by Daniel Hurst
The Passenger
Daniel Hurst
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
STRANGER
Chapter 2
AMANDA
Chapter 3
LOUISE
Chapter 4
AMANDA
Chapter 5
STRANGER
Chapter 6
JAMES
Chapter 7
AMANDA
Chapter 8
STRANGER
Chapter 9
AMANDA
Chapter 10
STRANGER
Chapter 11
AMANDA
Chapter 12
STRANGER
Chapter 13
LOUISE
Chapter 14
JAMES
Chapter 15
AMANDA
Chapter 16
AMANDA
Chapter 17
AMANDA
Chapter 18
LOUISE
Chapter 19
JAMES
Chapter 20
STRANGER
Chapter 21
AMANDA
Chapter 22
AMANDA
Chapter 23
AMANDA
Chapter 24
AMANDA
Chapter 25
AMANDA
Chapter 26
LOUISE
Chapter 27
AMANDA
Chapter 28
AMANDA
Chapter 29
AMANDA
Chapter 30
AMANDA
Chapter 31
JAMES
Chapter 32
AMANDA
Chapter 33
AMANDA
Chapter 34
AMANDA
Chapter 35
AMANDA
Chapter 36
LOUISE
Chapter 37
JAMES
Chapter 38
STRANGER
Chapter 39
AMANDA
Chapter 40
STRANGER
Chapter 41
AMANDA
Chapter 42
JAMES
Chapter 43
AMANDA
Chapter 44
JAMES
Chapter 45
AMANDA
Chapter 46
JAMES
Chapter 47
AMANDA
Chapter 48
AMANDA
About the Author
Inkubator Newsletter
Rights Info
Prologue
The sound of the body going underneath the train was heard by all of those inside the station that night.
A sickening combination of shattering bone and squealing brakes was not what most people were expecting to experience as they made their way along the platforms at the end of another long day.
Most people heard only the sound of the screams from fellow travellers as the desperate driver brought the train to a stop as quickly as possible, but there were a few who had been unlucky enough to see the incident itself. Those unfortunate souls would be going home with several distressing pictures flashing through their minds.
They would see the image of the man as he fell from the safety of the platform and down onto the hard track below. They would have the memory of the blood as it sprayed up the front of the train and across the windscreen in front of the startled driver. And it would be impossible to forget the looks of horror on the faces of their fellow witnesses who had all seen such a gruesome sight.
But there was one more thing that the eyewitnesses would recall about this terrible event.
They would recall the woman who had pushed that man in front of the train.
She had blonde hair and wore dark sunglasses. She displayed a calm expression while everyone around her wore one of shock. And she had hurried away while everybody else had stayed still.
There were many unforgettable things about that evening in the train station, and many questions for the witnesses, police, and paramedics to try to answer afterwards. Questions like:
Why did this happen?
Who was the unlucky man on the tracks?
And most important of all: Who was the woman who pushed him?
1
STRANGER
THREE HOURS EARLIER
There aren’t many better spots to people-watch than at a London train station in rush hour. You get all kinds of people in a place like this. Young, old. Rich, poor. Happy, sad. Mainly sad. All of them buzzing about like little bees, desperate to get to their next destination as quickly as possible, and none of them caring about who they have to shoulder-barge out of the way to get there.
I could spend hours standing here and watching them all rush by, one, because I have the patience after spending so much time in prison, and two, because I find it fascinating. Everyone has their own story to tell, their own tales of love, regret and bad luck. But I don’t have that much time to give to such a passive pursuit now. That’s because there is one person in this crowd whom I have my eye on in particular: the brunette woman currently standing several yards to my left on this crowded platform.
There are dozens of people in between us, but I am making sure to keep my eyes on her more than anybody else. Unlike all these strangers whose life is still a mystery, this particular woman holds no secrets for me. I have been watching her for a while now, and I know everything about her, but importantly, she knows nothing about me.
Yet.
Her name is Amanda Abbott, and she is thirty-seven years old. She is from Brighton and lives in a two-bedroom flat near the town’s train station with her seventeen-year-old daughter, Louise. Every weekday, Amanda catches the 07:40 train and makes the sixty-minute commute from the coast into London, where she works a nine-to-five office job as a purchasing administrator. Then she boards the 17:35 service back home again. If her weekday routine seems dreary, her weekend one is even worse. She spends most of it cooped up in her flat, leaving only for food shopping or a short walk along the windy seafront. Her love life is non-existent, and her social life seems just as scarce. From what I have gathered, this is not down to any lack of looks or social skills, but rather a dogged determination to use almost every spare minute she has outside of her employment to focus on her number one goal in life.
