Getting Lost Read online

  She knew a little self defence, but not one tactic or manoeuvre entered her mind. Stella improvised, lashing out again. This time her foot connected with a leg, and she remembered one strategy was to stomp with all her power on the top of the foot. With as much effort as she could gather after positioning her body and attempting to calculate where her attacker’s feet might be, Stella raised her foot and drove it down hard and heavy. Once, twice, then on the third go, she connected forcefully. The grip around her head tightened, forcing her face toward her attacker, almost smothering her.

  Stella realised they were still on the road, but she was now being dragged toward the bushes. A new and heightened wave of terror struck her. In the bushes, no one would hear her or see her. As the idea came to her to grab her attacker’s crotch and rip their bollocks off, she was released from the headlock, only to be thrust in front, her arm painfully forced up her back, her shoulder joint millimetres from dislocation. Now at arm’s length, Stella was powerless to grab any part of her attacker’s body. She had missed her opportunity.

  As they approached the scrub on the opposite side of the road, a strong hand grabbed at her hair, forcing her forward and up into the overgrown bushes, propelling her deeper into the undergrowth. Again, branches and twigs scratched at her face as she was forced facedown onto the ground. Her shoulder burned in agony. Her attacker sat on the middle of her back. She flayed and bucked, but a swift jab to the ribs put a stop to that. The gag was momentarily removed, but to her dismay, a pitiful cry was all she could manage before it was quickly replaced. To make matters worse, the gag now appeared connected to whatever was holding her arms up her back. The more she thrashed, the tighter it pulled her arms. Stella was completely immobile, defenceless.

  The possibility that she might die became a horrible realisation. But the likelihood that she would be raped was a near certainty, and as hands grappled beneath her to unbutton her shorts, her worst nightmare was quickly becoming a reality. The burning pain shooting through her shoulders was immense as she fought to keep her shorts on, but it was hopeless. The bastard on top of her knelt on one ankle while he removed her shorts from one leg then the other. She felt hands claw mercilessly at her underwear. They weren’t removed as such, but ripped from her. Unable to comprehend what was surely about to happen, Stella braced herself for the penetration. Christ, please help me. Get it over with.

  She might survive. After it was over, after he was satisfied and having not seen the face of her attacker, she might be abandoned in the scrub. He might not be a killer, just a cruel, sadistic rapist. She lay exceptionally still. If she let him rape her, let him see that she was no longer fighting him, that her pathetic resistance had ended, he might spare her life. The rape was inevitable. Her death wasn’t. Not yet.

  Unexpectedly, like a siren in the still of the night, Stella’s phone rang. Her volume was always set to maximum so it could be heard over the coach sound system. The clangour echoed through the trees. The phone had been in her shorts pocket and must have fallen out. It was in the bushes somewhere, and out of reach of the monster on top of her. By the time her cursing attacker found it and shut it off, Stella could hear her name being called in the distance.

  “Stella! Stella! I heard your phone. Where are you. Stella!” Russo’s voice grew nearer, but because he had no idea she was in danger, his tone portrayed no sense of urgency.

  Never in her life had Stella been so pleased to hear Russo. Fear told her to remain calm and hope he stumbled upon her. She was terrified that if she moved a muscle, her attacker might flatten her skull with a rock.

  “Stells? You there?” Russo sounded like he was on the road.

  So close.

  Stella detected a burst of activity out of the corner of her swollen eye, and she braced herself for the worst, but the second it began, it ceased. Then silence. The darkness was oppressive and although she was unable to confirm it, she thought she might be alone.

  “Stella! Can you hear me? This isn’t funny, you know.”

  Stella groaned. In her mind, it was a full-blooded scream. It was dismal, but enough to attract Russo’s attention.

  “Stells, was that you?” He burst through the scrub. “Holy-fucking-Christ.” The bright beam from Russo’s phone lit the entire area. He rushed toward her, untied her arms, and removed the gag. “Jesus, Stella. What the hell happened?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Stella woke, she hoped everything was finalised, completed somehow, but she knew it wasn’t.

  Her body was naked under only a sheet and the room was dimly lit by cracks in the blinds. She ached all over and struggled to open her tired eyes. She at least determined it was her room at the hotel, and she faintly remembered Russo being by her side earlier. Anxiety settled in the pit of her stomach, and without looking she knew Phoebe still hadn’t turned up. If ever a moment had arisen when she needed Phoebe, this was it. A wave of overwhelming sadness seeped through her for wanting what she couldn’t have.

  Her swollen body protested as she pulled herself upright on the pillows and attempted to survey the damage. Her legs were stinging, but seemed to move without hindrance. The scratches all over her body appeared superficial and would hopefully fade within a week or two. Her shoulder, ribs, and jaw were another story. The painkillers on her bedside table were testament to the severity of her beating, and she awkwardly reached over and swallowed a little pill.

  The events of the previous evening came flooding back. Her body responded to the flashback, coating her in a thin film of sweat.

