The Girl on the Train (14 page)

‘Hey,’ he says, getting to his feet. He’s smiling but he looks tired, worried. He takes Evie from me without looking me in the eye.

‘What?’ I ask. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ he says, and he turns away towards the window, bouncing Evie on his hip.

‘Tom, what?’

‘It’s nothing.’ He turns back and gives me a look and I know what he’s going to say before he says it. ‘Rachel. Another email.’ He shakes his head and he looks so wounded, so upset, and I hate it, I can’t bear it. Sometimes I want to kill that woman. ‘What’s she said?’

He just shakes his head again. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s just … the usual. Bullshit.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and I don’t ask what bullshit exactly, because I know he won’t want to tell me. He hates upsetting me with this stuff.

‘It’s OK. It’s nothing. Just the usual pissed nonsense.’

‘God, is she ever going to go away? Is she ever going to just let us be happy?

He comes over to me and, with our daughter between us, kisses me. ‘We
are
happy,’ he says. ‘We are.’

We
are
happy. We had lunch and lay out on the lawn, and then when it got too hot we came inside and ate ice cream while Tom watched the Grand Prix. Evie and I made playdough, and she ate quite a bit of that, too. I think about what’s going on down the road and I think about how lucky I am, how I got everything that I wanted. When I look at Tom, I thank God that he found me, too, that I was there to rescue him from that woman. She’d have driven him mad in the end, I really think that – she’d have ground him down, she’d have made him into something he’s not.

Tom’s taken Evie upstairs to give her a bath. I can hear her squealing with delight from here and I’m smiling again – the smile has barely fallen from my lips all day. I do the washing-up, tidy up the living room, think about dinner. Something light. It’s funny, because a few years ago I would have hated the idea of staying in and cooking on my birthday, but now it’s perfect, it’s the way it should be. Just the three of us.

I pick up Evie’s toys, scattered around the living-room floor, and return them to their trunk. I’m looking forward to putting her down early tonight, to slipping into that teddy Tom bought me. It won’t be dark for hours yet, but I light the candles on the mantelpiece and open the second bottle of Merlot to let it breathe. I’m just leaning over the sofa to pull the curtains shut when I see a woman, her head bent to her chest, scuttling along the pavement on the opposite side of the street. She doesn’t look up, but it’s her, I’m sure of it. I lean further forward, my heart hammering in my chest, trying to get a better look, but the angle’s wrong and I can’t see her now.

I turn, ready to bolt out of the front door to chase her down the street, but Tom’s standing there in the doorway, Evie wrapped in a towel in his arms.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets so that he can’t see them shaking. ‘Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all.’

I
WAKE WITH MY
head full of him. It doesn’t seem real, none of it does. My skin prickles. I would dearly love to have a drink, but I can’t. I need to keep a clear head. For Megan. For Scott.

I made an effort yesterday. I washed my hair and put some makeup on. I wore the only jeans I still fit into, with a cotton print blouse and sandals with a low heel. I looked OK. I kept telling myself that it was ridiculous to care about my appearance, because the last thing Scott was going to be thinking about was what I looked like, but I couldn’t help myself. It was the first time I was ever going to be around him, it mattered to me. Much more than it should.

I took the train, leaving Ashbury around six thirty, and I was in Witney just after seven. I took that walk along Roseberry Avenue, past the underpass. I didn’t look this time, couldn’t bear to. I hurried past number twenty-three, Tom and Anna’s place, chin to chest and sunglasses on, praying they wouldn’t see me. It was quiet, no one around, a couple of cars driving carefully down the centre of the road between ranks of parked vehicles. It’s a sleepy little street, tidy and affluent, with lots of young families; they’re all having their dinner around seven o’clock, or sitting on the sofa, mum and dad with the little ones squeezed between them, watching
X-Factor
.

From number twenty-three to number fifteen can’t be more than fifty or sixty paces, but that journey stretched out, it seemed to take an age; my legs were leaden, my footing unsteady, as though I were drunk, as though I might just slip off the pavement.

Scott opened the door almost before I’d finished knocking, my trembling hand still raised as he appeared in the doorway, looming ahead of me, filling the space.

