And, of course, it was payday when I first met Jenny. It always had an extra special place in my heart after that.
That was nearly thirty years ago. As soon as I earned real money – monopoly money void of any real meaning - I quickly became bored of it. And not only did I become bored of it but, in a perverse way, I became ashamed by it. I resented people who were given outrageous bonuses when others could barely rub two pennies together and, more significantly, I despised the fact I was one of them. Rather than flashing my cash, I tried to hide it; I never openly discussed salaries and, when pushed into a corner, I pretended to earn much less than I really did. I pretended to be an average Joe, grafting just to make ends meet. Only the people who knew nothing about me were taken in by this fallacy.
This is the first month I've counted down the days since I was a fresh-faced teenager in a cheap suit.
June 2018.
Only, this time I haven’t felt expectation. I haven’t longed for the days to pass, keen to get to the other end, over the line. This time I haven't started counting from the midway point. No. I've counted from the very first day of the month, since my name from my previous life was uttered in that lift foyer. Apart from the last few days, when I've just wanted it over, this time I've longed for the days to slow down, to halt, to never end. I know there is no prize waiting for me at the end of the month. I know that whatever is waiting for me is the most horrific thing I'll ever encounter in my life.
For weeks, I've been looking around for signs, glancing over my shoulder and reading into things that just weren’t there. It has become a habit, a nervous tick, and I continued to do it as I walked back to my boat. The sun has been relentless, working overtime, and people of all ages were out, enjoying it. I longed for a cool breeze to dry the layer of sweat that permanently covered my forehead, to blow away the body odour hiding beneath my tee-shirt. I know I'm a hypocrite, just like everybody else – I'm not really that different - that as soon as the sun is replaced by grey skies, shoulder to shoulder clouds and constant, relentless drizzle then I’ll call for it to come back, tell the sun that all is forgiven, you're not so bad after all. I quickened my pace, lengthened my strides, desperate to get home, to open all the windows, lie on my bed and just wait.
Now I'm here, though, the air is stale and suffocating and I just want to break free and get back outside again. The boat is empty, of course. Erica no longer lives here. I'm not even sure who Erica is any more. The sweat on my forehead doesn't dry; it trickles into my blinking eyes. Kicking off my shoes at the sink, I reach between the gap in the net curtain and urgently push open a window. My big toe stubs against the kitchen surface, yet again. When will I learn?
“You fucking little bastard,” I shout, hopping on one foot.
I run over to my bed now, desperate to disappear within the security of the duvet, to hide away and pretend that none of this is really happening.
It is only when the corner of the duvet is in my hand and I am ready to give it a good yank that I see it, lying right in the middle of the bed, just demanding to be noticed. Still, I think about ignoring it, pretend I haven’t seen it, but my eyes remain fixed, staring like a madman.
The envelope is crisp, white and unexceptional. My name is written in blue pen across the centre. My birth name! This is no birthday card. It isn’t my fucking birthday, for starters. I tear open the envelope and dangle it upside down so that the contents drop onto the bed. I poke my eyes inside like a kid hoping to find a ten-pound note. Nothing. Everything that is important – that, presumably, could determine whether I live or die – lies motionless on the bed, waiting for me to examine it.
I pick up the orange strip of card, already knowing what it is. A train ticket. Just one. A single ticket. No return. London Paddington to Bridgend. My eyes scan the ticket, looking for the date, merely confirming what I already know. There it is. There you go. Right there.
30th June 2018.
DAY TWENTY-NINE
29TH JUNE 1988
Yvette Allen peers over the tip of her third cup of tea, glances at the tepid dregs. Fingertips pressed against the morning's newspaper (Wednesday), her eyes fix on the clock on the kitchen wall, follows the red hand as the seconds pass.
She kissed her husband goodbye over an hour ago. Normally she'd busy herself, pouring tea for Jeffrey, buttering toast, tidying up, making a start on the morning's chores. This morning, though, she remained motionless in the silent kitchen, bare feet pressed down against the cold tiled floor, unblinking eyes focussed on the damn clock.
Pulling sharply on her dressing gown belt, Yvette sucks in air and rises to her feet. She'd given it till ten to see if he came downstairs for breakfast. Still no sound. No sign of life. She has to do this, she thinks, climbing the stairs.
“Jeffrey?” she says, tapping on the door.
Nothing. She knocks on the door again, louder this time. No movement. Pulls down the handle, pushes open the door.
Yvette pulls her hand to her mouth to silence her gasp. Not this bad. Surely things haven't got this bad?
Not even the powerful morning sun can bring light to the room, for the curtains are thrust tight together. The foul air suggests that the window hasn't been opened for days, possibly weeks. Stepping over crumpled cans of coke, flat crisp packets and dirty underpants, her eyes can't help but glance at the faded newspaper clippings covering the walls. Jeffrey's bed is just a tepid mound. It is difficult to tell whether the sheets have gathered together or a body lies underneath.
