The girl on the train sách

     
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The #1 New York Times Bestseller, USA Today Book of the Year, now a major motion picture starring Emily Blunt. The debut psychological thriller that will forever change the way you look at other people"s lives, from the author of Into the Water and A Slow Fire Burning. “Nothing is more addicting than The Girl on the Train.”—Vanity Fair“The Girl on the Train has more fun with unreliable narration than any chiller since Gone Girl. . . . is liable to lớn draw a large, bedazzled readership.”—The thủ đô new york Times “Marries movie noir with novelistic trickery. . . Hang on tight. You"ll be surprised by what horrors lurk around the bend.”—USA Today “Like its train, the story blasts through the stagnation of these lives in suburban London và the reader cannot help but turn pages.”—The Boston Globe“Gone Girl fans will devour this psychological thriller.”—People EVERY DAY THE SAMERachel takes the same commuter train every morning và night. Every day she rattles down the track, flashes past a stretch of cozy suburban homes, và stops at the signal that allows her to lớn daily watch the same couple breakfasting on their deck. She"s even started lớn feel like she knows them. Jess & Jason, she calls them. Their life--as she sees it--is perfect. Not unlike the life she recently lost.UNTIL TODAYAnd then she sees something shocking. It"s only a minute until the train moves on, but it"s enough. Now everything"s changed. Unable to lớn keep it to lớn herself, Rachel goes to lớn the police. But is she really as unreliable as they say? Soon she is deeply entangled not only in the investigation but in the lives of everyone involved. Has she done more harm than good?
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Paula Hawkins
 worked as a journalist for fifteen years before turning her hand to lớn fiction. The Girl on the Train is her first thriller. An international #1 bestseller, published in 50 countries & over 40 languages, it has sold over 11 million copies worldwide & has been adapted into a major motion picture starring Emily Blunt. Hawkins was born in Zimbabwe and now lives in London. 

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RACHEL FRIDAY, JULY 5, 2013   MORNING There is a pile of clothing on the side of the train tracks. Light-blue cloth—a shirt, perhaps—jumbled up with something dirty white. It"s probably rubbish, part of a load dumped into the scrubby little wood up the bank. It could have been left behind by the engineers who work this part of the track, they"re here often enough. Or it could be something else. My mother used to tell me that I had an overactive imagination; Tom said that, too. I can"t help it, I catch sight of these discarded scraps, a dirty T-shirt or a lonesome shoe, và all I can think of is the other shoe & the feet that fitted into them.  The train jolts & scrapes & screeches back into motion, the little pile of clothes disappears from view và we trundle on towards London, moving at a brisk jogger"s pace. Someone in the seat behind me gives a sigh of helpless irritation; the 8:04 slow train from Ashbury to lớn Euston can test the patience of the most seasoned commuter. The journey is supposed lớn take fifty-four minutes, but it rarely does: this section of the track is ancient, decrepit, beset with signalling problems và never-ending engineering works. The train crawls along; it judders past warehouses và water towers, bridges and sheds, past modest Victorian houses, their backs turned squarely khổng lồ the track.My head leaning against the carriage window, I watch these houses roll past me like a tracking shot in a film. I see them as others vày not; even their owners probably don"t see them from this perspective. Twice a day, I am offered a view into other lives, just for a moment. There"s something comforting about the sight of strangers safe at home.Someone"s phone is ringing, an incongruously joyful và upbeat song. They"re slow khổng lồ answer, it jingles on và on around me. I can feel my fellow commuters shift in their seats, rustle their newspapers, tap at their computers. The train lurches & sways around the bend, slowing as it approaches a red signal. I try not to lớn look up, I try to lớn read the không tính tiền newspaper I was handed on my way into the station, but the words blur in front of my eyes, nothing holds my interest. In my head I can still see that little pile of clothes lying at the edge of the track, abandoned. EVENING The premixed gin & tonic fizzes up over the lip of the can as I bring it khổng lồ my mouth & sip. Tangy & cold, the taste of my first-ever holiday with Tom, a fishing village on the Basque coast in 2005. In the mornings we"d swim the half mile to the little island in the bay, make love on secret hidden beaches; in the afternoons we"d sit at a bar drinking strong, bitter gin & tonics, watching swarms of beach footballers playing chaotic twenty-five-a-side games on the low-tide sands.I take another sip, & another; the can"s already half empty, but it"s OK, I have three more in the plastic bag at my feet. It"s Friday, so I don"t have khổng lồ feel guilty about drinking on the train. TGIF. The fun starts here.It"s going lớn be a lovely weekend, that"s what they"re telling us. Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies. In the old days we might have driven khổng lồ Corly Wood with a picnic và the papers, spent all afternoon lying on a blanket in dappled sunlight, drinking wine. We might have barbecued out back with friends, or gone khổng lồ the Rose and sat in the beer garden, faces flushing with sun và alcohol as the afternoon went on, weaving home, arm in arm, falling asleep on the sofa. Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies, no one lớn play with, nothing lớn do. Living lượt thích this, the way I"m living at the moment, is harder in the summer when there is so much daylight, so little cover of darkness, when everyone is out & about, being flagrantly, aggressively happy. It"s exhausting, & it makes you feel bad if you"re not joining in. The weekend stretches out ahead of me, forty-eight empty hours khổng lồ fill. I lift the can lớn my mouth again, but there"s not a drop left. MONDAY, JULY 8, 2013MORNING It"s a relief to be back on the 8:04. It"s not that I can"t wait khổng lồ get into London to lớn start my week—I don"t particularly want to be in London at all. I just want to lớn lean back in the soft, sagging velour seat, feel the warmth of the sunshine streaming through the window, feel the carriage rock back and forth và back và forth, the comforting rhythm of wheels on tracks. I"d rather be here, looking out at the houses beside the track, than almost anywhere else. There"s a faulty signal on this line, about halfway through my journey. I assume it must be faulty, in any case, because it"s almost always red; we stop there most days, sometimes just for a few seconds, sometimes for minutes on end. If I sit in carriage D, which I usually do, & the train stops at this signal, which it almost always does, I have a perfect view into my favourite trackside house: number fifteen. Number fifteen is much lượt thích the other houses along this stretch of track: a Victorian semi, two storeys high, overlooking a narrow, well-tended garden that runs around twenty feet down towards some fencing, beyond which lie a few metres of no-man"s-land before you get lớn the railway track. I know this house by heart. I know every brick, I know the colour of the curtains in the upstairs bedroom (beige, with a dark-blue print), I know that the paint is peeling off the bathroom window frame và that there are four tiles missing from a section of the roof over on the right-hand side. I know that on warm summer evenings, the occupants of this house, Jason & Jess, sometimes climb out of the large sash window to sit on the makeshift terrace on đứng đầu of the kitchen-extension roof. They are a perfect, golden couple. He is dark-haired & well built, strong, protective, kind. He has a great laugh. She is one of those tiny bird-women, a beauty, pale-skinned with blond hair cropped short. She has the bone structure lớn carry that kind of thing off, sharp cheekbones dappled with a sprinkling of freckles, a fine jaw. While we"re stuck at the red signal, I look for them. Jess is often out there in the mornings, especially in the summer, drinking her coffee. Sometimes, when I see her there, I feel as though she sees me, too, I feel as though she looks right back at me, and I want khổng lồ wave. I"m too self-conscious. I don"t see Jason quite so much, he"s away a lot with work. But even if they"re not there, I think about what they might be up to. Maybe this morning they"ve both got the day off and she"s lying in bed while he makes breakfast, or maybe they"ve gone for a run together, because that"s the sort of thing they do. (Tom & I used to run together on Sundays, me going at slightly above my normal pace, him at about half his, just so we could run side by side.) Maybe Jess is upstairs in the spare room, painting, or maybe they"re in the shower together, her hands pressed against the tiles, his hands on her hips. EVENING Turning slightly towards the window, my back lớn the rest of the carriage, I xuất hiện one of the little bottles of Chenin Blanc I purchased from the Whistlestop at Euston. It"s not cold, but it"ll do. I pour some into a plastic cup, screw the đứng top back on & slip the bottle into my handbag. It"s less acceptable to drink on the train on a Monday, unless you"re drinking with company, which I am not.  There are familiar faces on these trains, people I see every week, going to & fro. I recognize them and they probably recognize me. I don"t know whether they see me, though, for what I really am. It"s a glorious evening, warm but not too close, the sun starting its lazy descent, shadows lengthening và the light just beginning khổng lồ burnish the trees with gold. The train is rattling along, we whip past Jason và Jess"s place, they pass in a blur of evening sunshine. Sometimes, not often, I can see them from this side of the track. If there"s no train going in the opposite direction, và if we"re travelling slowly enough, I can sometimes catch a glimpse of them out on their terrace. If not—like today—I can imagine them. Jess will be sitting with her feet up on the table out on the terrace, a glass of wine in her hand, Jason standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. I can imagine the feel of his hands, the weight of them, reassuring và protective. Sometimes I catch myself trying khổng lồ remember the last time I had meaningful physical tương tác with another person, just a hug or