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
