The Girl on the Train (Page 34)

We are passing the house now; for once, the train has not stopped at the signal. I whip my head around, but I’m too late. It’s gone. My hands are trembling as I hand the iPad back to its owner. He shakes his head sadly. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he says.

‘She isn’t dead,’ I say. My voice is a croak and even I don’t believe me. Tears are stinging the back of my eyes. I was in his house. I was there. I sat across the table from him, I looked into his eyes, I felt something. I think about those huge hands and about how, if he could crush me, he could destroy her – tiny, fragile Megan.

The brakes screech as we approach Witney station and I leap to my feet.

‘I have to go,’ I tell the man next to me, who looks a little surprised but nods sagely.

‘Good luck,’ he says.

I run along the platform and down the stairs. I’m going against the flow of people, and am almost at the bottom of the stairs when I stumble and a man says, ‘Watch it!’ I don’t glance up at him because I’m looking at the edge of the concrete step, the second to last one. There’s a smear of blood on it. I wonder how long it’s been there. Could it be a week old? Could it be my blood? Hers? Is her blood in the house, I wonder, is that why they’ve arrested him? I try to picture the kitchen, the living room. The smell: very clean, antiseptic. Was that bleach? I don’t know, I can’t remember now, all I can remember clearly is the sweat on his back and the beer on his breath.

I run past the underpass, stumbling at the corner of Blenheim Road. I’m holding my breath as I hurry along the pavement, head down, too afraid to look up, but when I do there’s nothing to see. There are no vans parked outside Scott’s house, no police cars. Could they have finished searching the house already? If they had found something they would still be there, surely; it must take hours, going over everything, processing the evidence. I quicken my pace. When I get to his house I stop, take a deep breath. The curtains are drawn, upstairs and down. The curtains in the neighbour’s window twitch. I’m being watched. I step into the doorway, my hand raised. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I just wanted to see. I wanted to know. I’m caught, for a moment, between going against my every instinct and knocking on that door, and turning away. I turn to leave, and it’s at that moment that the door opens.

Before I have time to move, his hand shoots out, he grabs my forearm and pulls me towards him. His mouth is a grim line, his eyes wild. He is desperate. Flooded with dread and adrenaline, I see darkness coming. I open my mouth to cry out, but I’m too late, he yanks me into the house and slams the door behind me.

MEGAN

Thursday, 21 March 2013

Morning

I DON’T LOSE. He should know this about me. I don’t lose games like this.

The screen on my phone is blank. Stubbornly, insolently blank. No text messages, no missed calls. Every time I look at it, it feels like I’ve been slapped, and I get angrier and angrier. What happened to me in that hotel room? What was I thinking? That we made a connection, that there was something real between us? He has no intention of going anywhere with me. But I believed him for a second – more than a second – and that’s what really pisses me off. I was ridiculous, credulous. He was laughing at me, all along.

If he thinks I’m going to sit around crying over him, he’s got another thing coming. I can live without him, I can do without him just fine – but I don’t like to lose. It’s not like me. None of this is like me. I don’t get rejected. I’m the one who walks away.

I’m driving myself insane, I can’t help it. I can’t stop going back to that afternoon at the hotel and going over and over what he said, the way he made me feel.

Bastard.

If he thinks I will just disappear, go quietly, he’s mistaken. If he doesn’t pick up soon, I’m going to stop calling his mobile and call him at home. I’m not just going to be ignored.

At breakfast, Scott asks me to cancel my therapy session. I don’t say anything. I pretend I haven’t heard him.

‘Dave’s asked us round to dinner,’ he says. ‘We haven’t been over there for ages. Can you rearrange your session?’

His tone is light, as though this is a casual request, but I can feel him watching me, his eyes on my face. We’re on the edge of an argument and I have to be careful.

‘I can’t, Scott, it’s too late,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you ask Dave and Karen to come here on Saturday instead?’ Just the thought of entertaining Dave and Karen at the weekend is wearing, but I’m going to have to compromise.

‘It’s not too late,’ he says, putting his coffee cup down on the table in front of me. He rests his hand on my shoulder for just a moment, says, ‘Cancel it, OK?’ and walks out of the room.

The second the front door closes, I pick up the coffee cup and hurl it against the wall.

Evening

I could tell myself that it’s not really a rejection. I could try to persuade myself that he’s just trying to do the right thing, morally and professionally. But I know that isn’t true. Or at least, it’s not the whole truth, because if you want someone badly enough, morals (and certainly professionalism) don’t come into it. You’ll do anything to have them. He just doesn’t want me badly enough.

I ignored Scott’s calls all afternoon, I turned up to my session late, and walked straight into his office without a word to the receptionist. He was sitting at his desk, writing something. He glanced up at me when I walked in, didn’t smile, then looked back down at his papers. I stood in front of his desk, waiting for him to look at me. It felt like forever before he did.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked eventually. He smiled at me then. ‘You’re late.’

The breath was catching in my throat, I couldn’t speak. I walked around the desk and leaned against it, my leg brushing against his thigh. He drew back a little.

‘Megan,’ he said, ‘are you all right?’

I shook my head. I put my hand out to him, and he took it.

‘Megan,’ he said again, shaking his head.

I didn’t say anything.

‘You can’t … You should sit down,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk.’

I shook my head.

‘Megan.’

Every time he said my name he made it worse.

He got to his feet and circled the desk, walking away from me. He stood in the middle of the room.