The Girl on the Train (18 page)

There is a crack of thunder, a flash of light. I jolt upright. What was it I thought of last night? I check my little black book, but I haven’t written anything down since midday yesterday: notes about Kamal – age, ethnicity, conviction for domestic violence. I pick up a pen and cross out that last point.

Downstairs, I make myself a cup of coffee and turn on the TV. The police held a press conference last night, they’re showing clips from it on Sky News. Detective Inspector Gaskill’s up there, looking pale and gaunt and chastened. Hangdog. He never mentions Kamal’s name, just says that a suspect had been detained and questioned, but has been released without charge and that the investigation is ongoing. The cameras pan away from him to Scott, sitting hunched and uncomfortable, blinking in the light of the cameras, his face a twist of anguish. It hurts my heart to see him. He speaks softly, his eyes cast down. He says that he has not given up hope, that no matter what the police say, he still clings to the idea that Megan will come home.

The words come out hollow, they ring false, but without looking into his eyes, I can’t tell why. I can’t tell whether he doesn’t really believe she’s coming home because all the faith he once possessed has been ripped away by the events of the past few days, or because he really
knows
that she’s never coming home.

It comes to me, just then: the memory of calling his number yesterday. Once, twice? I run upstairs to get my phone, and find it tangled up in the bedclothes. I have three missed calls: one from Tom and two from Scott. No messages. The call from Tom was last night, as was the first call from Scott, but later, just before midnight. The second call from him was this morning, a few minutes ago.

My heart lifts a little. This is good news. Despite his mother’s actions, despite their clear implications (
Thank you very much for your help, now get lost
), Scott still wants to talk to me. He needs me. I’m momentarily flooded with affection for Cathy, filled with gratitude to her for pouring the rest of the wine away. I have to keep a clear head, for Scott. He needs me thinking straight.

I take a shower, get dressed and make another cup of coffee, and then I sit down in the living room, little black book at my side, and I call Scott.

‘You should have told me,’ he says as soon as he picks up, ‘what you are.’ His tone is flat, cold. My stomach is a small, hard ball. He knows. ‘Detective Sergeant Riley spoke to me, after they let him go. He denied having an affair with her. And the witness who suggested that there was something going on was unreliable, she said. An alcoholic. Possibly mentally unstable. She didn’t tell me the witness’s name, but I take it she was talking about you?’

‘But … no,’ I say. ‘No. I’m not … I hadn’t been drinking when I saw them. It was eight thirty in the morning.’ Like that means anything. ‘And they found evidence, it said so on the news. They found—’

‘Insufficient evidence.’

The phone goes dead.

I am no longer travelling to my imaginary office. I have given up the pretence. I can barely be bothered to get out of bed. I think I last brushed my teeth on Wednesday. I am still feigning illness, although I’m pretty sure I’m fooling no one.

I can’t face getting up, getting dressed, getting on to the train, going into London, wandering the streets. It’s hard enough when the sun is shining, it’s impossible in this rain. Today is the third day of cold, driving, relentless downpour.

I’m having trouble sleeping, and it’s not just the drinking now, it’s the nightmares. I’m trapped somewhere, and I know that someone’s coming, and there’s a way out, I know there is, I know that I saw it before, only I can’t find my way back to it, and when he does get me, I can’t scream. I try – I suck the air into my lungs and I force it out – but there’s no sound, just a rasping, like a dying person fighting for air.

Sometimes, in my nightmares, I find myself in the underpass by Blenheim Road, the way back is blocked and I cannot go further because there is something there, someone waiting, and I wake in pure terror.

They’re never going to find her. Every day, every hour that passes I become more certain. She will be one of those names, hers will be one of those stories: lost, missing, body never found. And Scott will not have justice, or peace. He will never have a body to grieve over; he will never know what happened to her. There will be no closure, no resolution. I lie awake thinking about it and I ache. There can be no greater agony, nothing can be more painful than the not knowing, which will never end.

