The Love Detective (15 page)

I hear a chuckle across from me and almost swallow the water down the wrong way. Coughing and spluttering, I turn to see the American tucking into his food like it’s the blandest thing he’s ever tasted.

Is it just me, or is this man deliberately annoying?

He waves a fork cheerfully.

‘I’m actually not that hungry,’ I fib.

‘Well if you don’t want it, hand it over,’ he speaks through a mouthful of curry.

Nope. Definitely, 100 per cent annoying.

As the evening gives way to night, Vijay reappears and climbs onto the top bunk so I’m finally able to put down both seats and make a bed for myself. I probably should have asked  him earlier, I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded, but I’m not sure of the etiquette. And I don’t want to offend anyone, I decide, gathering up my pillow and climbing underneath my blanket. Stretching out my legs, I let out a deep sigh of relief. Only when you’ve been sitting cooped up in a chair for nearly twelve hours do you realise just how wonderful it is to be horizontal.

The rest of the carriage has fallen quiet. Most of the curtains have been drawn, including my own, but through the small gap between them I can see the Indian family, the mother curled up around her sleeping baby, the white-haired grandmother, mouth wide open and emitting a rattling snore, two pairs of well-worn feet dangling from the top bunk belonging to the father and brother.

I stifle a yawn. It’s been a long day. I’m tired, and hungry.

Propping myself up on my elbow, I rifle though my holdall for something to eat and find a couple of fruit gums, both covered in fluff. They’re gone in two seconds. How on earth do those explorers who get stuck up mountains for weeks survive on half a packet of Polos?

I have another dig around in my bag, but there’s nothing else to eat. Not even some chewing gum. I’ll just have to try and go to sleep. Ignore it. There’s nothing else for it, I decide, shoving my bag underneath my seat and closing my eyes.

But my stomach has other ideas and growls unhappily. God, there’s nothing worse than trying to go to sleep on an empty stomach, is there? Well, actually, there are plenty of things a lot worse, like world famine. Or war. Or men who wear beaded necklaces, I muse, trying not to get annoyed by the thought of the American who’s sound asleep on a full stomach.

I feel the train slowing down as we pull into a station. Opening my eyes, I absently turn to gaze out of the window, watching as people get on and get off, a whole hive of activity. Vendors hold baskets up against windows, others jump on board, dodging the rail staff, chancing their luck for a few rupees.

A small boy, not more than ten years old, appears in the carriage like an extra from
Oliver!
Barefoot, with ragged dirty trousers flapping around his shins and a grubby smile on his face, he works the carriage with a confidence beyond his years that is as engaging as it is heartbreaking. From the viewpoint of my bed, I watch through the gap in my curtain as he’s wafted away by sleepy passengers, before closing my eyes and concentrating on trying to go to sleep.

‘Coca-Cola, crisps, chocolate!’

It’s right by my ear. Hang on, did I hear the words—

‘
Chocolate!
’

I snap my eyes wide open and pull back my curtain. The little boy is beside me, his dirty face and gap-toothed smile by my pillow. He has my attention and he knows it, his eager eyes are shining and he launches into his well-rehearsed pitch.

‘Chocolate. Real chocolate. Tasty chocolate, look, see.’ He reaches into his basket, amongst the packets of masala-flavoured crisps and cans of Coca-Cola, pulls out several bars and thrusts them at me.

I look at them and immediately my mouth starts watering.

Oh my god,
real chocolate
. After the kind of day I’ve had . . .

‘How many you want?’

I can hear the American’s warning, but temptation is whispering loudly in my ear:
Chocolate. Real chocolate. Tasty chocolate
. . .

‘Miss, how many?’

The little boy knows he’s got me.

I hesitate.

But seriously, how can anything bad ever happen with chocolate? Chocolate has got me through some of the roughest times in my whole life. It’s comforted me after every failed romance, rescued me from bad exam results and never fails to cheer me up at that time every month. Milk, plain or white, chocolate has always been there for me.

‘Two bars, please.’

Chocolate is my friend.

Chapter 13

Eurgghhhh.

Where am I?

The next thing I know I’m vaguely aware of a clamouring around me, only it’s as if my ears are stuffed with cotton wool and everything is all muffled and fuzzy. What
is
that noise? It must be the radio alarm, only it doesn’t sound like Capital . . . and my bed feels funny . . . I only bought this mattress last year, the salesman in John Lewis convinced me to pay extra for a pillow-top, but now it feels all hard . . . damn, I’m going to have to return it . . .

What’s that wailing? It’s like a siren . . . and is that someone shouting? No, that’s definitely not Capital . . . I feel really weird . . . where’s my duvet gone? I’ve just got this blanket, it’s all itchy . . . Oh god, my head hurts. Where am I?

Slowly I peel open my eyes. Everything swims before me.

I’m on a train . . .Oh yes, of course, I remember now, I’m on a train in India, I’m going to find Amy . . .

I blink a few times, trying to focus, but everything is bleary and in some kind of fog. Like a bad 1980s music video. God, I’m so groggy. I must have fallen into the deepest of sleeps. I shift my head on the pillow and a wave of nausea hits me. I swallow hard, fighting back bile. And now a hammering has started inside my skull, like there’s someone in there beating a drum, only it’s my brain.

Whoa, what’s going on? I feel as if I’ve got the worst hangover. Yet that’s impossible. I only drank chai tea.

I force myself up on my elbows, pull back the wafer-thin curtain and peer groggily out of the tinted window. It’s daylight. Already! And we’re in a station. A very big station by the looks of things, I realise, my vision focusing in on the swarming platform filled with chaos and noise. Gingerly turning my head, I look around the carriage. It’s nearly all empty. Hang on, where is everybody? The Indian family has gone. So have Vijay and pistachio man. I glance at the trail of shells left behind, then across at the American. Only he’s not there. His bunk is empty. The blanket folded neatly, with the pillow on top.

