The Girl on the Train
Downstairs, while I boil the kettle I make small talk with Cathy, listening to her going on about the new place in Northcote she’s discovered for lunch (‘really good salads’) and how annoying the new woman at work is. I smile and nod, but I’m only half hearing her. My body is braced: I’m listening out for him, for creaks or footsteps. It feels unreal to have him here, in my bed, upstairs. It makes me dizzy to think about it, as though I’m dreaming.
Cathy stops talking eventually and looks at me, her brow furrowed. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks. ‘You look … kind of out of it.’
‘I’m just a bit tired,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not feeling very well. I think I’ll go to bed.’
She gives me a look. She knows I’ve not been drinking (she can always tell), but she probably assumes I’m about to start. I don’t care, I can’t think about it now; I pick up the cup of tea for Scott and tell her I’ll see her in the morning.
I stop outside my bedroom door and listen. It’s quiet. Carefully, I twist the doorknob and push the door open. He’s lying there, in exactly the same position I left him, his hands at his sides, his eyes shut. I can hear his breathing, soft and ragged. His bulk takes up half the bed, but I’m tempted to lie down in the space next to him, to put my arm across his chest, to comfort him. Instead, I give a little cough and hold out the cup of tea.
He sits up. ‘Thank you,’ he says gruffly, taking the mug from me. ‘Thank you for … giving me sanctuary. It’s been – I can’t describe how it’s been, since that story came out.’
‘The one about what happened years ago?’
‘Yeah, that one.’
How the tabloids got hold of that story is hotly disputed. The speculation has been rife, fingers pointed at the police, at Kamal Abdic, at Scott.
‘It’s a lie,’ I say to him. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is, but it gives someone a motive, doesn’t it? That’s what they’re saying – Megan killed her baby, which would give someone – the father of the child, presumably – a motive to kill her. Years and years later.’
‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘But you know what everyone’s saying. That I made this story up, not just to make her look like a bad person, but to shift suspicion away from me, on to some unknown person. Some guy from her past that no one even knows about.’
I sit down next to him on the bed. Our thighs almost touch.
‘What are the police saying about it?’
He shrugs. ‘Nothing really. They asked me what I knew about it. Did I know she’d had a child before? Did I know what happened? Did I know who the father was? I said no, it was all bullshit, she’d never been pregnant …’ His voice catches again. He stops, takes a sip of the tea. ‘I asked them where the story came from, how it made it into the newspapers. They said they couldn’t tell me. It’s from him, I assume. Abdic.’ He gives a long, shuddering sigh. ‘I don’t understand why. I don’t understand why he would say things like that about her. I don’t know what he’s trying to do. He’s obviously fucking disturbed.’
I think of the man I met the other day: the calm demeanour, the soft voice, the warmth in the eyes. As far from disturbed as it’s possible to get. That smile, though. ‘It’s outrageous that this has been printed. There should be rules …’
‘Can’t libel the dead,’ he says. He falls silent for a moment, then says, ‘They’ve assured me that they won’t release the information about this … about her pregnancy. Not yet. Perhaps not at all. But certainly not until they know for sure.’
‘Until they know?’
‘It’s not Abdic’s child,’ he says.
‘They’ve done DNA testing?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, I just know. I can’t say how, but I know. The baby is – was – mine.’
‘If he thought it was his baby, it gives him a motive, doesn’t it?’ He wouldn’t be the first man to get rid of an unwanted child by getting rid of its mother – although I don’t say that out loud. And – I don’t say this either – it gives Scott a motive, too. If he thought his wife was pregnant with another man’s child … only he can’t have done. His shock, his distress – it has to be real. No one is that good an actor.
Scott doesn’t appear to be listening any longer. His eyes, fixed on the back of the bedroom door, are glazed over, and he seems to be sinking into the bed as though into quicksand.
‘You should stay here a while,’ I say to him. ‘Try to sleep.’
He looks at me then, and he almost smiles. ‘You don’t mind?’ he asks. ‘It would be … I would be grateful. I find it hard to sleep at home. It’s not just the people outside, the sense of people trying to get to me. It’s not just that. It’s her. She’s everywhere, I can’t stop seeing her. I go down the stairs and I don’t look, I force myself not to look, but when I’m past the window, I have to go back and check that she’s not out there, on the terrace.’ I can feel the tears pricking my eyes as he tells me. ‘She liked to sit out there, you see – on this little terrace we’ve got. She liked to sit out there and watch the trains.’
‘I know,’ I say, putting my hand on his arm. ‘I used to see her there sometimes.’
‘I keep hearing her voice,’ he says. ‘I keep hearing her calling me. I lie in bed and I can hear her calling me from outside. I keep thinking she’s out there.’ He’s trembling.
‘Lie down,’ I say, taking the mug from his hand. ‘Rest.’
When I’m sure that he’s fallen asleep, I lie down at his back, my face inches from his shoulderblade. I close my eyes and listen to my heart beating, the throb of blood in my neck. I inhale the sad, stale scent of him.
When I wake, hours later, he’s gone.
Thursday, 8 August 2013
Morning
I feel treacherous. He left me just hours ago, and here I am, on my way to see Kamal, to meet once again the man he believes killed his wife. His child. I feel sick. I wonder whether I should have told him my plan, explained that I’m doing all this for him. Only I’m not sure that I am doing it just for him, and I don’t really have a plan.
I will give something of myself. That’s my plan for today. I will talk about something real. I will talk about wanting a child. I’ll see whether that provokes something – an unnatural response, any kind of reaction. I’ll see where that gets me.