Page 21 of The Last Train Home
I’m breathing so hard the woman opposite is still staring at me with a nervous expression on her face. Oh my God, what’s wrong with me? I rub my forehead and sweat comes away in my hand. I must look deranged, unpredictable. The train pulls into Blackfriars station and I can’t get out fast enough. My shirt is dripping by the time I make it back to my flat. I semi-needed a fresh change of clothes before, but now I definitely do.
It takes me ten minutes of letting cool water run over my body to finally calm down. And then I drink about a litre ofwater. I’ve run out of time to make coffee or grab breakfast from the Italian café, and I need to get to work.
As I exit my flat my phone beeps. I expect one of the lads from last night, but I get Abbie. Abbie – God, she feels like a lifeline today. Last night was fun. Do you fancy a quick drink in the pub after work? she asks.
I’m so hungover that the thought of a drink makes me heave, but the thought of seeing Abbie lifts me up so high. I don’t want to reply; I want to phone her instead. I want to hear her voice. What’s happening? But I don’t call her, because that might be weird, so instead I adopt a tone that sounds like something Tom in normal times might say.Hey, I’ll be in there with Sean and some others before we head off to Brick Lane for a curry. Come and find us?I reply.
I read what I’ve written three times. I’m sure I’m losing my mind. And then I hit send.
After a long day Sean and I arrive in the pub and find Abbie already at the bar with one of her workmates, Gary. Sean didn’t meet Abbie last night, and I want him to now. She’s cool and I’m sure he’ll like her. I sort of want to show her off a bit, which sounds strange because we’re just friends.
We shake hands all round and Sean, the absolute bastard, smarms all over Abbie, kissing her cheek when they’re introduced. She kisses his cheek back and I feel a bit … odd. Why’s he doing that? And then he offers to get everyone a round in. Abbie and her mate Gary look delighted and make self-deprecating jokes about being poverty-stricken journalists. She gives me a wink at this, and I remember I chatted shit about her living on such a low salary. Oh no. What else did I say last night?
I watch Sean and his easy confidence with Abbie. He’s a good people person, which is why I hired him and why we became such easy friends, but I really wish I hadn’t brought him now, especially because minutes later he’s moved in for the kill, towering over Abbie like a silverback gorilla and topping up her glass from the bottle, ignoring me and her mate as we watch this with varying emotions. Gary looks amused. I’m fucking livid. I’ve barely had a chance to speak to Abbie, other than a quick hello. Why am I so pissed off? I reach for the bottle and fill up Gary’s glass for him, swirl the dregs into mine and put the bottle on the bar. Gary is somewhere in the middle of being entertained at Sean’s obviousness and recognising that our chat is in its dying throes. We’ve been comparing functions on our new phones for fifteen minutes. We’re done with this conversation now.
I glance at the TV screen, which is always on the news channel in here, but it shows the time in the corner. I want to check how long before I can feasibly make a polite exit, under the guise of taking Sean for a curry, and vow never to let him anywhere near Abbie again. But I see what’s on the TV and I stare.
Abbie’s left Sean’s side and has come to stand next to me. She sees it too. The news is reporting how the driver of the train we were on has died in hospital. I feel her hand slip into mine. I clutch it tightly while still watching the TV. I’m only vaguely aware that her face is upturned towards the screen as we stand in the pub, the only two people engrossed in this news story.
Chapter 13
Abbie
We walk towards St Paul’s Cathedral. Somehow, automatically, wordlessly, Tom has steered me out of the pub, away from the TV and the busy noise of after-work drinkers. It was as if he knew I was going to break down and cry, which is what has just happened.
‘I didn’t even know him,’ I say through my tears.
‘I know,’ Tom replies, handing me a tissue as we walk. ‘But it’s still … sad.’
‘The front carriages werefine,’ I say. ‘We climbed out through them, didn’t we?’ Although I can’t actually remember how we got out of the train. ‘How can he have died?’
‘The news said he suffered a heart attack in hospital,’ Tom says mournfully. ‘I don’t know any more than that.’
‘Oh,’ I say pointlessly. I don’t think this walk is helping at all, although it was kind of Tom to suggest it.
He extricates his hand from mine, which makes me notice that his hand must have been in mine to start with. When did that happen?
We go to the churchyard, back to where we’d sat before, on the grass by the cathedral railings. It’s not dark yet andthere are people in here who look so carefree: tourists taking pictures, a woman reading a book while nursing a takeaway coffee. This news doesn’t bother them. None of it affects them. But it does me. As we sit, Tom looks fine, his eyes closed, his head tipped back, raised to the skies.
The moment he entered my life was by far the worst experience I’ve ever lived through. But thank God he was there, although it was all over so soon and (as I keep reminding myself) I didn’t really live through it. I’d passed out. Tom seems so fine, so strong. Whereas I can’t even get on the Tube any more. I haven’t got back on since that day. I’m petrified. I’d rather take my chances on my bike.
Tom’s chin is still tipped up, but his jaw is clenched.Ishe actually OK?
I start to ask him this, but instead different words exit my mouth. ‘I don’t want to go home tonight.’
‘Stay at mine,’ he volunteers immediately. ‘Only if you want.’
That wasn’t what I meant. I don’t respond immediately. I think he’s focused my mind a bit now. Is he being gentlemanly or does he want something else? He only has one bed. How would that work?
‘Abbie?’ He sounds kind of desperate. If I said no, he wouldn’t make a big deal out of it, but he wants me to say yes or he wouldn’t have asked. Tom’s gaze connects with mine and I feel stilled, safe, calm.
I assume he’ll take the sofa. It doesn’t matter. I won’t sleep anyway. It’s been two weeks since the derailment and I’ve been restless every night since. I’ve almost forgotten what a proper night’s sleep is.
‘We’ll get drunk and get takeaways and put on a few shit films.’
OK. He’s won me over now, making me smile.
‘Can we watch good films, though, not shit ones?’