Amanda wants to be an author.
I haven’t read any of Amanda’s work yet, and I’m not planning on doing so. I don’t need to know what she dreams up in her imagination every day. I only need to know what her reality is, and after the last few weeks, I have a pretty good idea of that. She’s just an average woman, working an average job, dreaming of bigger and better things. I doubt she is any different from any of the other people standing between us on this platform right now. A commuter preparing for another commute.
How ordinary.
But there is one thing that makes Amanda stand out from this crowd. It’s the thing that has kept me awake at night with excitement and anticipation of this day right here. It’s the fact that unlike most sensible people in society, Amanda doesn’t keep her money in a bank.
It’s easy in my position at one of the busiest train stations in Central London to get pushed off course by a stream of rude passengers or be deafened by all the chatter, the public address system, and screeching of brakes as the locomotives go up and down the tracks. If I had to do this every day, then I’d probably kill myself, and I’m only slightly exaggerating. I’d definitely rather be back in prison, that’s for sure. At least ther
e I had some free will. Not like these people. They think they are free, but they are wrong. None of them want to be here, yet here they are, because they have to be. Go to work. Go home. Do it all again tomorrow. And they think they have a better life than an inmate. At least I had free accommodation and food. I dread to think how much these guys are paying for the cost of living around these parts.
Amanda is just like them. I can see that on her face as I maintain a visual on her while waiting for the 17:35 service to arrive. She looks bored. A little lost.
Sad.
She doesn’t want to be here. She’d much rather be doing something else. But this is her life. Every decision she has made has led her to this moment right now. It’s those decisions that have also led to a man like me being so interested in her. But there is still time for her to make one more decision. It will be a big one, and the outcome of it will have a significant impact on both her and her daughter. It’s a decision she would never have expected to have to make. But she will make it.
She has no choice.
I notice Amanda turn her head in my direction, so I quickly avert my gaze from her pretty face and look down at the empty tracks in front of me. Soon a train will fill this space, but until then it’s just a cavernous gap that only takes one push to send a person tumbling down into it. Sometimes the trains around here get delayed because there’s a person on the tracks. But that doesn’t mean somebody is playing around on them. It means they either jumped or they were pushed. A scary thought. Not one I’d like to entertain for long. But a thought that reminds me how fragile life is. The edge of this platform is literally a precipice between life and death.
I know which side I’d rather be on.
Looking up from the tracks again and back to my left, I see that Amanda is no longer looking in my direction. She doesn’t know it yet, but it won’t be long now until I’m the only thing she is looking at.
By the time we reach the end of this line, I will no longer be just a stranger in the crowd to her. She will know me almost as well as I know her. She will also have made that decision. I just hope she does the right thing. For my sake. For her daughter’s. And for herself.
But there’s only one way to find out.
We need to get on board.
Now, where is the train?
2
AMANDA
I stand on the same part of the platform that I stand on every day. I’m in the middle, not at the end because that part of the platform is exposed to the open air, and not at the beginning where the majority of commuters wait because they are too lazy to walk further than they have to.
The middle. My spot.
It’s familiar. It’s routine. It’s my life.
But not for much longer.
I glance up at the digital screen hanging above the platform for an update on the service that is due to take me home tonight. The train should have been here by now, but there is no sign of it yet. The combination of digits and words on the screen tell me why. The 17:35 service from London Victoria to Brighton is now due at 17:44. A nine-minute delay. The train might come sooner, but it could be even later. Until then I’m stuck here with the hundreds of other people who just want to get home, put their feet up, and have a glass of wine.
It’s frustrating. It’s out of my control. It’s not fair.
Welcome to my world.
The crowd swells around me as more and more commuters make their way through the ticket barrier and arrive on the platform. I watch them all jockeying for position as they attempt to get as close to the edge of the track as possible in anticipation of the train that will eventually arrive here.