a heartfelt squeeze of my hand, & my heart twitches. TUESDAY, JULY 9, 2013 MORNING The pile of clothes from last week is still there, & it looks dustier và more forlorn than it did a few days ago. I read somewhere that a train can rip the clothes right off you when it hits. It"s not that unusual, death by train. Two lớn three hundred a year, they say, so at least one every couple of days. I"m not sure how many of those are accidental. I look carefully, as the train rolls slowly past, for blood on the clothes, but I can"t see any. The train stops at the signal as usual. I can see Jess standing on the patio in front of the French doors. She"s wearing a bright print dress, her feet are bare. She"s looking over her shoulder, back into the house; she"s probably talking to Jason, who"ll be making breakfast. I keep my eyes fixed on Jess, on her home, as the train starts to inch forward. I don"t want to lớn see the other houses; I particularly don"t want khổng lồ see the one four doors down, the one that used lớn be mine. I lived at number twenty-three Blenheim Road for five years, blissfully happy và utterly wretched. I can"t look at it now. That was my first home. Not my parents" place, not a flatshare with other students, my first home. I can"t bear to look at it. Well, I can, I do, I want to, I don"t want to, I try not to. Every day I tell myself not khổng lồ look, và every day I look. I can"t help myself, even though there is nothing I want khổng lồ see there, even though anything I bởi see will hurt me. Even though I remember so clearly how it felt that time I looked up và noticed that the cream linen blind in the upstairs bedroom was gone, replaced by something in soft baby pink; even though I still remember the pain I felt when I saw Anna watering the rose-bushes near the fence, her T-shirt stretched tight over her bulging belly, and I bit my lip so hard, it bled. I close my eyes tightly & count to ten, fifteen, twenty. There, it"s gone now, nothing khổng lồ see. We roll into Witney station & out again, the train starting to pick up pace as suburbia melts into grimy North London, terraced houses replaced by tagged bridges và empty buildings with broken windows. The closer we get khổng lồ Euston, the more anxious I feel; pressure builds; how will today be? There"s a filthy, low-slung concrete building on the right-hand side of the track about five hundred metres before we get into Euston. On its side, someone has painted: LIFE IS NOT A PARAGRAPH. I think about the bundle of clothes on the side of the track and I feel as though my throat is closing up. Life is not a paragraph, & death is no parenthesis.   EVENING The train I take in the evening, the 5:56, is slightly slower than the morning one—it takes one hour & one minute, a full seven minutes longer than the morning train despite not stopping at any extra stations. I don"t mind, because just as I"m in no great hurry to lớn get into London in the morning, I"m in no hurry khổng lồ get back to lớn Ashbury in the evening, either. Not just because it"s Ashbury, although the place itself is bad enough, a 1960s new town, spreading lượt thích a tumour over the heart of Buckinghamshire. No better or worse than a dozen other towns lượt thích it, a centre filled with cafés & mobile-phone shops and branches of JD Sports, surrounded by a band of suburbia và beyond that the realm of the multiplex cinema & out-of-town Tesco. I live in a smart(ish), new(ish) block situated at the point where the commercial heart of the place starts to lớn bleed into the residential outskirts, but it is not my home. My home is the Victorian semi on the tracks, the one I part-owned. In Ashbury I am not a homeowner, not even a tenant—I"m a lodger, occupant of the small second bedroom in Cathy"s bland and inoffensive duplex, subject lớn her grace và favour. Cathy và I were friends at university. Half friends, really, we were never that close. She lived across the hall from me in my first year, & we were both doing the same course, so we were natural allies in those first few daunting weeks, before we met people with whom we had more in common. We didn"t see much of each other after the first year & barely at all after college, except for the occasional wedding. But in my hour of need she happened khổng lồ have a spare room going và it made sense. I was so sure that it would only be for a couple of months, six at the most, & I didn"t know what else khổng lồ do. I"d never lived by myself, I"d gone from parents to lớn flatmates to lớn Tom, I found the idea overwhelming, so I said yes. And that was nearly two years ago. It"s not awful. Cathy"s a nice person, in a forceful sort of way. She makes you notice her niceness. Her niceness is writ large, it is her defining quality and she needs it acknowledged, often, daily almost, which can be tiring. But it"s not so bad, I can think of worse traits in a flatmate. No, it"s not Cathy, it"s not even Ashbury that bothers me most about my new situation (I still think of it as new, although it"s been two years). It"s the loss of control. In Cathy"s flat I always feel lượt thích a guest at the very outer limit of her welcome. I feel it in the kitchen, where we jostle for space when cooking our evening meals. I feel it when I sit beside her on the sofa, the remote control firmly within her grasp. The only space that feels like mine is