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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
When two strangers end up sharing a cabin on the Trans-Siberian Express, an intense friendship develops, one that can only have one ending … a nerve-shattering psychological thriller from bestselling author SJI Holliday ***Mail on Sunday BOOK OF THE YEAR*** 'A tense, immersive thriller that kept me guessing' Ian Rankin 'Compelling, gripping and horrifically entertaining' Liz Nugent 'Wonderfully creepy and compelling' Mail on Sunday 'Echoes of a Killing Eve vibe. Fabulously awful women you will love' Sarah Pinborough _________________ Carrie's best friend has an accident and can no longer make the round-the-world trip they'd planned together, so Carrie decides to go it alone. Violet is also travelling alone, after splitting up with her boyfriend in Thailand. She is also desperate for a ticket on the Trans-Siberian Express, but there is nothing available. When the two women meet in a Beijing Hotel, Carrie makes the impulsive decision to invite Violet to take her best friend's place. Thrown together in a strange country, and the cramped cabin of the train, the women soon form a bond. But as the journey continues, through Mongolia and into Russia, things start to unravel – because one of these women is not who she claims to be… A tense and twisted psychological thriller about obsession, manipulation and toxic friendships, Violet also reminds us that there's a reason why mother told us not to talk to strangers... _________________ 'A fantastically claustrophobic and hugely enjoyable read' I-Newspaper 'Killing Eve meets The Talented Mr Ripley meets Single White Female … This is a tense, uneasy thriller, which will forever stop you befriending strangers' Red 'A dark look at toxic friendship, this twisted thriller is a devour-in-a-single-sitting gem' Crime Monthly 'A compulsive read … a book you won't be forgetting in a hurry' CultureFly 'Gripping with twists that you don't see coming' Woman's Way
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Seitenzahl: 368
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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VIOLET
S.J.I. HOLLIDAY
VIOLET
To JLOH – my favourite travelling companion.
‘If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything’
—Mark Twain
Contents
Prologue
The body lies broken on the dusty, potholed track. The sky is a fading bruise of purple and grey, the alleyway illuminated by the faint lemony glow from one of the low-level windows at the back of the hotel. Parched, weedy-looking shrubs; gritty, dirty soil, and the ever-present hum of a generator somewhere close by mingles with the tinny sound of a radio from one of the rooms higher up. A mangy dog appears, its unclipped toenails scraping the cracked concrete. It sniffs. Whimpers. Before starting to lick at something dark and wet that’s pooling on the ground near the dead man’s head.
The hooded man pushes the body slowly with his boot and the dog starts circling, saliva dripping from its hungry mouth. The man makes a clicking noise with his tongue, stamps his foot once, hard.
Shttt shttt.
The dog whimpers once more, then slinks away into the thick night.
‘Tell me what happened,’ the hooded man says. He spits out a chewed matchstick and takes a pack of crumpled cigarettes from his back pocket.
‘I told you on the phone.’ The young woman’s voice shakes as she tries to compose herself. ‘He fell … He was climbing up the balconies. He was nearly at ours. I … we … we shouted at him. We threw things. Tried to get him to stop. We told him we would call the police.’
‘What did he say?’ He lights a cigarette. Puts the used match back into the box.
‘Nothing. He just … He laughed. Then he said, “Let me in, little pig … Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and blow your house down.” It was creepy.’
The hooded man snorts. ‘What does this mean? “Little pig…”’
Leetle peeg.
She shivers. ‘It’s from a nursery rhyme. It’s the Big Bad Wolf—’
‘Wasn’t he with Red Riding Hood?’
‘Another one.’ She shakes her head. ‘I guess there are lots of wolves in fairy tales.’
He blows a series of perfect smoke rings into the air above him. ‘Not just in fairy tales.’ He coughs up a ball of phlegm and spits it on the ground, and she feels a light spray misting across her sandalled feet.
She swallows hard, trying not to retch. Whimpers, just like the dog. ‘Please,’ she says. ‘Please help me.’
The hooded man shrugs. ‘Why don’t you go to police? If it was accident? Like you say?’
‘But … but what if they don’t believe it? I’ve heard things. Bad things.’
‘Bad things about wolves?’
Bad things about Russians, she thinks.
Finally, she looks him in the eye. Holds his gaze. He’s not that bad-looking. This is not the worst thing she’s ever done.
‘Please,’ she says. ‘Can you make this go away?’
He comes closer to her, stepping over the body. She can smell him now. His hot, stale sweat. She wonders when he last washed. She shudders, imagining the smell inside his clothes to be much, much worse. Hot acid roils up her throat and she swallows it back. She has no choice about this. She needs his help.
