The Pain Tourist Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE PAIN TOURIST

  ‘Riveting from start to finish, I thoroughly enjoyed the roller-coaster ride. Smart and twisty, this book will get under your skin’ Liz Nugent

  ‘I LOVED The Pain Tourist – such a brilliantly unique concept, with wonderful, emotional writing … I was hooked on the story from the word go. BRILLIANT’ Lisa Hall

  ‘The most original and intense thriller ever!’ Michael Wood

  ‘An absolute BELTER of a book … I’d forgotten how good Paul Cleave is!’ Sarah Pinborough

  ‘Tense, thrilling, touching. Paul Cleave is very good indeed’ John Connolly

  ‘Paul Cleave is an automatic must-read for me’ Lee Child

  ‘You can’t be a true fan of crime fiction if you’re not reading Cleave’s books’ Tom Wood

  ‘Uses words as lethal weapons’ New York Times

  WHAT READERS ARE SAYING…

  * * * * *

  ‘Paul Cleave has ripped up the genre’s rhythms and given us something entirely new … The Pain Tourist is a masterpiece’ Café Thinking

  ‘A heart-pounding, jaw-dropping thrill ride that will blow your mind’ Emma’s Bibliotreasures

  ‘A brilliantly executed, thrilling, twisty, nerve-shredding serial-killer chiller with one hell of a plot. Perfect for fans of Dean Koontz’ Live & Deadly

  ‘Tense, suspenseful, emotional and jam-packed with unforgettable characters … A red-hot, sleep-stealing, pulse-pounding read’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews

  ‘An addictive trip from the very first page’ The First Eleven Minutes

  ‘I have never read a thriller that has felt so real, yet so surreal at the same time … addictive’ PRDG Reads

  ‘Number-one TOP read of the year … amazing storytelling’ Ian Dixon

  ‘Cleave has made my heart pound, pulse race and jaw drop with this book’ Little Miss Book Lover

  PRAISE FOR PAUL CLEAVE

  WINNER of the Thriller & Suspense Gold Foreword Indie Award SHORTLISTED for the Ngaio Marsh Award THRILLER OF THE YEAR: Crime Fiction Lover Awards

  ‘A true page-turner, with an intriguing premise, a rollercoaster plot and a cast of believably flawed characters’ Guardian

  ‘The psychological depth of the leads bolsters the complex plot. This merits comparison with the work of Patricia Highsmith’ Publishers Weekly STARRED review

  ‘What is really compelling about The Quiet People is neither its neat twists nor the topical examination of mob rule, but Cleave’s portrait of Cameron as he goes rogue’ The Times

  ‘A true page-turner filled with dread, rage, doubt and more twists than the Remutaka Pass’ Linwood Barclay

  ‘It grabbed me by the throat, shook me around, and left me breathing hard. Fantastic, and highly recommended’ Lee Child

  ‘A wrenching tale that moves swiftly and hits hard, like a middleweight boxer who has poise, power, and style … A superb novel from a champion storyteller’ Craig Sisterson

  ‘The sense of dread builds unstoppably … an intense, chilling read’ Gilly Macmillan

  ‘What starts out as a slow burn quickly ratchets up the tension and the twists, sending you spiralling down a hill of depravity and desperation’ Kirsten McKenzie

  ‘I don’t think I breathed from about halfway through to the end. A masterpiece from a crime genius’ Susi Holliday

  ‘A cinematic, raging, rollercoaster of a plot with a wry humour … The Quiet People is wildly entertaining’ New Zealand Herald

  ‘Cleave’s whirligig plot mesmerises’ People

  ‘This thriller is one to remember’ New York Journal of Books

  ‘Compelling, dark, and perfectly paced … explores the evil lurking in us all, working relentless magic until the very last page’ Booklist

  ‘A superb novel from a champion storyteller’ Crime Watch

  ‘Cleave writes the kind of dark, intense thrillers that I never want to end’ Simon Kernick

  ‘Relentlessly gripping, deliciously twisted and shot through with a vein of humour that’s as dark as hell’ Mark Billingham

