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

were both silent and Lana wished she hadn’t laughed, thinking Kitty was going to leave now. But after a minute or so, Kitty said, ‘So why d’you always sit on your own?’

      Lana watched a ladybird crawl up a blade of grass near her feet, making the blade tremble and bend. ‘I dunno. Why are you on your own?’

      ‘I’m not. I’m talking to you.’ Kitty shook her head a little, making her high ponytail swing. Lana wondered whether Kitty was wearing mascara as her eyelashes looked so dark and long. Lana had her father’s eyelashes – auburn and short – as well as his amber hair. But her long, straight nose and olive skin came from her mother. People often remarked upon Lana’s unusual colouring, and she liked telling them, My father’s a redhead, but my mother was Greek.

      ‘Anyway, I’m looking for daffodils,’ Kitty announced.

      ‘How come?’

      ‘It’s my mum’s birthday today.’ Kitty looked at her from the corners of her eyes, then added, ‘She’s dead though.’

      Lana stared back. With their gazes pinned to each other, she found herself saying, ‘Mine, too.’

      If Kitty had been surprised, she hadn’t shown it. ‘My mum died when I was seven. Cancer. How old were you?’

      ‘Three.’

      Lana told Kitty about the car accident. Even though she hadn’t been with her mother, the events of the day felt imprinted on her as if she’d lived through every frame. It was a Thursday morning; her mother was driving to the supermarket when a lorry hurtling along in the other direction had braked hard to avoid a car that pulled out in front of it. The lorry began jackknifing across the road. Tons of metal swung into Lana’s mother’s Renault 5, killing her on impact.

      When other people heard what had happened to Lana’s mother, their expressions filled with pity and they spoke to her in a soft, special voice. But not Kitty. She listened with her head tilted to one side, her eyes locked on Lana.

      After a moment Kitty said, ‘My mum died in a hospice. On her own. My dad was sitting in our car, smoking, and I was trying to find somewhere to change a pound coin so I could get a drink from the vending machine. When I came back to her ward, a bed sheet was pulled over her face.’

      The two girls eyed one another in silence. Then Lana stood, picked up her bag and said, ‘Come on. I’ll show you where the best daffodils are.’

      *

      From the other end of the phone line Lana hears the man speak, the receiver pressed close to his mouth. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Kitty Berry is on the crew list.’

      Lana’s heart clenches tight as a fist, her eyes squeezing shut.

      So Kitty has still been on the yacht after all these months. After everything that had happened, Lana wonders if Kitty could still enjoy lying back in the hammock, watching the shooting stars blaze across the sky as they’d once done together.

      She runs the heel of her hand back and forth across her forehead. ‘What happened out there? How did the yacht get into trouble?’

      ‘I’m not able to disclose any information just yet,’ Paul Carter says.

      Lana grits her teeth with frustration. ‘Have you found her? Found any of them?’

      There is a pause in which she hears the man clearing his throat. ‘I’m sorry. The entire crew is missing.’

      *

      Lana puts down the phone and remains sitting on the edge of the bed. It is almost impossible to picture The Blue somewhere out there in these waters. Sunk.

      There was a life raft, she knows. It was stored in a canister at the stern, which she’d sometimes lean against, her legs stretched out in the sun. She wonders when the raft was last checked, and whether the grab bag was properly stocked, too.

      She can picture the yacht easily – the teak deck warm beneath the soles of her feet; the white mainsail billowing with wind; the light slosh and draw of waves against the hull as the yacht turns lazily on its anchor. But she cannot bring to mind that same yacht struggling in the ocean as water washes on board, creeping down the hatch into the saloon where they all used to sit together for dinner. She cannot picture the sea steadily rising up over the floor, enveloping the lockers and cupboards stocked with food, blankets, torches and ropes, then creeping higher, bleeding over the photos pinned to the saloon wall and flooding the shelves of well-thumbed books. She cannot imagine the crew wading through salt water, while sodden charts, packets of food, loose clothes and toiletries float around them.

      A yacht like that just doesn’t sink. It was built to handle the open ocean, rough seas. What the hell happened?

      Lana raises herself to her feet and crosses the room to the window.

      For months Lana tried her best to distance herself from the yacht and crew. She closed a door of her mind because behind it lay a beautiful, bright pain – and even opening it a crack seared. In some ways, she’s succeeded. She made a fresh start here in New Zealand, yet there are moments – if she catches sight of the swoop of a sail on the horizon, or hears a wave breaking onto the shore – then The Blue sails back into her thoughts. Sometimes all it takes to remember is a shopkeeper’s lilting accent, which sends Denny spiralling into her mind, or the sight of two friends walking with their heads pressed together, making her miss Kitty with a deep ache.

      Now that she has heard this news, it feels as though each of the memories she has hidden away is unwinding, link by link, like an anchor chain dragging her downwards. She feels the weight of each memory pulling her deeper: thick fingers gripped around the pale skin of a throat; Shell’s tear-stricken face as she stepped forward at the bow to speak; dark waves lashing at the deck as the rigging shrieked in the wind; Kitty’s hollow-eyed gaze as she raised her hand into the air; the deep-red bloom of blood that stained the deck.

      Back then, if Lana had known everything she does now, she wonders whether she’d ever have set foot on The Blue.

       5

       THEN

      Lana stood at the helm, her hands resting on the sun-warmed wheel. A glowing red sun was lowering itself towards the sea, washing the water pink.

      She turned to Kitty, whose skin looked a deep bronze in the evening light, the lenses of her sunglasses reflecting the fire of the sunset, and said, ‘I can’t help thinking that at any moment someone’s going to come along and tell us we’re in the wrong place.’

      ‘I know,’ Kitty agreed. ‘We’re out here sailing a fucking yacht together! Life doesn’t get much better, does it?’

      This would be their fifth night on board The Blue, and they’d both fallen hopelessly in love with every aspect of it: the long hours spent snorkelling over coral gardens and exploring empty coves where wild mangoes grew; learning how to handle the sails and steer a course; cooking meals in the narrow galley kitchen with the view of the sea through the porthole; talking on deck until the early hours with rum warm in their throats.

      ‘Listen to this,’ Kitty said, lifting her hands towards Lana’s ear and rubbing her palms together. They made a rough scraping sound where the skin had become dry and callused from hauling the ropes – or sheets as Aaron had taught the girls to call them. ‘That’s my body’s way of telling me I’m not cut out for manual work. I’m going to see if Shell’s got any moisturizer.’

      Kitty disappeared below deck, and Lana turned her attention to the plotter screen, checking their course and position. They were sailing to a small island Aaron had noticed on the charts, where they planned