‘And the other girl?’ he says, blowing smoke slowly into her face. ‘Where is she now?’
‘She’s … I…’ Her eyes flit up and left, towards the balcony. His eyes follow, and then back to her again. His stare is hard, his expression unreadable.
She says it again, more pleading. More desperate. ‘Please. Can you make this go away?’
He grins, revealing sharp, wolfish teeth, and she hears the chink of metal on metal as he unclips his belt. There’s a brief pause, while he removes the cigarette and drops it on the ground, grinding it into the dirt, then without breaking eye contact, he slowly pulls down his zip. His huge, dark pupils gleam in the moonlight, full of want. She can’t look at him anymore.
She closes her eyes and tries to imagine herself somewhere else. With someone else. Somewhere far from here. Somewhere long ago.
He shuffles closer towards her and his trousers slide down to his ankles. The sour milk smell of him hits the back of her throat, but she won’t cry. She refuses to cry. She can do this. She has to.
He lays a rough, warm hand on top of her head, exerting just enough pressure to force her to her knees. Gravel cuts into her bare flesh, but she barely feels it. She is numb.
‘Oh yes, leetle peeg,’ he says, ‘I can make this go away.’
Beijing
1
I’m sitting alone on a concrete bench. Around me, people are swarming, shouting quickly in a language that I can’t understand. Above me, the sky is a thick powder blue, like dirty paintbrushes swirled in water. The smog is so dense I can taste it. Waves of panic wash over me as I try to inhale some fresh air, and I wonder how anyone can breathe in this city. What started out as an exciting, fun morning has rapidly declined into panic and frustration; and not for the first time, I regret leaving Sam behind in Bangkok.
There is something easy about that place, with the swarms of British backpackers and grinning Aussies, men on stag parties, cold beers and menus written in English. Even though Thailand is as far away from the English countryside as can be, there is a certain warmth. Familiarity. Despite all the stories you hear, I felt completely safe there. But then me and Sam had that stupid falling-out in the hotel lobby. I can’t even remember how it started.
And so here I am, sitting outside the Beijing international train station, no boyfriend, only half my luggage – since my rucksack went AWOL somewhere on the way to China – and still no ticket for the train I want, which leaves tomorrow morning. I could call Sam, beg for his forgiveness, ask him to follow me out here. But firstly, I know he doesn’t want to, and secondly, I’d only be doing it out of desperation. He got sucked in, in Thailand, didn’t want to follow the plan – my plan – loop back via China and the Trans-Siberian Express to Moscow, before flying home from there. He’d gone into an Internet café and resigned from his job; he was getting more excited than I liked by the cheap beer and the hordes of stunning young women that seemed to flock to him on a daily basis. ‘I’d just like to hang about here a bit longer,’ he’d said. ‘Lighten up, sweetheart. You need to smoke some more weed.’
Idiot.
He’d changed since the group of German students arrived. There’d been a wild night. I’d felt uneasy, but he’d felt the opposite. ‘This is the kind of fun I came for,’ he said. To them, not me. I knew then that my Sam was gone. Was I angry? Not really. I just hope he stayed sober enough to do the appropriate checks on some of those beautiful ‘women’ that he and the German lads were spending so much time with.
Now I’m alone, in Beijing, a bustling metropolis of nearly twenty-two million people, feeling properly homesick for the first time in months. I did have fun yesterday, going for a proper Chinese tea ceremony with a young couple I’d met in the gardens near the Forbidden City. The tea had been ridiculously expensive, and I’d realised early on that it was a scam of some sort, but as scams go, it was pretty friendly. And I know more now than I ever thought I needed to about the many different kinds of Chinese tea.
This morning I was buzzing, ready for another full-on day, making sure I could fit in as many crispy duck pancakes as I could manage. All I had to do was pop down to the train station and buy my ticket. The station is huge, the guidebook said, but buying a ticket should be simple. Just make sure you go to the international section. When they said huge, I hadn’t quite realised what that meant. But while I sat outside, waiting for the sun to push its way through the ever-present smog – it didn’t, by the way – it dawned on me that small towns in China have five million inhabitants, and that huge really means the station is the size of Manchester, and after walking around the whole place for two hours, being jostled and stared at, pointed at, pointed out and misdirected for hours on end, what I realised was that foreigners can’t buy international tickets in the station after all; they have to go to a travel centre in some business hotel, streets away … and that I am so over this now. This so-called ‘adventure’.
And so I sat myself down on this concrete bench, and all I want to do now is cry. But that’s not going to get me anywhere. Certainly not to Moscow, which is where I really want to be. I need to move on. Find another companion for my trip. So I take a swig of water, then I pick up my backpack and head back into the throng.
