The Girl on the Train

Without warning, Anna jumps to her feet, pushing her chair back – it clatters on to the kitchen floor, waking their daughter. ‘Give her to me,’ Anna says, holding her arms out. Tom backs away a little. ‘Now, Tom, give her to me. Give her to me.’

But he doesn’t, he walks away from her, rocking the child, whispering to her again, coaxing her back to sleep, and then Anna starts to scream. At first she’s repeating give her to me, give her to me, but then it’s just an indistinguishable howl of fury and anguish. The child is screaming, too. Tom is trying to quieten her, he’s ignoring Anna, so it falls to me to take hold of her. I drag her outside and talk to her, low and urgent.

‘You have to calm down, Anna. Do you understand me? I need you to calm down. I need you to talk to him, to distract him for a moment while I ring the police? All right?’

She’s shaking her head – she’s shaking all over. She grabs hold of my arms, her fingernails digging into my flesh. ‘How could he do this?’

‘Anna! Listen to me. You need to keep him busy for a moment.’

Finally, she looks at me, really looks at me, and nods. ‘All right.’

‘Just … I don’t know. Get him away from this door, try to keep him occupied for a bit.’

She goes back inside. I take a deep breath, then turn and take a few steps away from the sliding door. Not too far, just on to the lawn. I turn and look back. They’re still in the kitchen. I walk slightly further away. The wind is getting up now: the heat is about to break. Swifts are swooping low in the sky, and I can smell the rain coming. I love that smell.

I slip my hand into my back pocket and take out my phone. Hands trembling, I fail to unlock the keypad once, twice – I get it on the third time. For a moment I think about calling Detective Sergeant Riley, someone who knows me. I scroll through my call log but can’t find her number, so I give up – I’ll just dial 999. I’m on the second nine when I feel his foot punch the base of my spine and I go sprawling forward on to the grass, the wind knocked out of me. The phone flies from my grasp – he has it in his hand before I can raise myself to my knees, before I can take a breath.

‘Now, now, Rach,’ he says, grabbing my arm and hoisting me to my feet effortlessly. ‘Let’s not do anything stupid.’

He leads me back into the house, and I let him, because I know there’s no point fighting now, I won’t get away from him here. He shoves me through the doorway, sliding the glass door closed behind us and locking it. He tosses the key on to the kitchen table. Anna is standing there. She gives me a small smile and I wonder, then, whether she told him that I was about to call the police.

Anna sets about making lunch for her daughter, and puts the kettle on to make the rest of us a cup of tea. In this utterly bizarre facsimile of reality, I feel as though I could just politely bid them both goodbye, walk across the room and out into the safety of the street. It’s so tempting, I actually take a few steps in that direction, but Tom blocks my path. He puts a hand on my shoulder, then runs his fingers under my throat, applying just the slightest pressure.

‘What am I going to do with you, Rach?’

MEGAN

Saturday, 13 July 2013

Evening

IT’S NOT UNTIL we get into the car that I notice he has blood on his hand.

‘You’ve cut yourself,’ I say.

He doesn’t reply; his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

‘Tom, I needed to talk to you,’ I say. I’m trying to be conciliatory, trying to be grown-up about this, but I suppose it’s a little late for that. ‘I’m sorry about hassling you, but for God’s sake! You just cut me off. You—’

‘It’s OK,’ he says, his voice soft. ‘I’m not … I’m pissed off about something else. It’s not you.’ He turns his head and tries to smile at me, but fails. ‘Problems with the ex,’ he says. ‘You know how it is.’

‘What happened to your hand?’ I ask him.

‘Problems with the ex,’ he says again, and there’s a nasty edge to his voice. We drive the rest of the way to Corly Wood in silence.

We drive into the car park, right up to the very end. It’s a place we’ve been before. There’s never anyone much around in the evenings – sometimes a few teenagers with cans of beer, but that’s about it. Tonight we’re alone.

Tom turns off the engine and turns to me. ‘Right. What is it you wanted to talk about?’ The anger is still there, but it’s simmering now, no longer boiling over. Still, after what’s just happened I don’t feel like being in an enclosed space with an angry man, so I suggest we walk a bit. He rolls his eyes and sighs heavily, but he agrees.

It’s still warm; there are clouds of midges under the trees and the sunshine is streaming through the leaves, bathing the path in an oddly subterranean light. Above our heads, magpies chatter angrily.

We walk a little way in silence, me in front, Tom a few paces behind. I’m trying to think of what to say, how to put this. I don’t want to make things worse. I have to keep reminding myself that I’m trying to do the right thing.

I stop walking and turn to face him – he’s standing very close to me.

He puts his hands on my hips. ‘Here?’ he asks. ‘Is this what you want?’ He looks bored.

‘No,’ I say, pulling away from him. ‘Not that.’

The path descends a little here. I slow down, but he matches my stride.

‘What then?’

Deep breath. My throat still hurts. ‘I’m pregnant.’

There’s no reaction at all – his face is completely blank. I could be telling him that I need to go to Sainsbury’s on the way home, or that I’ve got a dentist’s appointment.

‘Congratulations,’ he says eventually.

Another deep breath. ‘Tom, I’m telling you this because … well, because there’s a possibility that the child could be yours.’

He stares at me for a few moments, then laughs. ‘Oh? Lucky me. So what – we’re going to run away, the three of us? You, me and the baby? Where was it we were going? Spain?’

‘I thought you should know, because—’

‘Have an abortion,’ he says. ‘I mean, if it’s your husband’s, do what you want. But if it’s mine, get rid of it. Seriously, let’s not be stupid about this. I don’t want another kid.’ He runs his fingers down the side of my face. ‘And I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re really motherhood material, are you, Megs?’