  ‘An intense adrenaline rush from start to finish’ S.J. Watson

  ‘A riveting and all too realistic thriller’ Tess Gerritsen

  ‘A gripping thriller … I couldn’t put it down’ Meg Gardiner

  ‘This very clever novel did my head in time and again’ Michael Robotham

  The Pain Tourist

  PAUL CLEAVE

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  PART TWO

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  C
hapter Ninety-Eight

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  Chapter One Hundred

  Chapter One Hundred and One

  Chapter One Hundred and Two

  Chapter One Hundred and Three

  Chapter One Hundred and Four

  Chapter One Hundred and Five

  Chapter One Hundred and Six

  Chapter One Hundred and Seven

  Chapter One Hundred and Eight

  Chapter One Hundred and Nine

  Chapter One Hundred and Ten

  Chapter One Hundred and Eleven

  Chapter One Hundred and Twelve

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

  Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

  Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen

  Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen

  Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen

  Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen

  Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-One

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Two

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Three

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Four

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Five

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Six

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Seven

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Eight

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Nine

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-One

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Two

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Three

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Four

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Five

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Six

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Seven

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Eight

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Nine

  Chapter One Hundred and Forty

  Chapter One Hundred and Forty-One

  Chapter One Hundred and Forty-two

  Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  James’s thoughts as he lies in bed tend to gravitate toward what he’s just watched or read – which isn’t great if what he’s just watched or read is a story about killer clowns hiding in the closet. Fully aware that night-time noises only make it harder for him to fall asleep, his parents keep their voices to a whisper and movements to a shuffle, but what he’s hearing now are daytime noises: knocking on the door, followed by voices, followed by arguing, all at – he glances at his bedside clock – 11.00pm. He can’t make out what the argument is about, but he doesn’t like how it sounds, nor does he like the thumps and bumps that follow.

  What is going on down there?

  The question gets him to his feet. His room is in darkness. His nightlight has been living in his wardrobe for the last two years, after Hazel teased him for still using it. He picks his way slowly through the minefield of toys to the door, toys he was meant to put away but didn’t. He can’t see them, but doesn’t need to. He has one of those memories where he can walk out of a room and months later tell you the location of everything that was in it. His memory is so good he’s frightened his brain will pop one day from hanging on to everything. He opens the door slowly and steps into the hallway. He passes Hazel’s room; unsurprisingly, she has slept through all the noise.

  From downstairs, his mother says, ‘Please don’t do this.’

  The fear in her voice makes his blood run cold, but the smack that follows turns it to ice, so much so that when he goes to take another step toward the stairs, his legs give out, and he has to clutch at the wall to slow his descent to the ground.

  ‘Don’t,’ his dad says, the same fear in his voice as his mum’s. ‘Please, don’t.’

  James’s chest tightens around his banging heart. The world blurs as he fights to get a decent breath. Ahead of him there’s an angle from which one can see downstairs into the lounge – something he’s done when his parents are watching horror movies. Since his legs are useless anyway, he rolls onto his belly and slowly slinks along the carpet.

  Smack. He jumps at the sound.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ his dad says. ‘Please, you have the wrong house, you have the—’

  Another smack, and James covers his mouth to stifle the building scream. More banging and bumping from downstairs. He needs to call the police, but can’t – his parents say he’s too young for a cellphone, and the same goes for Hazel, even though all their friends have them. And to make things worse, his parents got rid of the landline years ago. Best he could do would be to send a message to one of his friends online from his computer, but they’d all be asleep. Can you send an email to the police?

  He keeps shimmying forward. The lounge comes into view. It’s lit up. He can see somebody’s lower half, dressed in black pants and black shoes. A stranger. Another shimmy forward, and now he can see somebody the size and shape of his dad, in his dad’s clothing, kneeling on the floor with a pillowcase over his head. There’s a spot of blood on the pillowcase. That somebody is next to another somebody, this one also on their knees, also with a pillowcase over their head, this one dressed in his mother’s clothes.

  The stranger says, ‘Just tell us where it is.’