2
The Beijing International Hotel is seriously plush. Marble pillars, velvet sofas. There’s a long black bar made of smooth, sparkling granite. A good-looking Chinese man with neatly gelled hair is standing behind it, polishing glasses. I could sit there, ask him to mix me a cocktail. Something classic, old fashioned – like a Brandy Alexander. Then sip it seductively and see who might come in and offer to buy me the next.
But that’s for another time.
I don’t want to stay here alone in this city full of noise and smog. It’s too big. Too impersonal. There’s a reason why most backpackers follow a trail, go to the same places. I’d always thought that wasn’t for me, and yet here I am alone, and I’m not happy about it at all. I’m kidding myself if I think I prefer my own company.
What I need now is a new friend. A replacement for Sam. I pause. Thinking again about the barman. No. What I need more than anything else is a ticket out of this place, and I just have to hope that my bag turns up before I move on. I look down at my skirt, wondering why I’d chosen this particular look for the flight. I bought a load of things in Bangkok, thinking I might head to the beach before moving on, but that never happened, and now I look like a goddamn hippy. I don’t fit in here, in this hotel. But without the rest of my clothes and my hair stuff and everything else I need, I’m just going to have to style it out. I suppose I will just have to be who this outfit suggests.
The hotel travel centre is a small room filled with too many rubber plants. There’s a small leather sofa, and one desk where someone is being served by a beautiful Chinese woman with her hair pinned up with chopsticks. I’ve seen this before, but not on someone wearing a navy business suit. I like the contrast.
The air conditioning is on full, and I’m relieved to be out of the thick, sticky heat, but after a few moments I’m already feeling a chill on my legs. I watch the woman with the chopsticks, smiling and nodding at the customer. Blonde, hair in a messy ponytail. Shorts. Backpack on the floor. Another traveller. Another me?
I hope so.
‘So you’re saying I can’t get any sort of refund on this, even though I booked it six months in advance?’
Chopsticks nods again. ‘So sorry. We cannot do it.’
The blonde sighs in frustration. ‘It’s an expensive ticket. I did call before I left the UK and was told you could deal with it here…’
Chopsticks shakes her head gently. She’s still smiling.
The blonde stands up. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘I assume the ticket is transferable? If I can find someone else to take it…’
‘You can do that, yes.’ Chopsticks is beaming now. All sorted, and she didn’t have to do a thing.
The blonde hitches her backpack onto her shoulders, giving me a wry smile and a massive eye-roll as she leaves the room.
Chopsticks is heading towards a door at the back. I glance up at the clock. The minute-hand ticks and the hour-hand clicks into place at the top. Five o’clock.
I jump up off the sofa. ‘Wait … I need to buy a ticket.’
‘Sorry, we closed now,’ Chopsticks says, her smile dipping just a little. ‘We open nine am.’
‘No … I need to get the ticket now. The train is at seven-thirty tomorrow.’
She frowns. ‘You want Trans-Siberian?’
‘Yes. Yes, please.’
‘No ticket left. Come back tomorrow, and you can get ticket for another day, OK?’
It’s not OK, but she’s disappeared through the back. Shit. I grab my bag and slink out of the room, beaten. For another brief moment, I want to cry. But I bite it back. Looks like I’m going to be getting to know the barman after all.
There are a few others in the bar area now. A couple of businessmen in suits on the high stools at the bar. A tanned couple with umbrella’d drinks and their faces stuck in the Lonely Planet. The blonde is sitting on her own, a tall glass of beer in front of her. She’s gazing out of the huge windows, watching the hordes of ant-like humans going about their business.
I hesitate, not sure whether to approach her, but before I can make up my mind, she turns around and sees me.
She looks confused, just for a second, then she smiles. ‘Hey. You were in the travel centre, weren’t you? Did you get sorted?’
I shake my head. ‘Sold out. I need to rethink my plans.’ She just stares at me, saying nothing, and I stand there feeling a bit awkward. ‘That beer looks good.’ I smile at her, nod towards her glass. The condensation is trickling slowly down the sides, and suddenly I am so thirsty, I have to fight the urge to pick it up and sink it in one. When did I last have a cold drink? The water in the bottle I’ve been lugging around with me all day is so hot now I could probably use it to make tea.
‘Tsing Tao,’ she says. ‘Sounds all exotic back home, but it’s cheap and nasty here. Even in this place.’
‘Mind if I join you?’
She moves her laptop over to the far side of the table and gestures towards the empty seat opposite. ‘Be my guest.’
