left me much choice. The slopes aren’t that great in London.’
‘Just give it a chance, Storm. We’ll see you in two weeks.’
The van arrives to take Storm to the school high up in the mountains a couple of hours north of Oslo, where several of the other kids are also on national teams for skiing and other sports. The Olympic Factory, they call it.