I feel surprise and, unexpectedly, an odd twinge of disappointment. He was annoying, but he’d become strangely familiar.

Still, I’m so glad he’s gone. I really couldn’t cope with any more of his . . . his annoying
know-it-all-ness
. I’m not even sure if that’s a word, but if it’s not, it should be. Now at least I can spend the rest of the journey in peace.

Swinging my feet over the edge, I stumble out of the berth. A guard is rushing his way past, and with a superhuman effort I manage to find my voice. ‘Excuse me, where are we?’ It comes out in a croak.

He stops, and turns.

‘Delhi,’ he says, peering at me as if I’m not quite right in the head, then continues hurrying on.

Delhi?
Already? My disorientation turns into astonishment. Which turns into delight.

Wow, that killing time thing really worked, didn’t it? I’m impressed.

Even if I do still feel all dazed and confused, I note, realising my balance is off.

Staggering slightly, I reach underneath for my luggage.

Except it’s not there.

Huh? I fumble around with my hand for a moment, groping around blindly, expecting my fingers to land on something large and nylon-y, but . . . nothing. Frowning, I crouch down and tip my head upside down – something that I was trying to avoid as, sure enough, the whole carriage starts spinning like a fairground ride – and peer into the shadowy darkness. An empty space stares back.

No, I’m wrong. I’m all confused and groggy. I’ve got mixed up, I must have put it on my bunk. Yes, that’s it, it must be hidden underneath this blanket.

I pounce confidently on the woollen pile at the end of the bunk – it deflates like a soufflé.

Abruptly, the prickling anxiety that I’ve been steadfastly ignoring grabs me by the throat with sharp, pincer fingers.

My bag! It’s not there! It’s gone!

A horrible wave of ice-cold fear washes over me. The fear you get when something you don’t want to imagine can be true really is true. Worst-case-scenario fear.

It’s been stolen.

As the stark truth hits home, my mind starts to race . . . It must have happened in the night when I was asleep. But how? Who did it? And how come I didn’t wake up? I’m usually such a light sleeper, at home I have to sleep with earplugs and an eye mask and even then I wake up at the slightest thing, so I don’t understand . . .

Out of the corner of my eye I spot the glint of a chocolate wrapper and the domino-line of questions comes to an abrupt halt.

The chocolate.

Right on cue I hear the American’s warning, loud and clear in my head, almost like it’s being replayed through a Tannoy system.

‘
There’ve been a couple of reports of people being drugged, and their stuff stolen
.’

Suddenly it all makes sense. Oh my god, I can’t believe it, I’ve been betrayed! Chocolate is not my friend! It was the enemy! It was drugged and now everything has been stolen! Everything has gone!

I’m thinking in exclamation marks, and my heart is hammering in my chest like a pneumatic drill. Thudding so hard that any minute now I feel as if it’s going to actually leap through my skin like something from
Alien
.

I force myself to swallow hard. I need to calm down and think straight. Take some deep breaths like I’m in yoga.

But you’re crap at yoga!
reminds a shrill voice in my head.
You did one class! And you were so awful you never went back! You went shopping instead for too many pashminas and sandals that fall off your feet . . .

The shrill, panicky voice in my head is getting higher and higher, almost hysterical.

Shut up.

Shut up!

Another Westerner, a big-boned German girl wearing a backpack the size of a house, who’s making her way towards the exit, turns to stare at me. ‘Are you talking to me?’ she demands, in a voice like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Oh crikey, did I say that out loud?

‘No, I’m just um . . . talking to myself,’ I fluster. That’s all I need. To get into an argument with Fräulein Terminator.

She gives me a scary look then turns and continues bumping and thumping down the corridor. Phew. That was a close call. Having my bags stolen is bad enough.

I feel a stab of relief. For, like, a second, until what’s happened hits me round the head again like a cast-iron frying pan.

My bag has been stolen!
They’ve taken everything!
Thwack
, it hits me again. My passport! Oh my god, they’ve got my passport! I’m in a foreign country, miles away from home, and I don’t have my passport!

Or any money! I suddenly realise with a thunderclap of horror. As the enormity registers I’m hit by another thwack, even bigger this time. Shit! They’ve got my wallet
and
all my credit cards . . . What else?

I’m scrambling madly about in my brain, trying desperately to remember. Now I know how those contestants used to feel in
The Generation Game
, when they used to have to recall the objects on the conveyor belt in order to win a holiday. Only this time the stakes are so much higher. It’s not a food mixer and a giant cuddly toy, it’s all my clothes . . . shoes . . . toiletries . . .

An item jumps into my mind and I’m almost too terrified to acknowledge it.

My phone
.

I feel a vice-like grip around my chest and slump dizzyingly against the bunk. Fuck. If that’s been stolen I’m doomed. Without it I’ll never find Amy. I won’t be able to contact her and she won’t be able to contact me. Everything is replaceable, but not my phone. Not because it’s some new-fangled smart phone – in fact, I’m probably the only person left who still uses an old Nokia that can’t pick up emails. But because even if I could buy a new one – which of course I can’t as I have no money or credit cards
– I don’t know her number
.

In fact, I have a confession: I don’t know
anyone’s
.

The thing is, I’ve never had to. I just rely on my phone to store them all and never bother learning any. Which has always worked just fine.

Until now.

Now it’s not fine. Now it’s a complete and total utter fucking disaster –
unless
. . . In one final desperate effort I scrabble around in my pockets for the scrap of paper that has the Rajasthan number on it . . . But of course, it’s futile. I must have lost it along with everything else . . .
Oh God
.