The Girl on the Train (24 page)

At first the trains, and then Rachel. Rachel watching us, turning up on the street, calling us up all the time. And then even Megan, when she was here with Evie: I always felt she had half an eye on me, as though she were assessing me, assessing my parenting, judging me for not being able to cope on my own. Ridiculous, I know. Then I think about that day when Rachel came to the house and took Evie, and my whole body goes cold and I think, I’m not being ridiculous at all.

So by the time Tom came home, I was spoiling for a fight. I issued an ultimatum: we have to leave, there’s no way I can stay in this house, on this road, knowing everything that has gone on here. Everywhere I look now, I have to see not only Rachel, but Megan too. I have to think about everything she touched. It’s too much. I said I didn’t care whether we got a good price for the house or not.

‘You will care when we’re forced to live in a much worse place, when we can’t make our mortgage payments,’ he said, perfectly reasonably. I asked whether he couldn’t ask his parents to help out – they have plenty of money – but he said he wouldn’t ask them, that he’d never ask them for anything again, and he got angry then, said he didn’t want to talk about it any more. It’s because of how his parents treated him when he left Rachel for me. I shouldn’t even have mentioned them, it always pisses him off.

But I can’t help it. I feel desperate, because now every time I close my eyes I see her, sitting there at the kitchen table with Evie on her lap. She’d be playing with her and smiling and chattering, but it never seemed real, it never seemed as if she really wanted to be there. She always seemed so happy to be handing Evie back to me when it was time for her to go. It was almost as though she didn’t like the feel of a child in her arms.

The heat is insufferable, it builds and builds. With the apartment windows open, you can taste the carbon monoxide rising from the street below. My throat itches. I’m taking my second shower of the day when the phone rings. I let it go, and it rings again. And again. By the time I’m out, it’s ringing for a fourth time, and I answer.

He sounds panicky, his breath short. His voice comes to me in snatches. ‘I can’t go home,’ he says. ‘There are cameras everywhere.’

‘Scott?’

‘I know this is … this is really weird, but I just need to go somewhere, somewhere they won’t be waiting for me. I can’t go to my mother’s, my friends. I’m just … driving around. I’ve been driving around since I left the police station …’ There’s a catch in his voice. ‘I just need an hour or two. To sit, to think. Without them, without the police, without people asking me fucking questions. I’m sorry, but could I come to your house?’

I say yes, of course. Not just because he sounds panicked, desperate, but because I want to see him. I want to help him. I give him the address and he says he’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

The doorbell rings ten minutes later: short, sharp, urgent bursts.

‘I’m sorry to do this,’ he says as I open the front door. ‘I didn’t know where to go.’ He has a hunted look to him: he’s shaken, pale, his skin slick with sweat.

‘It’s all right,’ I say, stepping aside to allow him to pass me. I show him into the living room, tell him to sit down. I fetch him a glass of water from the kitchen. He drinks it, almost in one gulp, then sits, bent over, forearms on his knees, head hanging down.

I hover, unsure whether to speak or to hold my tongue. I fetch his glass and refill it, saying nothing. Eventually, he starts to speak.

‘You think the worst has happened,’ he says quietly. ‘I mean, you would think that, wouldn’t you?’ He looks up at me. ‘My wife is dead, and the police think that I killed her. What could be worse than that?’

He’s talking about the news, about the things they’re saying about her. This tabloid story, supposedly leaked by someone in the police, about Megan’s involvement in the death of a child. Murky, speculative stuff, a smear campaign on a dead woman. It’s despicable.

‘It isn’t true though,’ I say to him. ‘It can’t be.’

His expression is blank, uncomprehending. ‘Detective Sergeant Riley told me this morning,’ he says. He coughs, clears his throat. ‘The news I always wanted to hear. You can’t imagine,’ he goes on, his voice barely more than a whisper, ‘how I’ve longed for it. I used to daydream about it, imagine how she’d look, how she’d smile at me, shy and knowing, how she’d take my hand and press it to her lips …’ He’s lost, he’s dreaming, I have no idea what he’s talking about. ‘Today,’ he says, ‘today I got the news that Megan was pregnant.’

He starts to cry, and I am choking too, crying for an infant who never existed, the child of a woman I never knew. But the horror of it is almost too much to bear. I cannot understand how Scott is still breathing. It should have killed him, should have sucked the life right out of him. Somehow, though, he is still here.

I can’t speak, can’t move. The living room is hot, airless despite the open windows. I can hear noises from the street below: a police siren, young girls shouting and laughing, bass booming from a passing car. Normal life. But in here, the world is ending. For Scott, the world is ending, and I can’t speak. I stand there, mute, helpless, useless.

Until I hear footfalls on the steps outside, the familiar jangle of Cathy fishing around in her huge handbag for her house keys. It jolts me to life. I have to do something: I grab Scott’s hand and he looks up at me, alarmed.

‘Come with me,’ I say, pulling him to his feet. He lets me drag him into the hallway and up the stairs before Cathy unlocks the door. I close the bedroom door behind us.

‘My flatmate,’ I say by way of explanation. ‘She’d … she might ask questions. I know that’s not what you want at the moment.’

He nods. He looks around my tiny room, taking in the unmade bed, the clothes, both clean and dirty, piled on my desk chair, the blank walls, the cheap furniture. I am embarrassed. This is my life: messy, shabby, small. Unenviable. As I’m thinking this, I think how ridiculous I am, to imagine that Scott could possibly care about the state of my life at this moment.

I motion for him to sit down on the bed. He obeys, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He breathes out heavily.

‘Can I get you something?’ I ask him.

‘A beer?’

‘I don’t keep alcohol in the house,’ I say, and I can feel myself going red as I say it. Scott doesn’t notice though, he doesn’t even look up. ‘I can make you a cup of tea?’ He nods again. ‘Lie down,’ I say. ‘Rest.’ He does as he’s told, kicking off his shoes and lying back on the bed, docile as a sick child.

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.

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.

It gets me nowhere.

He starts out by asking me how I’m feeling, when I last had a drink.

‘Sunday,’ I tell him.

‘Good. That’s good.’ He folds his hands in his lap. ‘You look well.’ He smiles, and I don’t see the killer. I’m wondering now what I saw the other day. Did I imagine it?

‘You asked me, last time, about how the drinking started.’ He nods. ‘I became depressed,’ I say. ‘We were trying … I was trying to get pregnant. I couldn’t, and I became depressed. That’s when it started.’

In no time at all, I find myself crying again. It’s impossible to resist the kindness of strangers. Someone who looks at you, who doesn’t know you, who tells you it’s OK, whatever you did, whatever you’ve done: you suffered, you hurt, you deserve forgiveness. I confide in him and I forget, once again, what I’m doing here. I don’t watch his face for a reaction, I don’t study his eyes for some sign of guilt or suspicion. I let him comfort me.

He is kind, rational. He talks about coping strategies, he reminds me that youth is on my side.

So maybe it doesn’t get me nowhere, because I leave Kamal Abdic’s office feeling lighter, more hopeful. He has helped me. I sit on the train and I try to conjure up the killer I saw, but I can’t see him any longer. I am struggling to see him as a man capable of beating a woman, of crushing her skull.