  She pieced together some of the conversations she had either been a participant in, or had overheard at the hospital—people talking about her as if she wasn’t right there. She had wanted to give them Simon Threadbody’s name, but what would she say? “Oh, by the way, can you check this bloke out because I think he’s been stalking Phoebe and me? Yes, Phoebe is the girl that I wanted to report missing. No, I don’t know him. I’ve named him because he killed her girlfriend five years ago?” The list went on and Stella kept her mouth shut.

  More often than not, the suspect in sexual assault cases was known to the victim. Other than Matt’s appalling behaviour at the bar in Florence, no one else flagged red to Stella. As it was, Matt had an alibi for the entire evening. Russo had provided the Greek police with the names of those on the tour. They had checked with the federal police, and none of them had previous convictions for sexual assault.

  The police believed she might simply have been a random victim, in the wrong place at the wrong time. There really was nothing to suggest she was known to her attacker. They did what they could at the crime scene, but Corfu was constantly bursting with tourists. The chances of finding the culprit appeared slim. One officer went so far as to say that they’d have a better chance apprehending the perpetrator if she had been raped. DNA was like a currency these days. Russo politely told him to fuck off.

  It had been a long night. Stella had been rushed to the barely adequate Corfu Emergency Room, swabbed all over for possible traces of her attacker, and then cleaned up. Against his better judgement, Russo watched Stella discharge herself. In between the procedures, the police recorded her statement. She read and reread what had been written, altering sections lost in translation, but everything seemed so jumbled and blurry. It all happened so fast, but excruciatingly slow at the same time. What’s missing?

  A gentle knock at the door startled her, and it took Stella a few long moments to rise and pull on the hotel robe. Her blood pressure dropped, and she had to sit down again. “I’m coming,” she croaked out.

  It was Russo, balancing a tray laden with food sent by the concerned kitchen staff. It wasn’t Phoebe, and Stella ignored the twinge of disappointment.

  “What time is it?” Stella moved aside for him to pass.

  “Half six. Are you hungry?”

  “Is it that late?” Stella recalled slumping in the shower for over an hour after her return. It had been midday by the time she disrobed and gave in t
o exhaustion. She checked her phone. Nine missed calls from Janet. Nothing from Phoebe. She refused to leave Phoebe another message.

  “How are you feeling? Rested?” he asked softly.

  “I am hungry, actually.” Her mouth and jaw were a little tender, but a sizable slice of moussaka steamed alluringly toward her. She slowly began to nibble away at the edges.

  Stella’s phone broke the silence when it vibrated gently on the coffee table. Her boss wasn’t known for her patience. Russo cringed but sat back on the sofa to listen.

  Stella cleared her throat and slid the bar to answer. “Hi, Janet.”

  “Fucking hell, Stella, you sure know how to give a fat woman a scare. I’m heart attack material, you selfish shit.”

  Stella smiled. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

  “How are you doing?” This was possibly the first time Stella had heard Janet speak with a calm voice.

  “I’m not too bad. Nothing broken.”

  “Russo said you weren’t, you know, raped. Is that true?”

  “Yeah.” She glanced fondly at him. “He found me just in time.”

  “Want me to send a replacement?” Janet was matter-of-fact.

  Stella had already thought of this, but it was the easy way out. Calling it quits now was tempting, but she had never failed to finish a tour, and what would she do, occupy the sofa in her room feeling sorry for herself? It wasn’t her style. And what about Phoebe? If Stella left the tour, Janet would insist she return to London. That was simply out of the question. She knew if circumstance saw her having to push on right that minute, she couldn’t do it. But she needed to convince Janet to leave her on. She quickly selected her strategy.

  “Can I think about it?”

  “What is there to think about?” Janet wasn’t being difficult. “Where’s the Lancaster girl?”

  The Lancaster girl. A deep longing for Phoebe panged in her lower abdomen. Where was Phoebe? She hated hearing Janet refer to her in that tone. How could she reconcile her desire and growing fondness when everyone around her was implying she was an evil murderer?

  “I don’t know where she is.”

  “Does this have anything to do with her?”

  “No. Nothing.” It was only a partial lie. If it had been Simon Threadbody who’d attacked her, he had everything to do with Phoebe, but Phoebe had nothing to do with her attack.

  “How long do you want?”

  “Can I make the decision en route to Venice? We leave in the morning.”

  “I don’t know, Stella.”

  “Sailing up the Adriatic doesn’t require a tour manager. I’d like to see how I feel when I’m off this fucking island. By six tomorrow night, I promise to give you my decision.”

  “Four, not six. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll be sending your replacement. Okay? I can’t be any fairer that that. Now stay out of trouble.” Janet hung up.

  *

  The following day, a taxi collected Stella and delivered her to the ferry well before her group. It was clear and crisp, and Stella sat on the balcony of her cabin watching the island fade over the horizon.

  Four o’clock loomed, but she waited until the last minute to call Janet. Although not entirely convinced Stella was up to the task, Janet requested she obtain a doctor’s certificate to confirm she was fit for work before allowing her to continue. That suited Stella. The ship’s doctor was young and hungover, and she looked Stella up and down only once before scribbling favourably on a certificate.