I have written to him. I admitted my problem, then I lied again, saying that I had it under control, that I was seeking help. I told him that I am not mentally unstable. I no longer know whether that’s true or not. I told him that I was very clear about what I saw, and that I hadn’t been drinking when I saw it. That, at least, is true. He hasn’t replied. I didn’t expect him to. I am cut off from him, shut out. The things I want to say to him, I can never say. I can’t write them down, they don’t sound right. I want him to know how sorry I am that it wasn’t enough to point them in Kamal’s direction, to say,
look, there he is
. I should have seen something. That Saturday night, I should have had my eyes open.

I am soaked through, freezing cold, the ends of my fingers blanched and wrinkled, my head throbbing from a hangover that kicked in at about half past five. Which is about right, considering I started drinking before midday. I went out to get another bottle, but I was thwarted by the ATM, which gave me the muchanticipated riposte:
There are insufficient funds in your account.

After that, I started walking. I walked aimlessly for over an hour, through the driving rain. The pedestrianized centre of Ashbury was mine alone. I decided, somewhere along that walk, that I have to do something. I have to make amends for being insufficient.

Now, sodden and almost sober, I’m going to call Tom. I don’t want to know what I did, what I said, that Saturday night, but I have to find out. It might jog something. For some reason, I am certain that there is something I’m missing, something vital. Perhaps this is just more self-deception, yet another attempt to prove to myself that I’m not worthless. But perhaps it’s real.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you since Monday,’ Tom says when he answers the phone. ‘I called your office,’ he adds, and he lets that sink in.

I’m on the back foot already, embarrassed, ashamed. ‘I need to talk to you,’ I say, ‘about Saturday night. That Saturday night.’

‘What are you talking about?
I
need to talk to
you
about Monday, Rachel. What the hell were you doing at Scott Hipwell’s house?’

‘That’s not important, Tom—’

‘Yes it bloody is. What were you doing there? You do realize, don’t you, that he could be … I mean, we don’t know, do we? He could have done something to her. Couldn’t he? To his wife.’

‘He hasn’t done anything to his wife,’ I say confidently. ‘It isn’t him.’

‘How the hell would you know? Rachel, what is going on?’

‘I just … You have to believe me. That isn’t why I called you. I needed to talk to you about that Saturday. About the message you left me. You were so angry. You said I’d scared Anna.’

‘Well, you had. She saw you stumbling down the street, you shouted abuse at her. She was really freaked out, after what happened last time. With Evie.’

‘Did she … did she do something?’

‘Do something?’

‘To me?’

‘
What
?’

‘I had a cut, Tom. On my head. I was bleeding.’

‘Are you accusing Anna of hurting you?’ He’s yelling now, he’s furious. ‘Seriously, Rachel. That is enough! I have persuaded Anna – on more than one occasion – not to go to the police about you, but if you carry on like this – harassing us, making up stories—’

‘I’m not accusing her of anything, Tom. I’m just trying to figure things out. I don’t—’

‘You don’t remember! Of course not. Rachel doesn’t remember.’ He sighs wearily. ‘Look. Anna saw you – you were drunk and abusive. She came home to tell me, she was upset, so I went out to look for you. You were in the street. I think you might have fallen. You were very upset. You’d cut your hand.’

‘I hadn’t—’

‘Well, you had blood on your hand then. I don’t know how it got there. I told you I’d take you home, but you wouldn’t listen. You were out of control, you were making no sense. You walked off and I went to get the car, but when I came back, you’d gone. I drove up past the station but I couldn’t see you. I drove around a bit more – Anna was very worried that you were hanging around somewhere, that you’d come back, that you’d try to get into the house. I was worried you’d fall, or get yourself into trouble … I drove all the way to Ashbury. I rang the bell, but you weren’t at home. I called you a couple of times. I left a message. And yes, I was angry. I was really pissed off by that point.’

‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘I know,’ he says. ‘You’re always sorry.’

‘You said that I shouted at Anna,’ I say, cringing at the thought of it. ‘What did I say to her?’

‘I don’t know,’ he snaps. ‘Would you like me to go and get her? Perhaps you’d like to have a chat with her about it?’

‘Tom …’

‘Well, honestly – what does it matter now?’

‘Did you see Megan Hipwell that night?’

‘No.’ He sounds concerned now. ‘Why? Did you? You didn’t do something, did you?’