  ‘There is no—’

  His dad rocks back when he is smacked across the face, but before he can fall, the man who hit him grabs his shirt to keep him upright. James can’t tell who he’s talking to when he says, ‘Go and get the kids,’ but then a second man comes into view, this one also in dark clothing, and a ski mask too. In movies, monsters are always zombies, or vampires, or some weird kind of mutant, but in this moment his eleven-year-old brain tells him he’s been wrong all this time. What he’s looking at now are monsters. Real monsters.

  The second man – the second monster – comes toward the stairs.

  ‘Don’t!’ his dad yells, and the first monster turns back and hits him again.

  If you don’t get up, they’re going to hurt you. They’re going to kill you.

  He wiggles away from the stairs. His legs are jelly, the floor quicksand, the walls are the sides of a sinking boat. But to stay on the floor means capture. He grabs at the wall and gets to his feet, then stumbles to Hazel’s room. He gets the door open and closes it gently behind him. There’s no way to lock it, and he’s not strong enough to block it with heavy furniture. He crosses the room. Hazel doesn’t stir until he’s pulling back the curtains and opening the window. Is there time to climb out onto the roof? He can hear the second monster on the stairs.

  ‘Wha … wha soo doing? James?’

  He shakes her, and, voice low, he hisses, ‘We have to go.’

  ‘Wha…?’

  He puts his finger to his lips and grabs her hand.

  ‘There are monsters in the house. We have to climb out the window.’

  Hazel is fourteen, but acts like she’s sixteen. She snatches her hand back, and, more alert now, she says, ‘It’s too late to be playing one of your immature games, James.’

  During the last year she’s discovered she likes saying ‘games’ and ‘James’ in the same sentence.

  ‘We have to go!’ he says, giving up on the whispering in the hope what he can’t convey in words he can convey in volume. He grabs at her again.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. Now get out of my room!’

  She pushes him away. A strip of light appears beneath the bedroom door as the hallway light clicks on.

  Crying now, he says, ‘Please, Hazel, please.’

  His tears give her pause. She can’t see them, but can hear them. But it’s too late. The door opens. The second monster is backlit by the hallway light. He’s huge. Twice as big as anybody he’s ever seen. Like something Doctor Frankenstein pu
t together from dead bodybuilders.

  Hazel freezes. James does the same.

  ‘Come with me now,’ the monster says, his voice deep, like those bodybuilders were chugging back the steroids.

  ‘No,’ James says, so scared he’s not sure he’s spoken loud enough to be heard.

  But he must have been, because the monster points at them and says, ‘Say no to me again and I’m going to kill you.’

  Hazel takes James’s hand.

  ‘You got three seconds. After that I’m breaking bones.’

  James casts his memory over the books he’s read – there have been so many, but he can’t recall a scene like this. In them, all the kids, who are often around his age, are so brave. Some of them even solve mysteries.

  ‘We’re coming,’ he says, but he has no intention of that. The open window gives them access to the roof, and then to the fence, then the street, the neighbours, the police.

  Can you both make it through?

  No. Not both.

  He pulls on Hazel’s arm and she gets out of bed. She’s shaking.

  ‘One,’ the monster says.

  If a kid was brave, wouldn’t he do anything he could to protect his sister?

  ‘Two.’

  Even a sister who wished their parents would drive their little brother to an abandoned farm and leave him behind?

  ‘Three.’

  He twists Hazel toward the window. ‘Go!’

  She doesn’t go. Instead she turns back to James.

  ‘Go!’ This time he shoves her, then he charges the monster, because that’s what brave boys do, it’s David and Goliath, but David won, and so can—

  The monster scoops James off the floor and hurls him into the bookcase. He bounces and lands heavily on the floor; books, photo frames, a lamp, some dolls, all raining down around him. A yell from his dad downstairs is cut short. The monster reaches the window and grabs Hazel as she’s climbing through it. Despite James’s fall, the floor no longer feels like quicksand nor his legs like jelly; it’s as if being tossed across the room has centred his balance. He picks up the lamp and gets to his feet and smashes it against the monster’s back. The reaction is instant, with the monster spinning and backhanding James so hard across the face he ends up back on the floor, but the motion does make him lose his grip on Hazel. She disappears through the window, off balance, the roof tiles rattling as she tumbles out of sight. Was she able to stop her fall? Or is she lying in a puddle of broken bones?