I’ve barely sat down when a smiling woman appears at my side, asking me what I want to order. I return the smile and point at the beer.
‘One of these. Unless you want another?’
The blonde shakes her head. ‘Not yet. Thanks, though.’
‘I’m Violet,’ I tell her. ‘I—’
‘Carrie,’ she says, offering me a small, lightly tanned hand. ‘So where were you trying to buy a ticket for?’
The woman returns with a tray. We wait patiently while she lays down a white paper coaster with a frill around the edge and places the glass carefully on top. Then she lifts a bowl of unshelled peanuts off the tray and places it down in the middle of the table. She smiles and gives me a small half-bow, and I thank her and take a long drink. It tastes like heaven, and I already feel more relaxed.
‘I wanted to get the Trans-Siberian. I wasn’t fussed about which branch, as long as it gets me to Moscow. I’m supposed to be meeting friends there.’ The last part is a lie. I have no particular reason to want to go to Moscow other than I haven’t been yet, and I’m getting a bit bored with Asia. It’s all a bit predictable after a while – same sorts of people on the trail, doing the same things. I think Russia might spice things up a bit. Take my mind off Sam, and everything else. It’s not like I’ve got anything to rush back to the UK for.
‘Oh cool. Me too,’ Carrie says. Then, ‘Oh shit, sorry – you just said you couldn’t get a ticket.’ She slaps herself on the head, then laughs. ‘Let’s have a few drinks and you can forget about it for now. The train tracks will still be there the day after tomorrow.’
3
Her accent is more pronounced after four beers. In the travel centre, I’d only caught a subtle lilt, but now, as we sit here de-shelling peanuts and complaining about the smog, it is undeniably Scottish.
‘Where are you from?’ I ask. ‘I have relatives in Glasgow. You don’t sound quite like them, but maybe somewhere nearby?’
She snorts. ‘Wrong coast. Totally. I’m from Edinburgh. I get mistaken for Northern Irish a lot though. You southerners never get it quite right.’
‘I’m from Nottingham,’ I say, laughing. I throw a peanut in the air and catch it in my mouth. I’ve no idea where that came from. The city, or the peanut trick.
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Impressive.’ She lifts her beer and takes a long drink. Her eyes are sparkling. ‘You don’t sound like you come from Nottingham. That’s the Midlands, isn’t it?’
‘Hmm. I’ve moved a lot. Lived all over. I don’t think I have any accent now. Not like you.’
She leans forwards and smirks. ‘Do you need me to speak slow… er?’
I pretend to look confused. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re saying.’
‘Funny. Would you believe, I spend a lot of time pronouncing my words carefully for non-natives. I’m quite good at accents, actually.’ She throws a peanut and tries to catch it, but it goes way wide of the mark. She swears under her breath, but she’s grinning. ‘Oh damn it,’ she says in a good approximation of my accent. She’s right. She’s a decent mimic.
I toss another peanut and catch it. I’m clearly on a roll. Maybe this boho look I’ve adopted comes with extra skills. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve spent years perfecting this as my party trick,’ I lie. ‘I’d always hoped I could try that holding-lipstick-in-your-cleavage thing that Molly Ringwald does in The Breakfast Club, but I don’t wear lipstick and my tits aren’t big enough.’ The last part is true, at least. Something that caused many sleepless nights when I was a teenager, but is actually quite a relief now, when my peers are complaining about sagging and I barely need to bother with a bra. Besides, I’ve never had any complaints.
She laughs. ‘Oh … well, if we’re talking party tricks, I’ve got something much more impressive…’
Before I can ask what it is, she’s got two fingers in her mouth and she’s whistling – high pitched, loud – like a builder hanging out of a white van. Everyone in the bar looks at us, and the waitress scurries over, smiling.
‘More beers?’ She does another semi-bow and scuttles back off.
We collapse into fits of laughter.
‘Oh man, I didn’t expect her to come over like that … she must think I’m so rude!’
I drain the rest of my pint. ‘Oh, you are rude. They’re probably spitting into your glass as we speak.’
‘Don’t. I used to work in a pub. I never actually saw him do it, but the chef was always threatening to do disgusting things to people’s dinners. Especially if they were the “oh can I have salad not chips and the sauce on the side, and is it possible to have the fish grilled instead of fried?” type.’
‘I thought everyone in Scotland ate everything fried.’
‘Racist.’ She throws a peanut shell at me and it gets trapped in my hair. We start giggling again, and as we shake with laughter the poor waitress has to dodge in between us to lay our pints on the table, and we ignore her. I’ll make sure we leave a good tip. Assuming Carrie has cash, that is.