‘No, of course I didn’t.’

He’s silent for a moment. ‘Well, why are you asking about this then? Rachel, if you know something …’

‘I don’t know anything,’ I say. ‘I didn’t see anything.’

‘Why were you at the Hipwells’ house on Monday? Please tell me – so that I can put Anna’s mind at ease. She’s worried.’

‘I had something to tell him. Something I thought might be useful.’

‘You didn’t see her, but you had something useful to tell him?’

I hesitate for a moment. I’m not sure how much I should tell him, whether I should keep this just for Scott. ‘It’s about Megan,’ I say. ‘She was having an affair.’

‘Wait – did you know her?’

‘Just a little,’ I say.

‘How?’

‘From her gallery.’

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘So who’s the guy?’

‘Her therapist,’ I tell him. ‘Kamal Abdic. I saw them together.’

‘Really? The guy they arrested? I thought they’d let him go.’

‘They have. And it’s my fault, because I’m an unreliable witness.’

Tom laughs. It’s soft, friendly, he isn’t mocking me. ‘Rachel, come on. You did the right thing, coming forward. I’m sure it’s not just about you.’ In the background, I can hear the prattle of the child, and Tom says something away from the phone, something I can’t hear. ‘I should go,’ he says. I can imagine him putting down the phone, picking up his little girl, giving her a kiss, embracing his wife. The dagger in my heart twists, round and round and round.

It’s 8.07 and I’m on the train. Back to the imaginary office. Cathy was with Damien all weekend, and when I saw her last night, I didn’t give her a chance to berate me. I started apologizing for my behaviour straight away, said I’d been feeling really down, but that I was pulling myself together, turning over a new leaf. She accepted, or pretended to accept, my apologies. She gave me a hug. Niceness writ large.

Megan has dropped out of the news almost completely. There was a comment piece in the
Sunday Times
about police incompetence which referred briefly to the case, an unnamed source at the Crown Prosecution Service citing it as ‘one of a number of cases in which the police have made a hasty arrest on the basis of flimsy or flawed evidence’.

We’re coming to the signal. I feel the familiar rattle and jolt, the train slows and I look up, because I have to, because I cannot bear not to, but there is never anything to see any longer. The doors are closed and the curtains drawn. There is nothing to see but rain, sheets of it, and muddy water pooling at the bottom of the garden.

On a whim, I get off the train at Witney. Tom couldn’t help me, but perhaps the other man could – the red-haired man. I wait for the disembarking passengers to disappear down the steps and then I sit on the only covered bench on the platform. I might get lucky. I might see him getting on to the train. I could follow him, I could talk to him. It’s the only thing I have left, my last roll of the dice. If this doesn’t work, I have to let it go. I just have to let it go.

Half an hour goes by. Every time I hear footsteps on the steps, my heart rate goes up. Every time I hear the clacking of high heels, I am seized with trepidation. If Anna sees me here, I could be in trouble. Tom warned me. He’s persuaded her not to get the police involved, but if I carry on …

Quarter past nine. Unless he starts work very late, I’ve missed him. It’s raining harder now, and I can’t face another aimless day in London. The only money I have is a tenner I borrowed from Cathy, and I need to make that last until I’ve summoned up the courage to ask my mother for a loan. I walk down the steps, intending to cross underneath to the opposite platform and go back to Ashbury, when suddenly I spot Scott hurrying out of the newsagent opposite the station entrance, his coat pulled up around his face.

I run after him and catch him at the corner, right opposite the underpass. I grab his arm and he wheels round, startled.

‘Please,’ I say, ‘can I talk to you?’

‘Jesus Christ,’ he snarls at me. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

I back away from him, holding my hands up. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to apologize, to explain …’

The downpour has become a deluge. We are the only people on the street, both of us soaked to the skin. Scott starts to laugh. He throws his hands up in the air and roars with laughter. ‘Come to the house,’ he says. ‘We’re going to drown out here.’

Scott goes upstairs to fetch me a towel while the kettle boils. The house is less tidy than it was a week ago, the disinfectant smell displaced by something earthier. A pile of newspapers sits in the corner of the living room; there are dirty mugs on the coffee table and the mantelpiece.