‘Rachel?’ he asked, looking down at me, unsmiling. I nodded. He offered his hand and I took it. He gestured for me to enter the house, but for a moment I didn’t move. I was afraid of him. Up close he is physically intimidating, tall and broad-shouldered, his arms and chest well defined. His hands are huge. It crossed my mind that he could crush me – my neck, my ribcage – without much effort.

I moved past him into the hallway, my arm brushing against his as I did, and felt a flush rising to my face. He smelled of old sweat, and his dark hair was matted against his head as though he hadn’t showered in a while.

It was in the living room that the déjà vu hit me, so strong it was almost frightening. I recognized the fireplace flanked by alcoves on the far wall, the way the light streamed in from the street through slanted blinds; I knew that when I turned to my left there would be glass and green and beyond that the railway line. I turned and there was the kitchen table, the French doors behind it and the lush patch of lawn. I knew this house. I felt dizzy, I wanted to sit down; I thought about that black hole last Saturday night, all those lost hours.

It didn’t mean anything, of course. I know that house, but not because I’ve been there. I know it because it’s exactly the same as number twenty-three: a hallway leads to the stairs, and on the right-hand side is the living room, knocked through into the kitchen. The patio and the garden are familiar to me because I’ve seen them from the train. I didn’t go upstairs, but I know that if I had, there would have been a landing with a large sash window on it, and that if you climbed through that window you would find yourself on the makeshift roof terrace. I know that there will be two bedrooms, the master with two large windows looking out on to the street and a smaller room at the back, overlooking the garden. Just because I know that house inside and out does not mean that I’ve been there before.

Still, I was trembling when Scott showed me into the kitchen. He offered me a cup of tea. I sat down at the kitchen table while he boiled the kettle, dropped a teabag into a mug and slopped boiling water over the counter, muttering to himself under his breath. There was a sharp smell of antiseptic in the room, but Scott himself was a mess, a sweat patch on the back of his T-shirt, his jeans hanging loose on his hips as though they were too big for him. I wondered when was the last time he had eaten.

He placed the mug of tea in front of me and sat on the opposite side of the kitchen table, his hands folded in front of him. The silence stretched out, filling the space between us, the whole room; it rang in my ears, and I felt hot and uncomfortable, my mind suddenly blank. I didn’t know what I was doing there. Why on earth had I come? In the distance, I heard a low rumbling – the train was coming. It felt comforting, that old sound.

‘You’re a friend of Megan’s?’ he said at last.

Hearing her name from his lips brought a lump to my throat. I stared down at the table, my hands wrapped tightly around the mug.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know her … a little. From the gallery.’

He looked at me, waiting, expectant. I could see the muscle flex in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. I searched for words that wouldn’t come. I should have prepared better.

‘Have you had any news?’ I asked. His gaze held mine and for a second I felt afraid. I’d said the wrong thing; it was none of my business whether there was any news. He would be angry, he’d ask me to leave.

‘No,’ he said. ‘What was it that you wanted to tell me?’

The train rolled slowly past and I looked out towards the tracks. I felt dizzy, as though I were having an out-of-body experience, as though I were looking out at myself.

‘You said in your email that you wanted to tell me something about Megan.’ The pitch of his voice raised a little.

I took a deep breath. I felt awful. I was acutely aware that what I was about to say was going to make everything worse, was going to hurt him.

‘I saw her with someone,’ I said. I just blurted it out, blunt and loud with no build-up, no context.

He stared at me. ‘When? You saw her on Saturday night? Have you told the police?’

‘No, it was Friday morning,’ I said, and his shoulders slumped.

‘But … she was fine on Friday. Why is that important?’ That pulse in his jaw went again, he was becoming angry. ‘You saw her with … you saw her with who? With a man?’

‘Yes, I—’

‘What did he look like?’ He got to his feet, his body blocking the light. ‘Have you told the police?’ he asked again.

‘I did, but I’m not sure they took me very seriously,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘I just … I don’t know … I thought you should know.’

He leaned forward, his hands on the table, clenched into fists.

‘What are you saying? You saw her where? What was she doing?’