‘We have to cater for the tourists,’ she says. ‘Some of them eat vegetables.’
‘Except the Americans.’
‘Well, unless they’re Californians. But not many of those make it all the way to Scotland. It’s a long way to travel to wander about in the rain looking for haggis.’ She snorts.
I can’t stop laughing. My face aches from it. My throat dry, so dry that I almost choke, and while I’m choking, Carrie throws another peanut shell at me, and she’s off again. I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed like this. Not with Sam. Not with anyone. Not for a very long time.
Carrie wipes her face with a cocktail napkin. ‘Besides … spitting is actually OK in this country. As is squatting on toilet seats.’
I pull a face. ‘Only the squat-hole ones.’
‘I went into the public toilets near Tiananmen Square and it was full of squat-holes and no doors, and all these girls were just there, squatting and texting madly on their phones.’
She starts laughing again. A wave of dizziness hits me, and I sway slightly in my seat.
‘Bloody hell,’ Carrie says. ‘I think we need to eat. We’re getting hysterical.’
I fan a hand in front of my face. ‘It’s the heat.’
‘It’s Baltic in here! It’s the shady beer … Come on, let’s neck these then go and grab some food. You know what, since it’s our last night here, I really fancy going to the Hard Rock Cafe. I know it’s cheesy as fuck and lacking any sort of cultural awareness, but…’ She pauses, leans in closer to me. ‘I am so sick of rice.’ She laughs and de-shells another peanut. ‘Plus, Laura collects the badges so I want to get her one—’
The laughter drains out of me, like water down a plughole.
‘Who’s Laura?’
She waves a hand in front of her face. Her face crumples slightly. ‘I told you, didn’t I? I was meant to be travelling with her. She’s my best friend from school. We went out on a big night before we were due to leave and she fell down the stairs wearing stupid heels…’ She pauses, takes a long drink. I watch her throat moving as the liquid moves downwards. A long, slender neck. Perfect pale skin. ‘OK, we were actually a bit pissed.’ She puts the glass down and raises an eyebrow. ‘A lot pissed. A lot more pissed than this. Anyhow, the travel insurance wouldn’t cover it. She was gutted. I was gutted … I nearly didn’t come. But then I thought, you know what? Why should I not come? Why give up the chance of a trip of a lifetime? Neither of us would be able to save for it again … So I came—’
‘Good for you,’ I cut in, relaxed again now that it’s clear that Laura won’t be joining us. ‘So how long have you been here?’
‘Oh, here, not long. A few days. I was in Vietnam … Thailand…’
I feel sober all of a sudden. ‘Were you in Bangkok? I’ve just come from there…’ I wonder now if I have seen her before. That maybe this is why I feel connected to her.
‘Nah, just the airport. I was meant to spend a night in the city, but the taxi driver recommended this trip to Ko Samui and told me the beaches were better than the stinking city streets – his words, not mine. I kind of regret it now. But hey, I’ve been in the night market here. I’ve eaten locusts. I’ve done the things. Anyway, what are you doing here on your own? Been dumped?’
I don’t want to get into this right now. ‘Something like that,’ I say.
She sits back in her chair and I realise then that she’s quite drunk – her eyes glazed, swimming in and out of focus. It’s good that she’s relaxed, because the more relaxed she is, the better chance I have of convincing her to let me have her spare ticket for the train. I like what I’ve seen so far. I want to get to know her better.
4
We’re giggling as we fall into a taxi outside the hotel, and the beginnings of drunkenness start to fade, turning instead into a state of blissed-out happiness that I haven’t felt since I arrived here.
The driver is infected with our laughter and blurts out random names of rock stars as he drives us through the endless streets, horns honking around us. Bicycles weave by us, as our driver calls out ‘Jon Bon Jovi’ and ‘Bruce Springsteen guitar’, and starts to sing the chorus of ‘Born to Run’ in heavily accented English, and Carrie waving a hand in front of her face, mouthing, ‘I can’t breathe,’ which only makes us laugh more.
Carrie’s laughter has turned into hiccups by the time we reach the entrance. A huge, concrete block of a place, with the usual Hard Rock Cafe logo and various memorabilia adorning the walls as we head up the steps.
A grinning waitress leads us to a table, and before I can even look at the menu, Carrie says, ‘Two Long Island Iced Teas.’
The waitress does a little bow then scurries off, still grinning.
‘Oh, God,’ I say, fanning myself with the menu. ‘I think I might need a Coke or something—’
‘Shut. Up. You’re not going soft on me already are you, V?’ She laughs again. ‘See what I did there? Soft?’
