Paula Hawkins - The Girl on the Train

I sit on the bed and switch the phone on, praying that it still has some charge. It lights up and I can feel the adrenaline in my blood, it’s making me dizzy, a little bit sick, and it’s making me buzz, as though I’m high. I’m starting to enjoy myself, enjoy the anticipation of putting everything out there, confronting him—all of them—with what we are and where we’re going. By the end of the day, everyone is going to know where they stand.

I call his number. Predictably, it goes straight to voice mail. I hang up and send a text: I need to talk to you. URGENT. Call me back. Then I sit there, and I wait.

I look at the call log. The last time I used this phone was April. A lot of calls, all of them unanswered, in early April and late March. I called and called and called, and he ignored me, he didn’t even respond to the threats I made—I’d go to the house, I’d talk to his wife. I think he’ll listen to me now, though. I’m going to make him listen to me now.

When we started all this, it was just a game. A distraction. I used to see him from time to time. He’d pop by the gallery and smile and flirt, and it was harmless—there were plenty of men who came by the gallery and smiled and flirted. But then the gallery closed and I was here at home all the time, bored and restless. I just needed something else, something different. Then one day, when Scott was away, I bumped into him in the street, we started talking and I invited him in for coffee. The way he looked at me, I could see exactly what was going through his mind, and so it just happened. And then it happened again, and I never meant for it to go anywhere, I didn’t want it to go anywhere. I just enjoyed feeling wanted; I liked the feeling of control. It was as simple and stupid as that. I didn’t want him to leave his wife; I just wanted him to want to leave her. To want me that much.

I don’t remember when I started believing that it could be more, that we should be more, that we were right for each other. But the moment I did, I could feel him start to pull away. He stopped texting, stopped answering my calls, and I’ve never felt rejection like that before, never. I hated it. So then it became something else: an obsession. I can see that now. In the end I really thought I could just walk away from it, a little bruised, but no real harm done. But it’s not that simple any longer.

Scott is still outside the door. I can’t hear him, but I can feel him. I go into the bathroom and dial the number again. I get voice mail again, so I hang up and dial again, and again. I whisper a message. “Pick up the phone, or I’m coming round there. I mean it this time. I have to talk to you. You can’t just ignore me.”

I stand in the bathroom for a while, the phone on the edge of the sink. Willing it to ring. The screen stays stubbornly grey and blank. I brush my hair and my teeth, put on some makeup. My colour is returning to normal. My eyes are still red, my throat still hurts, but I look all right. I start counting. If the phone doesn’t ring before I get to fifty, I’m just going to go down there and knock on the door. The phone doesn’t ring.

I stuff the phone into my jeans pocket, walk quickly through the bedroom and open the door. Scott is sitting on the landing, his arms around his knees, his head down. He doesn’t look up at me, so I walk past him and start to run downstairs, my breath catching in my throat. I’m afraid that he’ll grab me from behind and push me. I can hear him getting to his feet, and he calls, “Megan! Where are you going? Are you going to him?”

At the bottom of the stairs, I turn. “There is no him , OK? It’s over.”

“Please wait, Megan. Please don’t go.”

I don’t want to hear him beg, don’t want to listen to the whine in his voice, the self-pity. Not when my throat still feels like someone’s poured acid down it.

“Don’t follow me,” I croak at him. “If you follow me, I’ll never come back. Do you understand? If I turn around and see you behind me, that’ll be the last time you ever see my face.”

I can hear him calling my name as I slam the door behind me.

I wait on the pavement outside for a few moments to make sure he isn’t following me, then I walk, quickly at first, then slower, and slower, along Blenheim Road. I get to number twenty-three and it’s then that I lose my nerve. I’m not ready for this scene yet. I need a minute to collect myself. A few minutes. I walk on, past the house, past the underpass, past the station. I keep going until I get to the park and then I dial his number one more time.

I tell him that I’m in the park, that I’ll wait for him there, but if he doesn’t come, that’s it, I’m going round to the house. This is his last chance.

It’s a lovely evening, a little after seven but still warm and light. A bunch of kids are still playing on the swings and the slide, their parents standing off to one side, chatting animatedly. It looks nice, normal, and as I watch them I have a sickening feeling that Scott and I will not bring our daughter here to play. I just can’t see us happy and relaxed like that. Not now. Not after what I’ve just done.

I was so convinced this morning that getting everything out in the open would be the best way—not just the best way, the only way. No more lying, no more hiding. And then when he hurt me, it only made me all the more sure. But now, sitting here on my own, with Scott not just furious but heartbroken, I don’t think it was the right thing at all. I wasn’t being strong, I was being reckless, and there’s no telling how much damage I’ve done.

Maybe the courage I need has nothing to do with telling the truth and everything to do with walking away. It’s not just restlessness—this is more than that. For her sake and mine, now is the time to go, to walk away from them both, from all of it. Maybe running and hiding is exactly what I need to do.

I get to my feet and walk round the park just once. I’m half willing the phone to ring and half dreading it ringing, but in the end I’m pleased when it stays silent. I’ll take it as a sign. I head back the way I came, towards home.

I’ve just passed the station when I see him. He’s walking quickly, striding out of the underpass, his shoulders hunched over and his fists clenched, and before I can stop myself, I call out.

He turns to face me. “Megan! What the hell . . .” The expression on his face is pure rage, but he beckons me to go to him.

“Come on,” he says, when I get closer. “We can’t talk here. The car’s over there.”

“I just need—”

“We can’t talk here!” he snaps. “Come on.” He tugs at my arm. Then, more gently, “We’ll drive somewhere quiet, OK? Somewhere we can talk.”

As I get into the car, I glance over my shoulder, back the way he came. The underpass is dark, but I feel as though I can see someone in there, in the shadows—someone watching us go.

RACHEL

• • •

SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013

AFTERNOON

Anna turns on her heel and runs into the house the second she sees him. My heart hammering against my ribs, I follow cautiously, stopping just short of the sliding doors. Inside, they are embracing, his arms enveloping her, the child between them. Anna’s head is bent, her shoulders shaking. His mouth is pressed to the top of her scalp, but his eyes are on me.

“What’s going on here, then?” he asks, the trace of a smile on his lips. “I have to say that finding you two ladies gossiping in the garden when I got home was not what I expected.”

His tone is light, but he’s not fooling me. He’s not fooling me anymore. I open my mouth to speak, but I find that I don’t have the words. I have nowhere to start.