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‘Ah, next time,’ he says.
‘Hang on. What makes you think there’ll be a next time?’
He tilts his head. ‘Won’t there?’
‘That depends how well this time goes. And just so you know – this isn’t any kind of date.’
‘Oh, I know,’ he says. ‘That suits me fine because I still don’t trust you.’
‘And I definitely don’t trustyou,’ I say, pulling him inside and closing the door.
* * *
IfThe Girl in Room 12had you hooked and turning pages late into the night, then you will love The Girl with No Past, a completely gripping page-turner about a deadly secret.
Get it here or keep reading for an exclusive extract.
THE GIRL WITH NO PAST
A GRIPPING PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER
Years spent running from your past. Today it catches up.
PROLOGUE
2003
Everything is silent and for a second I think I must be dead. But then I hear a deafening screech and I don’t know who or where it’s come from, I only know I haven’t made the noise because somehow I am okay. I want to turn my head to check what’s left of the wreckage, but I can’t move because pain is shooting through my neck, warm blood trickling down my face.
There is a strange smell: burnt rubber mixed with petrol and something far, far worse. The scent of death. I don’t need to look around to know that I am the only person breathing in this car.
Panic sets in, crushing my chest, worse than the physical injuries I have sustained. This can’t be real.
Cracks spread across the windscreen like a gigantic spider’s web, and through the maze of lines I can see lights, still and flashing, blue and yellow and red, and faces peering in, their mouths forming circles, trying to make sense of what’s happened. The panicky yells and shouts are muffled to me, as if I’m in a bubble, catching only waves of sound. But I know thatwhoever is out there, they, like I, will remember this moment for the rest of their lives.
The steering wheel digs into my ribs but I can’t move. Or perhaps I don’t want to because it’s safer in here than out there, having to face whatever is next. I know already what I can expect: some sympathy because accidents happen, but mostly blame and hatred because I am the driver so I must take the responsibility for this.
Someone manages to haul my door open and strong, uniformed arms lift me out and place me onto what must be a stretcher. It’s thin and hard but at least I am flat now. I close my eyes and wonder how it’s possible I haven’t died.
ONE
2014
Walking home that evening, something felt wrong. It was nothing I could identify, because everything appeared normal. I was just one of many people heading home from work, or heading somewhere at least. It was bitterly cold and I’d left my scarf hanging over my banister that morning, but the chill was nothing out of the ordinary. It was to be expected in November.
The feeling I couldn’t shake off could only be about tomorrow. I hadn’t forgotten what day it was. Perhaps the foreboding was anxiety manifesting as something else? But even that didn’t make sense because I had learnt to deal with it. As I did every year, I refused to think about it until the day arrived, descending on me like a hurricane. I had become skilled at closing that door.
Garratt Lane was busy as always, and I blended into the other pedestrians, a part of the London landscape. This was how I always felt walking home, as if I was nothing more than a puppet in a scene, being moved along by someone else. Perhaps I just felt strange because I was later than usual leaving work, andI wasn’t good with change to my routine. I needed order and structure, otherwise everything fell apart.
I was only late because I’d stayed to help Maria; I couldn’t leave her by herself to deal with the order of books that had come in, even if my day at the library had begun three hours before hers. Besides, what did I have to go home to?
I smiled, remembering Maria recounting details of a new man she’d met, while we unpacked and tagged the books. Maria had only been working at the library for a few months, but in that time I had got to know probably every detail of her life. She was my polar opposite: open and talkative, while I was reserved and kept as much of my life private as possible. I knew that she was single and often had dates, and liked hearing her stories. This new man’s name was Dan, and the whole time Maria talked, raving about the smallest thing he might have said, I allowed myself to get lost in her life. This was how it was with us; she talked and I listened. But every now and again I would catch her staring at me, giving me that look. The one that showed how badly she wanted me to let her into my life.
The library was only a short walk from my road so it didn’t take long to get home. My flat was small – no, not small: minuscule – the upstairs floor of a converted house, but it was affordable for London, and at least I had my own front door, even if the neighbours’ one was practically joined to mine. I also had my own staircase, making the place feel a bit more spacious.
But my decision to rent it was not made on practicalities like price or location. It was the name of the road that convinced me I had to live there. Allfarthing Road. It made me picture a time – way before I was born – that I could only imagine from what I’d read in books. A time when people greeted each other on the street and knew all the neighbours. I knew I was romanticising and I didn’t long for anything like that – it just wouldn’t suit how I needed to live – but it was comforting to think a time likethat had existed once. That times that came before never truly disappeared.
I climbed the five steps leading up to my door and dug in my bag for my keys. It was a ridiculously tiny cross-body bag, but there wasn’t much I needed to haul around with me, so it was only a matter of seconds before I realised my keys weren’t in it. My purse, mobile phone, some hand sanitiser, but no keys.