I roll my eyes, but she doesn’t see because she’s picked up the menu and is studying it intently as if she’s reading the instructions for the most difficult exam she’s ever taken, and is determined not to fail. Her face is scrunched in a cute approximation of drunken concentration, and it makes me happy. And she called me ‘V’, which makes me happier still. We’ve only known each other for a few hours and she already has a pet name for me. After my earlier despair, it seems like the planets may have collided at just the right time after all.
The waitress returns with the drinks and places them on the table on top of two small black napkins. ‘Are you ready to order? Do you need help with menu? The Local Legendary burger is really good—’
‘Yep, two of them please,’ Carrie says, snapping the menu shut. I haven’t even had a chance to look yet, but I don’t really care what I eat. I’m just glad to be here with this vibrant, buzzing ball of energy that I’ve stumbled upon.
She lifts her drink. ‘Cheers,’ she says. ‘To new friends and new adventures.’
We chink glasses, and I take a sip. Carrie downs half of hers in one. The waitress is still gathering up the menus, tidying up the table, and I grab her arm, gently. ‘Could we have a jug of water too, please?’
‘Of course!’ She grins at me and scurries off.
Carrie rolls her eyes. ‘You trying to stop me getting drunk?’
‘No, of course not…’ I pause, worrying now that I’ve upset her. ‘I just need a drink of water or I’m not sure I’m going to get through this cocktail. I’m a bit of a lightweight. What’s in it?’
She laughs. ‘Oh my God, you mean you didn’t go out underage drinking in places like this and order the cocktail with the most alcohol you could find, cos you could only afford one?’
I shake my head. ‘I didn’t really do anything like that. There was nothing like this near where I grew up.’
‘Me and Laura used to go up to this American diner place on the High Street … you know, The Royal Mile? That road that all the tourists love because it links Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace, and it’s full of tacky tartan, fudge and bagpipers?’ She laughs again, and takes a sip of her drink. ‘It was called the Filling Station. When I first heard of it I thought it was a garage. Anyway, it was a great place for underagers. I think they thought we wouldn’t stay too long, so they could get away with it. Saying that, most of the bars around The Grassmarket and The Cowgate let us in too. Starting the night with one of these was our wee tradition.’
I take a sip, and it’s actually quite nice. Sweet and sour, but with a definite kick. I feel the warmth hit my stomach, and I let myself relax again. I’m not that much of a lightweight. Far from it. I’m just trying to keep my wits about me so I don’t blow it with my new potential friend.
The water arrives, and then the burgers, and we don’t talk for a while as we eat. Carrie picks up the burger and squashes it together as much as she can, opening her mouth and taking a huge bite. Sauce dribbles down her chin, and she wipes it away quickly with a napkin before taking another bite. She is devouring it, as if she hasn’t eaten for days – whereas I have removed the salad and the bacon, and have cut the burger in half, nibbling on it. I feel self-conscious as I eat, but Carrie is one of those people who just gets stuck in – and I think this says a lot about her.
‘Tell me about this ex then,’ she says, still chewing. ‘Did he dump you on the trip or before you left home? Come on, V, what’s your story?’
I lay the burger back on the plate and nibble on a couple of fries. ‘It was in Bangkok. He just dumped me. Just like that. No explanation. I didn’t bother to hang around.’
‘Fucksake, what a prick.’ She takes a long drink of water. She seems less pissed now that the food has started to soak up the alcohol. ‘Were you together long?’
I make a non-committal face and hope that she takes the hint.
‘I’ve been plagued by bad luck on this trip,’ I say, finishing the last of my cocktail. The waitress must be watching us, as she comes scurrying over to collect the glasses.
‘Two more?’ she says. ‘You enjoy the food?’
Carrie nods, and the waitress grins at us again, before disappearing off towards the kitchen.
‘Go on,’ she says. ‘I was feeling sorry for myself not being with Laura. Hearing about other folk’s travelling disasters is making me feel better.’
‘Well I’ve been away for a long time now. Nearly a year. Before Sam—’
‘That’s your Bangkok bastard?’
I laugh. ‘Yes. Well before him, there was Michael…’
‘Oh, don’t tell me, he was a bastard too? I’m starting to think they really are all the same. My ex was called Greg. I dumped him just before we left…’ She pauses, and takes an angry bite of her burger. ‘Someone sent me a message telling me he was cheating on me.’
‘Shit,’ I say. ‘Did you confront him?’
She laughs, but it’s humourless. ‘You could say that. Anyway. Old. Fucking. News.’
The waitress places two more drinks in front of us, and Carrie holds hers aloft.
‘Cheers,’ she says.
