Girl on the Train

by Paula Hawkins

  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.

  “Rachel? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” He relinquishes Anna from his grasp and takes a step towards me. I take a step back, and he starts to laugh.

  “What on earth’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?” he asks, but I can see in his eyes that he knows I’m sober and I’m betting that for once he wishes I wasn’t. I slip my hand into the back pocket of my jeans—my phone is there, hard and compact and comforting, only I wish I’d had the sense to make the call already. No matter whether they believed me or not, if I’d told them I was with Anna and her child, the police would have come.

  Tom is now just a couple of feet away from me—he’s just inside the door and I’m just outside it.

  “I saw you,” I say at last, and I feel euphoria, fleeting but unmistakable, when I say the words out loud. “You think I don’t remember anything, but I do. I saw you. After you hit me, you left me there, in the underpass . . .”

  He starts to laugh, but I can see it now and I wonder how I never read him this easily before. There’s panic in his eyes. He shoots a glance at Anna, but she doesn’t meet his eye.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “In the underpass. On the day Megan Hipwell went missing . . .”

  “Oh, bullshit,” he says, waving a hand at me. “I did not hit you. You fell.” He reaches for Anna’s hand and pulls her closer to him. “Darling, is this why you’re so upset? Don’t listen to her, she’s talking absolute rubbish. I didn’t hit her. I’ve never laid a hand on her in my life. Not like that.” He puts his arm around Anna’s shoulders and pulls her closer still. “Come on. I’ve told you how she is. She doesn’t know what happens when she drinks, she makes up the most—”

  “You got into the car with her. I watched you go.” He’s still smiling, but there’s no longer any conviction there, and I don’t know whether I’m imagining it, but he looks a little paler to me now. He relaxes his grip on Anna, releasing her once again. She sits down at the table, her back to her husband, her daughter squirming on her lap.

  Tom passes his hand over his mouth and leans back against the kitchen counter, folding his arms across his chest. “You saw me get into the car with who?”

  “With Megan.”

  “Oh, right!” He starts laughing again, a loud, forced roar. “Last time we talked about this, you told me you saw me get into the car with Anna. Now it’s Megan, is it? Who’s it going to be next week? Princess Diana?”

  Anna looks up at me. I can see the doubt, the hope, flash across her face. “You’re not sure?” she asks.

  Tom drops to his knees at her side. “Of course she isn’t sure. She’s making this up—she does it all the time. Sweetheart, please. Why don’t you go upstairs for a bit, OK? I’ll talk this through with Rachel. And this time”—he glances up at me—“I promise I’ll make sure she won’t bother us anymore.”

  Anna’s wavering, I can see it—the way she’s looking at him, searching his face for the truth, his eyes intently on hers. “Anna!” I call out, trying to bring her back to me. “You know. You know he’s lying. You know that he was sleeping with her.”

  For a second, no one says a thing. Anna looks from Tom to me and back again. She opens her mouth to say something, but no words come.

  “Anna! What does she mean? There’s . . . there was nothing between me and Megan Hipwell.”

  “I found the phone, Tom,” she says, her voice so small, she’s almost inaudible. “So please, don’t. Don’t lie. Just don’t lie to me.”

  The child starts to grizzle and moan. Very gently, Tom takes her from Anna’s arms. He walks across to the window, rocking his daughter from side to side, murmuring to her all the while. I can’t hear what he’s saying. Anna’s head is bowed, tears dripping from her chin onto the kitchen table.

  “Where is it?” Tom says, turning to face us, the laughter gone from his face. “The phone, Anna. Did you give it to her?” He jerks his head in my direction. “Do you have it?”

  “I don’t know anything about a phone,” I tell him, wishing that Anna had mentioned this earlier.

  Tom ignores me. “Anna? Did you give it to her?”

  Anna shakes her head.

  “Where is it?”

  “I threw it away,” she says. “Over the fence. By the track.”

  “Good girl. Good girl,” he says distractedly. He’s trying to figure things out, work out where to go from here. He glances at me and then looks away. For just a moment, he looks beaten.