Drawing the curtains and opening the window, Yvette perches on the edge of the bed. She wonders whether Gordon did the same when he chatted with Jeffrey a couple of weeks ago. She clears her throat.
“It's another beautiful morning, Jeffrey. Aren't you supposed to be studying for your exams? Only a couple of weeks now...”
Nothing.
Yvette pulls the bed sheet from his face, smoothes down his dirty blonde hair with her hand. Jeffrey rolls over, looks up at her. His cheeks are puffy and red, his lips dry and cracked. The eyes are perfect circles, signalling anything but perfection. Slowly, he nods his head.
“I will do,” he says.
Yvette squeezes his hand. “Not that exams are that important, not really. We just want to make sure you're okay...”
Jeffrey nods his head again. His dad had already told him this. He knows exactly what she means, needs no further explanation.
“Why don't you jump in the shower, freshen up a bit? I'll cook you some bacon and eggs and we can have a chat in the kitchen?”
Subtle creases appear at the corners of Jeffrey's eyes. “Sounds good,” he says, voice expressionless.
Yvette pushes forward her neck, focuses on the newspaper clippings on the walls. Details of the victims. Her head rotates. One victim more than any other.
“Jeffrey?”
“Yes?”
Yvette holds her son's look, tries to recognise him as the fearless young boy with a swagger, taking on the world with his older brother.
“You told your dad about a girl you liked, didn't you?”
His eyes flick to the ceiling. Doesn't say anything.
“She was the girl that was killed, wasn't she? That lovely, pretty girl. Marie Davies?”
Jeffrey still doesn't say anything. His eyes still stare blankly at the ceiling. A single tear rolls down his cheek just moments before he releases a loud, pained shriek.
Yvette pulls her little boy's sobbing face to her chest, tells him that it is fine, that his mum and dad are here for him. Always.
Jeffrey sits up, rests his back against his pillow. He looks healthier – happier – like he has emptied his soul of pent-up sadness. Yvette thumbs the underside of his chin.
The feeling of impending doom has been growing inside of her the last few weeks. When Yvette was a child, she'd blank out the noise of her arguing parents by closing her eyes and escaping to another world, one where she could walk along hot sand barefoot, or maybe shelter from the rain within a fore
st. She was reassured that, however awful things got in the real world, she always had a wonderful, albeit imaginary place, to escape to. And then Luke died, and even the brightest sunrise felt drab and grey and powerless. She closed her eyes and thought of her parallel world. But rather than bringing colour and hope to the dark and despair, the alternative world that belonged in her mind terrified her; however desperately she tried, Luke would not join her. She just could not imagine Luke in her fake world. All these years later, Yvette is not sure she has the strength to endure all that pain and suffering again, that she has it in her to come out the other side.
“Just promise me one thing, Jeffrey?” she says.
“Yes?”
“Whatever you are planning, can you promise to please, please be careful?”
Jeffrey glances to the ceiling again for just the briefest moment, before looking his mother straight in the eye.
“I promise,” he says.
DAY THIRTY
30TH JUNE 2018
Of course, I considered packing a bag – it felt odd not to – but then I realised it was futile, utterly pointless, kind of idiotic. I'd only been given a one-way ticket. I didn't even know whether I'd be getting off the train alive, let alone staying the night somewhere. What the hell was I thinking? This wasn't a holiday, an opportunity for a luxurious night in a hotel. Packing a toothbrush and a change of underwear was, frankly, the least of my worries. All month I'd been crossing the days off one by one, but now there are no more left I long for a few extra days in June, maybe just a solitary one, like July and all the others, merely to prepare for whatever is to follow, possibly just to delay the inevitable.
I shut the door to my boat early, too early. I've prepared for every eventuality that might possibly stop me from arriving at the platform on time – an explosion on the tube, getting mugged, wetting my pants – and then I've added some more minutes just for good measure. Recalling my job interview in the big city, I arrived at the office so early I set up camp in a cafe and I was high as a kite on coffee by the time they called my name (my new name). Still, I was adolescent and virginal (literally), and the experience boosted my confidence; I took on the big bad wolves with their swanky suits and oily hair, nailed the interview and got the job. There really wasn't much I couldn't take on after that, was there?
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
The route I take isn't as the crow flies. Far from it. My thoughts from earlier in the day kept niggling away, a distraction from the real issue at hand. The thought had grown until it was a permanent fixture in my mind. This isn't even a detour. I head in a completely different direction. But I have time. Time to kill. Ironic, really.
“Hi,” I say, “I'll try a cappuccino this time, please. With chocolate sprinkles. I like to live each day like it might be my last...”
Catching my eye, she blinks when she recognises me. Glancing over her shoulder, she realises that none of her bulky male colleagues are here to provide back up. There is hardly anybody here. It is later in the day than last time . Much later. A red flush appears to her cheeks. She lowers her eyes. Looks down. “Oh,” she says.
“Don't worry,” I quickly say, keeping my tone soft. “I'm not here to cause trouble. I just wanted to confirm something with you, that's all. Somebody told you to call out that name, didn't they?”