I tap my glass against hers and take a long, slow drink.
She didn’t give me a chance to tell her what happened to Michael, and the moment is gone – and that’s fine. It’s probably better she doesn’t know. For now, at least.
‘You know,’ she continues, ‘I think I might be off men altogether. Pointless, useless and far too much hassle.’ She puts her glass on the table. ‘Give me a Rampant Rabbit and a few semi-naked pics of Gerard Butler in 300 and I’ll be fucking sorted.’ She laughs, then she leans across the table and puts both of her hands on top of mine. Her expression turns serious. ‘Listen. Don’t suppose you want my spare ticket? It’s for the Mongolian branch and I’ve got a couple of planned stop-offs. I kind of thought it might be interesting.’ She takes her hands away and leans back in her chair, picks up her napkin and wipes her mouth, then folds it into a neat square and lays it on top of her empty plate. ‘Like I said, Laura had to cancel, so I came on my own, but to be honest, after having a laugh with you tonight, I’m not sure I’m really up for being on my own anymore. Plus, it’s a total waste of a ticket—’
I can’t believe what she’s saying. This is not what usually happens. It’s normally me that’s the impulsive one. It’s usually me who has to do the convincing. But I don’t need convincing. I don’t even ask for any more details. I just gaze at her beautiful face and can’t believe my luck.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘One hundred percent, yes.’
From: [email protected]
Subject: Got a new pal, you’re dumped
Haha – only kidding! Right, so I tried to get a refund on your portion of the train ticket but the woman was, like, computer-says-no. Ragin’! Anyway, met this woman at the travel centre – she’d been dumped by her useless boyfriend (sounds familiar, eh?) and they said there were no tickets left … Anyway, I saw this girl and I thought she might be an interesting travelling companion (mainly because she headed straight to the bar when they told her there were no tickets left) so I just blurted it out and asked if she wanted to take the ticket and she said yes. Yay! Maybe because I didn’t say she had to pay for it, but we can work that out. Anyhoo, we went out for dinner and she’s a total riot.
I’ll email you again ASAP. Reply when you can and tell me your news? I am so out of the loop over here.
Love you!
Cx
P.S. Hope you’re recovering and not too jealous about me jet-setting around the globe while you’re in your jammies with that big stookie! You know what? I think we (but mainly you) need to start wearing more sensible drinking shoes…
P.P.S. I know you keep banging on about me using Messenger but I am trying to avoid being on there because … YOU KNOW WHY … and anyway, you can look forward to my emails like I’m sending you a postcard – in fact, maybe I will send you a postcard #oldskool
P.P.P.S. I got you a badge
Beijing – Ulaanbaatar
5
We made it onto the train without any issues. Smartly suited but unsmiling hostesses showed us to our cabin, and we immediately went off to find the dining car, to have a drink and to see who else was around, and now that the buzz has worn off a little, and the hangovers are kicking in, we’re back in the cabin, sitting on the edges of our beds. I’ve dealt us both our cards and placed them on the small table under the window between us, but they remain untouched next to two plastic cups filled with warm Coke. It was Carrie’s idea to play poker, but apart from her telling me the rules, we haven’t got very far. Carrie gazes out of the window and I watch her, watching the landscape.
Flat fields of cracked ochre mud. Pylons and rundown shacks. I have no idea where we are. Other than that we are still in China, because we haven’t stopped yet to let the border guards come on. I heard someone earlier – one of the old ones from the organised tour group – say that we would hit the border late at night. Or early in the morning. They’d slow down the journey on purpose, so that the guards could join the train when most people were sleeping. Then we’d sit for a while as they changed over the wheels on each carriage, because of the wider tracks outside of China.
We saw the sellers clambering on at the last stop, laden with chequered laundry bags filled with cheap jeans, fake branded T-shirts, bags and caps. The guards might let some of them through without paying import tax, or they might not. It was a risky business, but it was better than drugs, and people had to make a living somehow. Those sellers won’t be sleeping tonight. They’ll be waiting in their cabins, drinking black coffee to stay alert. Their gifts for the border guards stashed under the bunks, hoping for a sympathetic ear.
I wanted to take a sleeping pill and avoid the whole thing. I’d experienced it all before at other border crossings, and I knew the guards would be loud and rude and unreasonable. They could search the whole of our cabin, toss everything on the floor if they wanted. I didn’t know if Carrie knew any of this.
‘Have you crossed a border on a train before?’ I ask her.