  Chapter Twenty

  Off the shelf makeup was only effective to a certain extent when it came to hiding bruising, and it remained obvious the following morning that Stella had been beaten. Regardless, she greeted the group at breakfast with her usual chirpy grin, determined to uphold her professional air. Like everyone else on board, she stood at the bow of the ship and watched Venice pass to their immediate right, bathed in brilliant sunlight.

  First stop was a trip to Verona where everybody rushed to re-enact the famous scene from Romeo and Juliet. The group would then slowly dissipate and begin their idle wanderings, stopping for lunch and taking advantage of the shops in the Roman Arena.

  Stella indulged in an enormous pasta lunch under the watchful eye of Russo.

  “So, how are you feeling?”

  “Good.” Stella filled her mouth, making up for her poor appetite of recent days. “Besides my ribs, I feel one hundred percent.”

  “Have you heard from Phoebe?”

  She shook her head.

  He leaned forward, his features strained. “She may not turn up, you know?”

  Stella refused to contemplate that. Their connection had been real, and Phoebe had not only indicated it was important to her, but Stella was convinced she had implied there was a future for them. It seemed impossible to consider Phoebe had been deceptive about that. She was desperate to know the truth. Where had Phoebe gone and why? Was it Phoebe’s intention to make her experience the pain that currently paralysed her heart? She yearned for Phoebe and wanted her to return because, quite simply, she missed her.

  *

  The open air Taverna, only minutes from their accommodation, was uncharacteristically empty for this time of year. The low drone of the relaxed group and the intermittent death of buzzing mosquitos flying to a sizzling end in the purple light traps was finally an indication that the group was okay.

  Stella had only drunk two beers, but it amplified the effects of her medication, and Russo took her back to the hotel. She had been unstable on her feet, and when she told him that she was seeing double, he left his near full drink and helped her home. Nothing Stella did relieved her desire for Phoebe.

  “Fancy some company tonight?” Russo winked, but his offer was no joke.

  “Why, Mr. Coach Driver, are you not entertaining some damsel this evening?”

  “Because I’d rather act all gallant and macho around you.”

  “You tried to pull, but failed. Am I right?”

  “Something like that.” Russo shrugged. “Nightcap?”

  “Yeah, why not?” She slid the key into her door. “Mine might be water though. Alcohol and painkillers aren’t working for me anymore.” Russo smiled knowingly.

  After swinging the door open, Stella knew something was wrong. Both she and Russo, whose hand rested loosely on her shoulder, stopped dead in their tracks.

  The room was lit by the two bedside lamps, and a familiar expensive suitcase lay propped against the bed, and on the side table sat a key to the room—she had forgotten the room was booked in two names, with two keys.

  Dressed in a black singlet and underpants, toothbrush in her mouth, Phoebe emerged from the bathroom.

  The shock was too much for her system, Stella rushed past her to throw up. Phoebe attempted to follow, but Stella quickly locked the door before falling to her knees. Somewhere, beyond the tiny white bathroom, she heard Phoebe ask Russo what was wrong. He offered no reply. Emptied of everything she’d consumed that day, Stella joined the uncomfortable pair in the bedroom.

  Phoebe was clearly concerned, but stopped short of touching Stella when her advance was met with hesitation. “Stella, what’s going on?”

  “You tell me, Phoebe. What’s going on?”

  Russo coughed, reminding them both he was still there.

  Stella’s makeup was all but gone after sweating and vomiting and wiping her face. The aftermath of her beating in Corfu was on full display.

  “Stella, what happened to you?” This time Phoebe took Stella by the elbow, but withdrew when Stella recoiled at the touch. “Honey, talk to me?”

  Russo stepped between them. “I don’t think that’s wise,” he said.

  “When did this happen?” Phoebe edged closer.

  “As if you don’t know!” barked Russo.

  “Russo. Leave it,” snapped Stella.

  “What the fuck?” Phoebe’s voice raised an octave. She glared at Russo. “You think I was responsible for this? When did it happen?”

  “Cor
fu. I was assaulted in Corfu.”

  “Who did this to you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Russo rolled his eyes.

  The penny dropped. “So, because I wasn’t there, you think I did it? Jesus. Give me a fucking break.”

  “No, Phoebe, he doesn’t think it was you. We both know you weren’t in Corfu.” She turned to Russo. “You’re not helping.”

  Stella was rapidly feeling like vomiting again.

  Russo took control of the situation. “You’re coming to stay in my room tonight. You two can discuss this in the morning, at a reasonable time and in a reasonable state.”

  “Stella?” Phoebe reached for her hand.

  “She’s not well. Just leave it for tonight, okay?” Russo led Stella from the room.

  Within minutes, Stella lay curled in a tight ball in bed next to Russo. Tears from her silent sobbing saturated the pillow, and she needed to throw up again but was forcing it back down. Vomiting felt like a knife twisting in her already tender ribs.

  She dozed intermittently, but it was no use.

  *

  Sleep was impossible. Russo was snoring like a freight train, and Stella could think of nothing but Phoebe. She crept from Russo’s room and padded down the hall.

  “Can I come in?” Stella let herself in—it was her room, after all.

  “Honey, of course.” Phoebe pulled back the covers, imploring Stella to join her.

  “I think we need to talk.” Stella was straight to the point.