Page 11 of The Last Train Home
As I try to work, Mum takes Tom’s clothes out of the tumble dryer for me, folds them neatly and puts them next to my temporary workspace on the dining table. I thank her and look at Tom’s T-shirt and shorts, clean and ready to be returned, and wonder if he’s had as rough a rest of his day as I have. In a way it’s a blessing I don’t really remember what happened, that I hit my head and blacked out the moment the train crashed. Whereas Tom, like countless others, was awake through the whole ordeal.
Chapter 8
Tom
I didn’t realise at first that Abbie was the girl I’d stared at absent-mindedly from my office window every now and again since I moved to my new window desk a few weeks ago. Now it’s Monday and she’s back at her window desk. She’s been on the phone off and on, but she’s not laughing the way she normally does. She didn’t go to work on Friday and every time I glanced up her desk was empty. I sort of missed the view and found my mind wandering towards her even more throughout the course of the evening. Easy to do when you’re with colleagues, four pints down in The Dog & Sun at the corner and then moving on to Jägermeister. Disgusting, but that combination gets you hammered really fast, which is what I needed. Maybe not needed, but certainly wanted.
I didn’t even make it home to my flat before I threw up in the entranceway. I tried to clean it up, but failed miserably. The weekly cleaning crew came on Saturday to clean the communal areas. I bunged the two of them £50 each. Again. I’ve done this too many times now. And then I slept, all of Saturday and most of Sunday, and opened the fridge to find those two beers I’d been saving had gone. And then I rememberedwho I’d drunk them with. And when. And why. And I forced my eyes closed for a few seconds to blacken out the memory of the train, Abbie smothered in blood and everything else I can’t think about. Abbie passed out with her head covered in blood is not the worst memory of that day by a long shot.
And then I drowned my liver in a six-pack of Peroni from the corner shop. And then I threw up again, only this time in my own bathroom, so I don’t have to bung anyone any cash.
But sitting here on Monday, nodding mutely in meetings, signing documents and generally being here but not here, I glance out of the window every now and again and see Abbie looking about as present as me. For a full six minutes she’s been staring at her computer but I haven’t seen her move a muscle; she hasn’t once touched her keyboard or scrolled on the mouse. I think. She’s quite far away. I might be wrong. I’m itching to message her. I don’t want to look keen, needy, abnormal. But nothing about this is normal. I pick up my phone. Annoyed with myself, I put it down, glance at her again.
She also hasn’t once looked across the courtyard at me. Not once. By mid-afternoon I can’t take it any more and I grab my phone, ignoring the messages piling in from certain people, and open a new message window, texting her. It’s a bland message asking how she is. I sign off with my name, because she’s not got my number saved. I watch. She doesn’t move. Maybe she’s not yet managed to get hold of a new phone. And then she reaches forward, picks up what must be a replacement mobile and flips it open. I can’t see what she’s doing, but seconds later she replies with an equally bland message saying she’s fine and then asking how I am.
This is bullshit.
I type, I’m going for a cigarette. Can you come outside?
She turns to me for the first time, looks right at me. How did she know I was watching? She nods, pushes her chair back and presumably heads for the stairwell.
Outside, she comes towards me holding a Sainsbury’s carrier bag stuffed with something. I forgot how blonde her hair was. Now it’s neat, styled in waves. She’s wearing make-up. She doesn’t need it. I’ve seen her bare-faced and she looks lovely like that. She’s wearing nice jeans and a T-shirt, in stark contrast to my dark-blue suit. I loosen my collar.
We greet each other with a casual ‘Hi’ and strange smiles that look sympathetic rather than a genuine greeting.
‘What’s in the bag?’ I ask as she holds it out to me.
‘It’s your clothes.’
I reach for them. ‘Thanks.’ I find myself actually caring about how this woman is – even though I hardly know her. ‘How are you? And don’t say “fine”.’
She smiles, a bit less sympathetic, a bit more genuine this time. ‘Oh, you know. You?’
I sigh, long and loud. ‘Same. Your head looks better.’
She touches it self-consciously. ‘I went to hospital after I left yours on Friday.’
‘Did you?’ I ask in surprise.
She nods proudly and then turns sheepish. ‘My dad forced me.’
‘Ah, that makes sense. There was no way you were going voluntarily.’
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘I might have gone.’
‘Hmm,’ I respond.
‘You’re right. I wasn’t going to go. Felt like a waste of the nurses’ time when I knew I was OK, but it made Dad feel happy.’
‘I’m pleased you went as well.’
She looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Thanks. Are we having this cigarette or not?’
I laugh, pull out my pack and hand her one.
She shakes her head. ‘No, thanks. I’m just going to stand here and smell yours.’
‘Smellmine?’