  He turns to Anna. “You were so tired all the time,” he says. “You just weren’t interested. Everything was about the baby. Isn’t that right? It was all about you, wasn’t it? All about you!” And just like that, he’s on top again, perked up, pulling faces at his daughter, tickling her tummy, making her smile. “And Megan was so . . . well, she was available.

  “At first, it was over at her place,” he says. “But she was so paranoid about Scott finding out. So we started meeting at the Swan. It was . . . Well, you remember what it was like, don’t you, Anna? At the beginning, when we used to go to that house on Cranham Road. You understand.” He glances back over his shoulder at me and winks. “That’s where Anna and I used to meet, back in the good old days.”

  He shifts his daughter from one arm to the other, allowing her to rest against his shoulder. “You think I’m being cruel, but I’m not. I’m telling the truth. That’s what you want, isn’t it, Anna? You asked me not to lie.”

  Anna doesn’t look up. Her hands are gripping the edge of the table, her entire body rigid.

  Tom gives a loud sigh. “It’s a relief, if I’m honest.” He’s talking to me, looking at me directly. “You have no idea how exhausting it is, coping with people like you. And, fuck, I tried. I tried so hard to help you. To help both of you. You’re both . . . I mean, I loved you both, I really did, but you can both be incredibly weak.”

  “Fuck you, Tom,” Anna says, getting up from the table. “Don’t you lump me in with her.”

  I look at her and realize how well suited they are, Anna and Tom. She’s a much better match than I am, because this is what bothers her: not that her husband is a liar and a killer, but that he’s just compared her to me.

  Tom goes to her side and says soothingly, “I’m sorry, darling. That was unfair of me.” She brushes him away and he looks over at me. “I did my best, you know. I was a good husband to you, Rach. I put up with a lot—your drinking and your depression. I put up with all that for a long time before I threw in the towel.”

  “You lied to me,” I say. “You told me everything was my fault. You made me believe that I was worthless. You watched me suffer, you—”

  He shrugs. “Do you have any idea how boring you became, Rachel? How ugly? Too sad to get out of bed in the morning, too tired to take a shower or wash your fucking hair? Jesus. It’s no wonder I lost patience, is it? It’s no wonder I had to look for ways to amuse myself. You’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

  His expression changes from contempt to concern as he turns to talk to his wife. “Anna, it was different with you, I swear. That thing with Megan, it was just . . . just a bit of fun. That’s what it was meant to be. I’ll admit it wasn’t my finest hour, but I just needed a release. That’s all. It was never going to last. It was never going to interfere with us, with our family. You mu
st understand that.”

  “You . . .” Anna is trying to say something, but she can’t get the words out.

  Tom puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes it. “What, love?”

  “You had her looking after Evie,” she spits. “Were you screwing her while she was working here? While she was looking after our child?”

  He removes his hand, his face a picture of contrition, of deep shame. “That was terrible. I thought . . . I thought it would be . . . Honestly, I don’t know what I thought. I’m not sure I was thinking at all. It was wrong. It was terribly wrong of me.” And the mask changes again—now he’s wide-eyed innocence, pleading with her: “I didn’t know then, Anna. You have to believe that I didn’t know what she was. I didn’t know about the baby she killed. I would never have let her look after Evie if I’d known that. You have to believe me.”

  Without warning, Anna jumps to her feet, pushing her chair back—it clatters onto the kitchen floor, startling 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 onto the lawn. I turn and look back. They’re still in the kitchen. I walk slightly farther 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 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 onto 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 onto 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 good-bye, 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, JULY 13, 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?”

  “You can be as involved as you like—”

  “Did you hear what I just said?” he snaps, turning his back on me and striding back up the path towards the car. “You’d be a terrible mother, Megan. Just get rid of it.”

  I go after him, walking quickly at first and then running, and when I get close enough I shove him in the back. I’m yelling at him, screaming, trying to scratch his fucking smug face, and he’s laughing, fending me off with ease. I start saying the worst things I can think of. I insult his manhood, his boring wife, his ugly child.

  I don’t even know why I’m so angry, because what did I expect? Anger, maybe, worry, upset. Not this. It’s not even rejection, it’s dismissal. All he wants is for me to go away—me and my
child—and so I tell him, I scream at him, “I’m not going away. I am going to make you pay for this. For the rest of your bloody life, you’re going to be paying for this.”