Another deep breath. ‘She was … out on your lawn,’ I said. ‘Just there.’ I pointed out to the garden. ‘She … I saw her from the train.’ The look of incredulity on his face was unmistakeable. ‘I take the train into London from Ashbury every day. I go right past here. I saw her, she was with someone. And it … it wasn’t you.’

‘How do you know? … Friday morning? Friday – the day before she went missing?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wasn’t here,’ he said. ‘I was away. I was at a conference in Birmingham, I got back on Friday evening.’ Spots of colour appeared high on his cheeks, his scepticism giving way to something else. ‘So you saw her, on the lawn, with someone? And …’

‘She kissed him,’ I said. I had to get it out eventually. I had to tell him. ‘They were kissing.’

He straightened up, his hands, still balled into fists, hanging at his sides. The spots of colour on his cheeks grew darker, angrier.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry. I know this is a terrible thing to hear …’

He held up his hand, waved me away. Contemptuous. He wasn’t interested in my sympathy.

I know how that feels. Sitting there, I remembered with almost perfect clarity how it felt when I sat in my own kitchen, five doors down, while Lara, my former best friend, sat opposite me, her fat toddler squirming on her lap. I remember her telling me how sorry she was that my marriage was over, I remember losing my temper at her platitudes. She knew nothing of my pain. I told her to piss off and she told me not to speak like that in front of her child. I haven’t seen her since.

‘What did he look like, this man you saw her with?’ Scott asked. He was standing with his back to me, looking out on to the lawn.

‘He was tall – taller than you, maybe. Dark-skinned. I think he might have been Asian. Indian – something like that.’

‘And they were kissing, out here in the garden?’

‘Yes.’

He gave a long sigh. ‘Jesus, I need a drink.’ He turned to face me. ‘Would you like a beer?’

I did, I wanted a drink desperately, but I said no. I watched as he fetched himself a bottle from the fridge, opened it, took a long slug. I could almost feel the cold liquid sliding down my throat as I watched him; my hand ached for want of a glass. Scott leaned against the counter, his head bent almost to his chest.

I felt wretched then. I wasn’t helping, I had just made him feel worse, increased his pain. I was intruding on his grief, it was wrong. I should never have gone to see him. I should never have lied. Obviously, I should never have lied.

I was just getting to my feet when he spoke. ‘It could … I don’t know. It might be a good thing, mightn’t it? It could mean that she’s all right. She’s just …’ He gave a hollow little laugh. ‘She’s just run off with someone.’ He brushed a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand and my heart screwed up into a tight little ball. ‘But the thing is, I can’t believe she wouldn’t call.’ He looked at me as though I held the answers, as though I would know. ‘Surely she would call me, wouldn’t she? She would know how panicked … how desperate I would be. She’s not vindictive like that, is she?’

He was talking to me like someone he could trust – like Megan’s friend – and I knew that it was wrong, but it felt good. He took another swig of his beer and turned towards the garden. I followed his gaze to a little pile of stones against the fence, a rockery long since started and never finished. He raised the bottle halfway to his lips again, and then he stopped. He turned to face me.

‘You saw Megan from the train?’ he asked. ‘So you were … just looking out of the window and there she was, a woman you happen to know?’ The atmosphere in the room had changed. He wasn’t sure any more, whether I was an ally, whether I was to be trusted. Doubt passed over his face like a shadow.

‘Yes, I … I know where she lives,’ I said, and I regretted the words the moment they came out of my mouth. ‘Where
you
live, I mean. I’ve been here before. A long time ago. So sometimes I’d look out for her when I went past.’ He was staring at me; I could feel the heat rising to my face. ‘She was often out there.’

He placed his empty bottle down on the counter, took a couple of steps towards me and sat down in the seat nearest to me, at the table.

‘So you knew Megan well then? I mean, well enough to come round to the house?’

I could feel the blood pulsing in my neck, sweat at the base of my spine, the sickening rush of adrenaline. I shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have complicated the lie.

‘It was just one time, but I … I know where the house is because I used to live nearby.’ He raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Down the road. Number twenty-three.’