The Exchange

By Sarah Lindsay

When Sergei arrives at Jennifer Johnstone's school as part of a student exchange programme Jennifer is immediately suspicious of his strange behaviour. Straightaway they are both plunged into a world of kidnapping, destruction and murder and they will be lucky to escape with their lives.

Set against the historic splendour of Dunfermline, Jennifer and Sergei have to follow the clues in an ever changing situation as they embark upon five days which will test their endurance to the limit. Sergei hides a dark secret, one which takes Jennifer and him into moonlit parks, deserted industrial estates and a visit to Edinburgh's Old Town before they return to Fife for a trip to Dunfermline Abbey and their showdown with the barrel of a very large gun.

The Exchange is Jennifer's account of this non-stop adventure which will change her and Sergei forever. Sometimes sad, sometimes funny, but always action packed The Exchange never stops from the moment Sergei arrives until the dramatic conclusion and their date with a gun-toting Destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Lindsay
• Release date: Jun 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310970900

Book preview

Introduction

My name is Jennifer Johnstone and I’m angry as hell! There, I've said it, it's out there for all the world to hear and not rattling around inside my head like a golf ball in a maraca. I wonder if that will be enough for the experts who came to the unanimous decision that this was the way to exorcise the demons? I don't want to be on medication at the tender age of 15 but then again I don't really see how reliving this whole blooming nightmare is going to miraculously make things any better. Apart from my misgivings about the effectiveness of all this, do these 'experts' really think that I'm sad and lonely enough to have the time for this? Of course, I am that lonely and I do have the time but that's not really the point. And anyway that's all bundled up in this horrendous ordeal as well - I just don't have the energy for my friends any more, with their idle chatting about who’s got a new hair style and who's going out with/dumping who. And you know what? That's one of the reasons why I'm so incredibly irate! I've had my friends taken away, I've had my teenage years stolen. I've nothing in common with my friends now, I cannot be bothered getting in a lather about celebrity gossip or even school gossip or any other inconsequential tripe you care to mention. I saw a man die and when you've seen a life snuffed out like a candle on a windy day part of you dies too. Anyway I digress (not for the last time, I'm afraid). So I moaned for a bit to anyone who came near me, then, following some very delicate negotiations which involved the promise of a holiday and enough chocolate to build a new country, I came to the compromise that I would write down how this all started and see if it helped before deciding from there if I would continue. I wasn't especially happy about it - too much Murder, She Wrote to watch and not enough time - but to shut everyone up I agreed. And it worked. Here I am sitting peacefully in my room, watching Jessica Fletcher with the sound turned down low and scribbling stuff down in the ad breaks. What a scamp!

Wednesday

Chapter One

In January this year we got a letter home from my French class at school. To celebrate the bicentenary of our town being twinned with some suburb of Paris, various events would take place throughout the ensuing twelve months and the first of them was to be an exchange visit between our school and the local French educational establishment in our twin town. Oh if I'd known what I was getting into I would have binned that sodding letter there and then but no, in the infinite hope of someone who doesn’t really want to be at school but who isn't yet ready to take on the real world, I just saw the word 'skive' gradually materialise when I looked at the offending document. Well that and the very chic and sophisticated image of me sipping champagne outside some Parisian street cafe. And thus, on returning home, I badgered my parents constantly until, battle weary but with, I would like to think, a grudging respect for my dogged determination, they conceded. Be careful what you wish for – sometimes what you perceive to be the path of least resistance can actually be the hardest in the long run!

I have just realised that I maybe should have written a bit about my family - seeing as I spend most of my time with them I suppose they might be important in unravelling the spiral of embittered rage and resentfulness (Copyright: The 'Experts'). Garbage I know but hey ho, I'm out of school to do this so fair's fair I suppose. I'm from Dunfermline, a large town in Fife, Scotland and I live in a nice three bedroomed semi-detached house with my parents Douglas and Myra and my younger sister Beth. My parents are a dentist and a call centre administrator respectively while my sister is three years younger than me at 12. Contrary to popular culture my sister and I were incredibly close before the shenanigans of this past few months and I suppose that's yet another string of frustration in my bow of anger - she and I can barely exchange small talk now without me wanting to launch a bread bin at her head. I know it's me who is the problem but I want my sister back. Hark at me, getting all misty-eyed and sentimental! Actually, there's yet another newly discovered flaw in my recently rejigged psyche - I am, what the professionals would describe as, slightly over-emotional.

Okay so that's my family. We are, or at least were, happy - not much spare money but we all enjoyed each other’s company. Which is just as well when you spend your holidays in a 4 feet by 4 feet tin box (or caravan as they're popularly called). We towed that bloody thing around Scotland, us all jolly and listening to Radio 2 in our twelve year old Passat, it following us about like some tenacious stalker with personal hygiene issues. It may have looked like a scrap metal model built by a seven year old and smelt like a cross between fried onions and a six month old haddock but when it was cold and dark outside, at least it was something. We were going to visit the exotic and mysterious attractions of 'abroad' once - Belgium to be exact - but on arriving at the ferry terminal in Rosyth found that a) the most violent storms in 50 years had caused all North Sea crossings to be suspended and b) my father, by virtue of his technological dyslexia, had not pressed the button to confirm the online booking. Thus we spent a week in St Andrews, 40 minutes from home, but pretending that my dad was au fait with the modern world and we were currently enjoying waffles and chips. We were enjoying chips but they came with fish from Anstruther rather than with mayonnaise from Brussels. Sorry, I'm going off at a tangent again!