The girl glances in every direction now, checking nobody is listening. Her cheeks burn pink. She doesn't say anything. Continues to avoid my eyes. Nods her head.
“What did he say?”
“Listen, you need to believe me when I say I'm sorry, okay? I don't even know you and so I have no reason to upset you, do I?"
“But why did you do what he asked?”
“He asked me to call out a name I'd never even heard of before. What was the harm? I had no idea it would freak you out so much. He said he'd tell my manager about the drinks I've been taking without paying. Never felt like a big deal to me, to be honest. Perk of the job. He gave exact times I'd taken the drinks. Knew my manager's name. Freaked me out. He'd been watching me, hadn't he? Said theft was a very serious crime, that prison was no place for a delicate, pretty young girl like me. Asked if I'd ever been raped before. Was it something that appealed to me? I was scared. You know how much they pay me here anyway? I can barely afford to pay my rent as it is...”
“It's fine.”
She looks up at me. First time. She is attractive when she smiles. “It is?”
“Sure. No problem.”
She makes my coffee in silence. Her cheeks look hot to the touch.
“Keep the change,” I say, handing her a note, heading for the door.
“But this is...”
Her protests fade into the background as I leave the coffee shop and enter the warm evening awaiting me outside.
On the train, I press my head back against the cushioned seat and close my eyes. Fuck it. If I'm going to die, then I may as well enjoy my last few minutes of relaxation before I do so. Stretching my legs as far as they'll go, the tips of my shoes tap against the heel of the person in front, so I wind them back in. Resting the palm of my right hand flat on the empty seat next to me, the fingertips of my left hand drum rhythmically against the window. I stop drumming when I sense the person in front shifting in their seat. I've already kicked the back of their shoes and I don’t want to be identified as an irritant during – potentially – my last few hours on this planet.
Welcome to the 20:45 Great Western Service travelling from London Paddington to Swansea, calling at Reading, Swindon, Bristol Parkway, Newport, Cardiff Central, Bridgend and reaching Swansea, our final destination, at 00:03.
The voice is warm, syrupy, (presumably) educated and rightly belongs on an aeroplane rather than a train. I glance at the ticket that I'd hidden beneath my flat palm. Only takes me as far as Bridgend. And we're due to reach Bridgend at 23:28.
I lay in bed last night thinking about the monumental significance of the journey. Of course, I had plenty of space to think. Erica hadn't shared my bed for days. She hadn't returned my calls for days, either. My head propped up on two pillows in one corner, my feet pushed against the wall of the boat in the opposite corner, the sheets rolled into a tight ball by my belly. Staring up at the ceiling, my whole body was coated in perspiration. Questions, questions, questions. Why was my ticket only taking me to Bridgend? Was I even going to make it to Bridgend? Where was I expected to get off? Of course, I couldn’t sleep, but still, I wished that the train was the first out of Paddington and not the last. I just wanted to get – whatever it was – over and done with. Why had he chosen this train? To deliberately taunt me? Make me wait and suffer?
Outside, the guard on the platform theatrically blows his whistle. His moment in the limelight. Any runners, I consider, desperate to get on the train before the doors close, have lost their race. It is probably for the best, I think. Who knows whether this drama will draw in anybody else? Innocents. I lower my shoulders as the train slowly and smoothly leaves the station, gaining pace, gathering momentum. I smooth down my trousers, fingertips running over my blue phone in my left pocket and my red phone – his phone – in my right pocket. I glance out of the window and – once again – stare in awe at the beautiful countryside visible in the rapidly fading sunlight as we move further and further out of the big city. I wonder when and how he will contact me.
I do know that I'll need to be ready.
Of course, a couple of other questions have been relentlessly running through my mind.
Is he even on this train? If so, where is he?
Opening one eye as the train slows to its first stop, Reading, I conclude that I am still alive.
Stretching my head to the side, I watch the few commuters on the platform, staring at the square button, urging it to turn green, hurrying the punters off the train so that they can embark. Waiting, waiting, waiting - just like me. Widening and then narrowing my eyes, I study their ages, their demeanour, determining whether one of them could possibl
y be him. Not him. Not him. I discount them, one by one. I conclude that either he is already on the train (maybe even just a few feet away) or he has not yet got on (maybe he never will get on). But wait. I'm not even thinking straight. I'm only looking at passengers boarding my carriage. There are eleven or so carriages. He could be anywhere on this train.
Passengers struggle to squeeze their luggage into the overhead spaces. The suitcases are too big, the spaces too small. Everybody is so prepared, with food, drink and reading material. All I have on my person is two phones (red and blue), my train ticket and my wallet. Dismissing the overnight bag, I still considered bringing the odd item. What about a weapon? Maybe a knife? After all, the person who booked my ticket is (almost definitely) intent on killing me. He only bought me a single ticket, didn't he? But I decided against all of it. I decided to just bring myself.
I check both my phones. Nothing. He hasn’t contacted me all day. And it has been the longest day of my life yet. I glance around. Maybe he is close? Maybe he is watching me?
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