Killing Woods (26 page)

You smiled then, and your whole face changed with it. It kind of lit up, like there were sunbeams coming from inside you.

‘You'll find out,' you said.

Things changed then. I slowed down, while everything around
me sped up. It's amazing really, what a tiny bit of powder can do.

‘How are you feeling?' you asked.

You were watching me; your eyes wide. I opened my mouth to tell you I was fine, but I didn't understand what came out. It was just a jumble of noises; my tongue too thick and heavy to form words. I remember the lights turning into blurs of blazing fire. I remember the air conditioning chilling my arms. The smell of coffee blurring into eucalyptus. Your hand was tight around mine as you grabbed me and you took me and you stole me away.

I must have tipped your coffee cup when I stumbled to get up. I found a burn mark on my leg later, a pink stain running above my left knee. I still have it. It's gone a bit wrinkly, like elephant skin.

You made me walk fast. I thought you were taking me back to my flight, leading me to the gate where my parents were waiting. It was a long way, much longer than I'd remembered. When you dragged me along those travelators, it felt like we were flying. You talked to people in uniforms, and pulled me to you like I was your girlfriend. I nodded at them, and smiled. You led me up some stairs. My knees wouldn't bend at first, and it made me giggle. Then my kneecaps turned into marshmallows. Fresh air hit me, smelling like flowers and cigarettes and beer. There were other people, somewhere, talking softly, shrieking like monkeys when they laughed. You pulled me through some shrubs, then around the corner of a building. A twig caught in my hair. We were near the rubbish bins. I could smell rotting fruit.

You pulled me to you again, tilting my face and saying something. Everything about you was fuzzy, floating on the fumes of the bins. Your beautiful mouth was moving like a caterpillar. I reached out and tried to catch it. You took my fingers in yours. The warmth of you shot from my fingertips right up my arm. You said something else. I nodded. Some part of me understood. I started getting undressed. I leant against you as I took off my jeans. You handed me new clothes. A long skirt. Shoes with heels. Then you turned away.

I must have put them on. I don't know how. Then you took your top off. Before you put a different shirt on, I stuck my hand out and felt your back. Warm and firm, brown as bark. I don't know what I was thinking, or even if I was, but I remember needing to touch you. I remember that feeling of skin. It's strange to remember touch more than thought. But my fingers still tingle with it.

You did other things too, put something scratchy on my head and something dark over my eyes. I moved slowly. My brain couldn't keep up. There was a dull thud of something landing in a bin. There was something slimy on my lips. Lipstick. You gave me a chocolate. Rich. Dark. Soft. Liquid in the middle.

Things got even more confusing then. When I looked down, I couldn't see my feet. When we started to walk, it felt like I was just walking on the stumps of my legs. I started to panic, but you put your arm round me. Warm and solid . . . safe. I shut my eyes and tried to think. I couldn't remember where I left my bag. I couldn't remember anything.

People surrounded us. You pushed me into the middle of a
crowd of blurred-out faces and colour. You must have thought of everything; a ticket, a new passport, our route through, how to get past security. Was it the most carefully planned steal ever, or just luck? It can't have been easy to get me through Bangkok airport and onto a different plane without anyone knowing, not even me.

You kept feeding me chocolates. That rich, dark taste . . . always in my mouth, clinging to my teeth. Before you, I loved chocolate. Now, even the smell makes me sick. I blacked out after the third. I was sitting somewhere, leaning up against you. I was cold, and I needed your body heat. You murmured something to someone else about me.

‘Too much to drink,' you said. ‘We're celebrating.'

Then we were crammed in a toilet cubicle. There was the shoot of air as the contents of the loo were sucked away beneath me.

And we were walking again. Another airport, maybe. More people . . . the smell of flowers, sweet, tropical and fresh; as if it had just rained. And it was dark. Night time. But not cold. As you dragged me through a car park, I started to wake up. I started fighting you. I tried to scream, but you took me behind a truck and pushed a cloth over my mouth. The world went hazy again. I sank back into you. All I remember after that is the numbed-out jolt and sway of being in a car. The engine grumbled on, forever.

But what I do remember is the waking-up part. And the heat. It clawed at my throat, and tried to stop me breathing. It made me want to black out again. And then there was the pain . . . the nausea.

The Killing Woods

Published by Scholastic Australia Pty Ltd
PO Box 579 Gosford NSW 2250
ABN 11 000 614 577
www.scholastic.com.au

Part of the Scholastic Group
Sydney • Auckland • New York • Toronto • London • Mexico City
• New Delhi • Hong Kong • Buenos Aires • Puerto Rico

SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

First published by The Chicken House, 2013.
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited in 2012.
E-PUB/MOBI eISBN_978 1 92506 302 8

Text copyright © Lucy Christopher, 2013
Cover design by Steve Wells

The rights of Lucy Christopher to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted by her.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, unless specifically permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 as amended.

Stolen

Published by Scholastic Australia Pty Ltd
PO Box 579 Gosford NSW 2250
ABN 11 000 614 577
www.scholastic.com.au

Part of the Scholastic Group
Sydney ● Auckland ● New York ● Toronto ● London ● Mexico City
● New Delhi ● Hong Kong ● Buenos Aires ● Puerto Rico

SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

First published by The Chicken House, 2009.
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited in 2012.
E-PUB/MOBI eISBN 978 192198 899 8

Text copyright © Lucy Christopher, 2009
Cover design by Steve Wells

The rights of Lucy Christopher to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted by her.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, unless specifically permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 as amended.