The heat is stifling and not just because it’s been a hot summer’s day in the capital. It’s because of all the extra body warmth around me right now. I really hope the air-conditioning is working on this train tonight. It failed on yesterday’s journey home, and I was so sweaty by the time I got off in Brighton, I just about felt ready to throw myself into the sea. But I shouldn’t complain. It’s rare we get this kind of balmy weather here, and the way my finances have been over these last few years, the English sun is the only kind I get.
Somebody nudges me from behind, causing me to turn around and look at them. But they just stare back with no apology. I didn’t expect one. This is London. But I’m not moving. I have my spot, and I’ll be damned if anyone is going to push me out of it.
It’s a sad indictment of how predictable my life is that I know exactly where a certain set of doors on the train will be when it arrives here. The doors to the fifth carriage will stop right in front of me—I’ve done this so many times that I have it down to an art form. While many of those around me will push and shove in their rush to get a seat when the train arrives, I will simply step right on and go to my usual seat because I have memorised the most efficient way to do this.
It’s depressing that my life is this mundane, but you have to take the small victories when you can, and it’s much better to have a good seat for the upcoming journey than be one of the people who end up standing in the aisles most of the way home. It will take an hour to get to Brighton from here, and that’s a long time to be on your feet and clinging on to a handrail. It’s much more comfortable to be seated if you can. But there are too many people here for everybody to get a seat, at least immediately. I guess it’s just like anything else in life. Some will be lucky, and some will not. But I don’t have to worry about that. I’ve been doing this for so long that luck doesn’t even come into it.
I’ll enter the fifth carriage efficiently when the train arrives, and I will rush to the set of two opposing seats with the table about halfway down. There, I will slide quickly into the forward-facing seat by the window before taking my laptop out of my bag and setting it up while the rest of the commuters rush around me for their own spots. I take that particular seat because it allows me to actually do something productive on my journey home.
By the time the train is leaving London, I will be in full flow.
While most people on this service will pass the time playing games on their phone, reading a newspaper or sleeping, I will get to work, typing several hundred more words of the book that I have been writing while I have been travelling up and down this line for the last three years. I need that table seat because I need to be able to get my laptop out and write. Otherwise, I won’t be able to work, and if I can’t work, I can’t change my life. The words I type aren’t just a way for me to pass the time on a boring commute. They are the way I will escape this boring commute forever.
I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but it has taken me until the age of thirty-seven to get serious about it. That is down to a combination of many things, including but not limited to bad luck, a lack of confidence, and the general unpredictability of life getting in the way. But now, after all this time, I am finally going after what I want, and nothing is going to stop me.
Nothing.
My ears prick up as the station announcer comes over the tannoy to give an update on the delayed service.
‘We are sorry to announce that the 17:35 service to Brighton is delayed by approximately twelve minutes.’
There are a few groans and moans from the people around me as the tannoy clicks off, and I look up at the screen to see that the estimated time of arrival has now moved on to 17:47. Brilliant. Every minute we are stuck here is one minute less we get to enjoy of our evening. But unlike the passengers around me, who are shaking their heads and muttering expletives under their breath, I at least have something to feel fortunate about.
I won’t be standing here next week. I won’t be forced to go through this tedious routine anymore. I won’t have my life dictated to me by a station announcer. That’s because I have handed my notice in at work, and I only have two more days left until I am a free woman.
The rush of exhilaration that accompanies that thought is only tempered slightly by the anxiety that comes with knowing that I won’t have a stable income any longer. But I have to beli
eve in myself, and I am sure I am doing the right thing.
I am positive that I am going to be able to make my dreams come true.
As I stare down at the tracks in front of me, I think about how my life is going to change in the coming days. After Friday, I will no longer be required to come into London and sit at a desk in an office to work for somebody else. Nor will I be forced to endure two hours of train rides every day along this line, a privilege that costs me a considerable chunk of money to experience. That’s because I am going to give my writing my full attention. I have been working hard over the last year, saving every penny I could to give myself this chance, and now it is time to do it.
It’s time to see if all the writing, dreaming and sacrifices have been worth it.
My plan after leaving my job is to finish my book and then try to get it published. With the money I have saved away, I estimate I have at least a year or two to do this before my funds run out. I pray that it is enough time for somebody to pay me for my writing and save me from having to return to this nine-to-five life.
Am I confident? Yes.
Do I believe in myself? I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t.
But am I also afraid that I am making a mistake and will end up penniless?