So my parents agreed, albeit reluctantly, to this exchange malarkey. The first leg was to be 15 French teenagers hitting our shores to enjoy the local teenage culture of a couple of fly cans of McEwan’s Export and a battered sausage supper. They arrived in the school, entering the assembly hall with the bubbling enthusiasm and joie de vivre of a bunch of prisoners walking The Green Mile. The usual antiseptic/sweat/school dinner smell hung in the air causing several of our visitors to wrinkle their noses and make some gagging sounds. One of the students, a boy, was considerably smaller than the rest and looked almost frail, like a sneeze would send him flying. He had a curious manner about him, as if he was constantly expecting to be hit by a flying bread bin (™ J Johnstone). His huge brown and extremely furtive eyes darted around, soaking in his surroundings, from the Assembly Hall's huge dedication plaque, to the first years' papier mache tribal masks which adorned the walls. My heart began to sink there and then because I knew, I just deep down knew, that this was to be my new BFF (Best Friend for a Fortnight). I was right. And that's how I met Sergei.

Chapter Two

All participating students and their exchange partners were matched up. I stepped forward when my name was called with the gnawing beaver of discomfort in my stomach that this exchange thing was not going to be one of my better moves. Until my new buddy's name was announced there was always that small sliver of hope, shining like a dazzling beacon slicing through the black morass of night, that I would get a normal looking person to take home but it was not to be.

Okay Jennifer, you're with Sergei Kastarov announced my French teacher, Mrs MacDonald, brutally cutting through my dreams and crushing my already dwindling hopes as the odd looking boy reluctantly stepped forward. He looked as happy about the whole thing as I felt. Then in a mumbled aside Good luck! Super - those who Mrs MacDonald has joined together let no man put asunder.

We headed to the far end of the hall where a lavish welcome reception of over diluted orange squash and cheap out of date crisps with the consistency of rubber had been laid on. No expense spent. Everyone else seemed happy and at ease with their new French friends - Sergei however, had yet to utter a word, never mind gush wildly about the 'magnificent welcome' which the unfeasibly pretty girl next to me kept spouting on about. I could only assume that she thought that we had pulled out all the stops with the Fife delicacies of juice which left a sawdust-like residue in your mouth and crisps you could play basketball with. I tentatively asked Sergei a couple of easy questions in French. Either my French was up to the same standard as my Mandarin or Sergei was being deliberately uncommunicative. I decided to switch to English to save myself from further revealing my apparently woeful linguistic aptitude and thus prompted the first utterance from my new best bud as he mumbled Toilet and headed for the exit at the other end of the hall. Even my slothful mind realised pretty quickly that Sergei wouldn't have a clue where the toilets actually were so I scurried after him, prompting some curious/pitying/relieved that they hadn't been placed with me looks from pupils and their guests alike. I think it's fair to say that this was not going as I'd imagined. By the time I reached the assembly hall door I was just in time to catch a glimpse of Sergei disappearing into the gent’s toilet in the corridor outside. I cursed myself for underestimating him - he wasn’t stupid, the toilets were right outside the hall and the symbol for the men's room is fairly much universal. I decided to hang about outside the conveniences, ignoring the sniggers of a couple of passing second years who were just not used to seeing a dishevelled and nervous looking female standing furtively outside the gentlemen’s conveniences. I stood and I stood and after standing for a bit more I decided that enough was enough. I knew from my period of intense observation and scrutiny that no one bar Sergei had entered the gents so taking a deep breath I entered that forbidden domain. My rule/law breaking had begun.

Sergei I half shouted in a hoarse, trying-not-to-be-heard voice, It's nearly bell time - we've got to go!

Silence.

Seriously Sergei, come on, on e va or however you say it in French!

I was starting to feel that nagging disquiet bubbling up again and my throat was drying out by the second. Then, to my enormous relief, I heard the lock sliding back on one of the cubicle doors. My stomach began to relax just in time for it to jump up out of my mouth as I felt the awesome pressure of an enormous, powerful hand on my shoulder. Hello Miss Johnstone. I'm very much looking forward to this explanation.

Mr Simons, deputy head teacher and crusher of teenage spirit loomed above me, his fair crew cut looking like a small patch of peach fuzz on top of the vastness of his huge muscle-bound body. I can only think that Mrs Cowan, the head of the school, thinks that it helps discipline by having an angry, sarcastic and downright sadistic Terminator lookalike cruising the corridors for waifs, strays and lost and confused first years. He's certainly not there for his brains. Maybe Mrs Cowan has a thing for him. Maybe he's actually a gentle giant away from school. Maybe...all this crap shot through my mind in a split second. I do have a tendency to zone out and all kinds of unimportant stuff pops into my head when I'm under pressure. Or as in this case, under the very heavy and if I wasn't mistaken, ominously squeezing hand of Mr Simons. But before I could so much as open my mouth the blessed sound of Sergei's ridiculously good English reached my ears.

Oh I am sorry. Gillian was looking for me. I am Sergei. From France. he added a little unnecessarily.

Jennifer! I tried to whisper out of the side of my mouth. I could feel acutely the ever increasing pressure of Mr Simons' hand on my shoulder and I could just imagine one of his eyebrows raising slowly and a malicious twinkle appearing in his eyes. Sergei opened his mouth to speak but what came out sounded uncannily like Mrs MacDonald’s voice. And words were still coming but his lips weren't moving. My God, Sergei has powers I thought, quite taken aback, before Mrs MacDonald actually appeared in