She snorts. ‘Of course. In Europe, though, not in Asia. I once smuggled a lump of hash from Amsterdam to Paris in a sock. I was terrified the whole time. When the guards came on. I nearly peed my pants. But they didn’t even look at me. I guess I don’t look like an international drugs mule.’ She laughs, takes a sip of Coke. ‘In fact, that means I might make a good one … Maybe I’ll look into it.’ She winks.
Perhaps I’ve made a big mistake. I don’t even know her. She found me at my most vulnerable, and she helped me. I appreciate it. We had fun. We can have more fun, if she lets me stick around.
‘I was just thinking about dinner last night,’ she says, as if she has just read my mind. ‘As predicted, it was totally cheesy and we could have been anywhere, but I kind of liked how excited that group of students were to see us. So random that they wanted to take so many photos of us.’
‘They think we’re exotic,’ I say. ‘With our pale skin and wide eyes. Our height too. We’re like goddesses to them. They’ve no idea that they’re the beautiful, exotic ones.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ she says. She licks her top lip with the tip of her tongue.
I feel something stir inside me. She is exotic, more so than me. Her skin is smooth and lightly tanned. Her blonde highlighted hair is naturally straight and shiny. She wears neatly fitting shorts and vest tops. She smells of lemons. I, on the other hand, seem to be clad in rags beside her. My long gypsy skirt and faded Nirvana T-shirt don’t really show me off like her clothes do, my henna’d hair is in need of some TLC; it’s been so long since I brushed it, it’s turning into dreadlocks. I’m always pale, avoiding the sun. I smell of rose and jasmine, a blend of oils that I’ve been wearing since I was thirteen years old when I first mixed them together in an atomiser that my grandmother left me when she died. We are very different, and yet here we are.
She offered me the second bed in her cabin. She let this happen.
She let me borrow whatever I needed until my bag turned up. Of course it didn’t turn up and probably never will. I will buy what I need when we get there. I’ll change my style again. I don’t know what people dress like in Ulaanbaatar, but it won’t be long before I find out. I glance at Carrie. She’s lying on her bed now, still and quiet. One hand resting on her chest. Her rib cage gently rises and falls. I can see the perfect mounds of her breasts above her thin vest. Her clavicle stands high and sharp, and I have to try very hard not to lean over and run my finger across it.
‘I’ll pay for the ticket. When we get to the next stop,’ I say quietly. I hope she’ll let me stay with her in Mongolia. I feel like we’re only just getting started.
‘Whatever,’ she says. In a way that says she’s chilled, not indifferent. She doesn’t open her eyes.
I stare out of the window. Those same bleak fields. The rhythmic badum badum of the train on the tracks. I lean back against the wall, letting the sounds hypnotise me.
Badum badum.
A screech, now and then. The train lurches from side to side. I close my eyes and wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t walked into the travel centre and found her there, and me so desperate to take this trip.
She’s my beautiful, perfect saviour.
I’ve barely thought about Sam since I met her. She’s going to be good for me, I think. I just hope I can control myself this time.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Got a new pal, you’re dumped
OMG, you’ve replaced me already? Seriously, Caz, that is GREAT. I didn’t tell you how much it was stressing me out about that bloody ticket. To be honest, I’m not even bothered about the money that much. I’m glad it’s gone to a good home. You need to tell me everything about your new friend though – come on! Are you on the train yet? What’s it like? And can we please use Messenger? I hate waiting for your emails … I miss you! Nothing much is happening here, as I am sure you can imagine. Edinburgh is cold and wet and full of tourists. Sheila from work has taken your place in the quiz team. She lacks your musical knowledge, but she knows everything else … She’s actually quite a laugh after a couple of shandies.
Tell me everything!
Miss you,
L xxx
P.S. I saw Greg. I know that’s what you were hinting at but are refusing to acknowledge. Why won’t you tell me what happened with you two? He looks forlorn…
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Got a new pal, you’re dumped
Her name is Violet and she reckons she’s from Nottingham, but she sounds more like a home-counties rich kid and she dresses like a proper nineties grunge-hippy (is that a thing?). She has terrible hair – all matted henna dreads. She really needs a makeover! She looks like she’s been travelling for twenty years. I’m pretty sure she’s our age though. But apart from that, we seem to be totally on the same wavelength and I’m loving hanging out with her. We’ll see how it goes…
Yes, we are on the train! I am writing this from the toilet. I went for a walk along the carriages and there’s a massive tour group full of pensioners and they are bloody loving it. Me and you need to do massive trips when we’re pensioners. None of that bingo-fish-and-chips Friday shite.
I TOLD you I’m not using Messenger … Anyway, the time difference means we’ll hardly ever be online at the same time so email makes more sense, plus I can write loads without you butting in.
I’m not talking about Greg.
