The Girl on the Train: A Novel

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.