  He’s not laughing anymore.

  He’s coming towards me. He has something in his hand.

  I’ve fallen. I must have slipped. Hit my head on something. I think I’m going to be sick. Everything is red. I can’t get up.

  One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl . . . Three for a girl. I’m stuck on three, I just can’t get any further. My head is thick with sounds, my mouth thick with blood. Three for a girl. I can hear the magpies—they’re laughing, mocking me, a raucous cackling. A tiding. Bad tidings. I can see them now, black against the sun. Not the birds, something else. Someone’s coming. Someone is speaking to me. Now look. Now look what you made me do.

  RACHEL

  • • •

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013

  AFTERNOON

  In the living room, we sit in a little triangle: Tom on the sofa, the adoring father and dutiful husband, daughter on his lap, wife at his side. And the ex-wife opposite, sipping her tea. Very civilized. I’m sitting in the leather armchair that we bought from Heal’s just after we got married—it was the first piece of furniture we got as a married couple: soft tan buttery leather, expensive, luxurious. I remember how excited I was when it was delivered. I remember curling up in it, feeling safe and happy, thinking, This is what marriage is—safe, warm, comfortable.

  Tom is watching me, his brow knitted. He’s working out what to do, how to fix things. He’s not worried about Anna, I can see that. I’m the problem.

  “She was a bit like you,” he says all of a sudden. He leans back on the sofa, shifting his daughter to a more comfortable position on his lap. “Well, she was and she wasn’t. She had that thing . . . messy, you know. I can’t resist that.” He grins at me. “Knight in shining armour, me.”

  “You’re no one’s knight,” I say quietly.

  “Ah, Rach, don’t be like that. Don’t you remember? You all sad, because Daddy’s died, and just wanting someone to come home to, someone to love you? I gave you all that. I made you feel safe. Then you decided to piss it all away, but you can’t blame me for that.”

  “I can blame you for a lot of things, Tom.”

  “No, no.” He wags a finger at me. “Let’s not start rewriting history. I was good to you. Sometimes . . . well, sometimes you forced my hand. But I was good to you. I took care of you,” he says, and it’s only then that it really registers: he lies to himself the way he lies to me. He believes this. He actually believes that he was good to me.

  The child starts to wail suddenly and loudly, and Anna gets abruptly to her feet.

  “I need to change her,” she says

  “Not now.”

  “She’s wet, Tom. She needs changing. Don’t be cruel.”

  He looks at Anna sharply, but he hands the crying child to her. I try to catch her eye, but she won’t look at me. My heart rises into my throat as she turns to go upstairs, but it sinks again just as fast, because Tom is on his feet, his hand on her arm. “Do it here,” he says. “You can do it here.”

  Anna goes across into the kitchen and changes the child’s nappy on the table. The smell of shit fills the room, it turns my stomach.

  “Are you going to tell us why?” I ask him. Anna stops what’s she’s doing and looks across at us. The room is still, quiet, save for the babbling of the child.

  Tom shakes his head, almost in disbelief himself. “She could be very like you, Rach. She wouldn’t let things go. She didn’t know when she was over. She just . . . she wouldn’t listen. Remember how you always argued with me, how you always wanted the last word? Megan was like that. She wouldn’t listen.”

  He shifts in his seat and leans forward, his elbows on his knees, as if he’s telling me a story. “When we started, it was just fun, just fucking. She led me to believe that was what she was into. But then she changed her mind. I don’t know why. She was all over the place, that girl. She’d have a bad day with Scott, or she’d just be a bit bored, and she’d start talking about us going away together, starting over, about me leaving Anna and Evie. As if I would! And if I wasn’t there on demand when she wanted me, she’d be furious, calling here, threatening me, telling me she was going to come round, that she was going to tell Anna about us.

  “But then it stopped. I was so relieved. I thought she’d finally managed to get it into her head that I wasn’t interested any longer. But then that Saturday she called, saying she needed to talk, that she had something important to tell me. I ignored her, so she started making threats again—she was going to come to the house, that sort of thing. I wasn’t too worried at first, because Anna was going out. You remember, darling? You were supposed to be going out to dinner