my tiny bedroom, into which a double bed & a desk have been crammed, with barely enough space lớn walk between them. It"s comfortable enough, but it isn"t a place you want to lớn be, so instead I linger in the living room or at the kitchen table, ill at ease & powerless. I have lost control over everything, even the places in my head. WEDNESDAY, JULY 10, 2013 MORNINGThe heat is building. It"s barely half past eight and already the day is close, the air heavy with moisture. I could wish for a storm, but the sky is an insolen blank, pale, watery blue. I wipe away the sweat on my đứng đầu lip. I wish I"d remembered khổng lồ buy a bottle of water. I can"t see Jason and Jess this morning, & my sense of disappointment is acute. Silly, I know. I scrutinize the house, but there"s nothing lớn see. The curtains are xuất hiện downstairs but the French doors are closed, sunlight reflecting off the glass. The sash window upstairs is closed, too. Jason may be away working. He"s a doctor, I think, probably for one of those overseas organizations. He"s constantly on call, a bag packed on top of the wardrobe; there"s an earthquake in Iran or a tsunami in Asia and he drops everything, he grabs his bag và he"s at Heathrow within a matter of hours, ready khổng lồ fly out and save lives. Jess, with her bold prints and her Converse trainers and her beauty, her attitude, works in the fashion industry. Or perhaps in the music business, or in advertising—she might be a stylist or a photographer. She"s a good painter, too, plenty of artistic flair. I can see her now, in the spare room upstairs, music blaring, window open, a brush in her hand, an enormous canvas leaning against the wall. She"ll be there until midnight; Jason knows not lớn bother her when she"s working. I can"t really see her, of course. I don"t know if she paints, or whether Jason has a great laugh, or whether Jess has beautiful cheek-bones. I can"t see her bone structure from here và I"ve never heard Jason"s voice. I"ve never seen them up close, they didn"t live at that house when I lived down the road. They moved in after I left two years ago, I don"t know when exactly. I suppose I started noticing them about a year ago, & gradually, as the months went past, they became important lớn me. I don"t know their names, either, so I had to lớn name them myself. Jason, because he"s handsome in a British film star kind of way, not a Depp or a Pitt, but a Firth, or a Jason Isaacs. Và Jess just goes with Jason, và it goes with her. It fits her, pretty and carefree as she is. They"re a match, they"re a set. They"re happy, I can tell. They"re what I used to lớn be, they"re Tom and me five years ago. They"re what I lost, they"re everything I want lớn be. EVENING My shirt, uncomfortably tight, buttons straining across my chest, is pit-stained, damp patches clammy beneath my arms. My eyes and throat itch. This evening I don"t want the journey to lớn stretch out; I long to lớn get home, to undress & get into the shower, to be where no one can look at me. I look at the man in the seat opposite mine. He is about my age, early lớn midthirties, with dark hair, greying at the temples. Sallow skin. He"s wearing a suit, but he"s taken the jacket off and slung it on the seat next to lớn him. He has a MacBook, paper-thin, xuất hiện in front of him. He"s a slow typist. He"s wearing a silver watch with a large face on his right wrist—it looks expensive, a Breitling maybe. He"s chewing the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he"s nervous. Or just thinking deeply. Writing an important thư điện tử to a colleague at the office in New York, or a carefully worded break-up message to his girlfriend. He looks up suddenly and meets my eye; his glance travels over me, over the little bottle of wine on the table in front of me. He looks away. There"s something about the phối of his mouth that suggests distaste. He finds me distasteful. I am not the girl I used to lớn be. I am no longer desirable, I"m off-putting in some way. It"s not just that I"ve put on weight, or that my face is puffy from the drinking và the lack of sleep; it"s as if people can see the damage written all over me, can see it in my face, the way I hold myself, the way I move. One night last week, when I left my room to lớn get myself a glass of water, I overheard Cathy talking to Damien, her boyfriend, in the living room. I stood in the hallway & listened. "She"s lonely," Cathy was saying. "I really worry about her. It doesn"t help, her being alone all the time." Then she said, "Isn"t there someone from work, maybe, or the rugby club?" & Damien said, "For Rachel? Not being funny, Cath, but I"m not sure I know anyone that desperate." THURSDAY, JULY 11, 2013MORNING I"m picking at the plaster on my forefinger. It"s damp, it got wet when I was washing out my coffee mug this morning; it feels clammy, dirty, though it was clean on this morning. I don"t want lớn take it off because the cut is deep. Cathy was out when I got home, so I went to lớn the off-licence and bought two bottles of wine. I drank the first one and then I thought I"d take advantage of the fact that she was out and cook myself a steak, make a red-onion relish, have it with a green salad. A good, healthy meal. I sliced through the vị trí cao nhất of my finger while chopping the onions. I must have gone lớn the bathroom lớn clean it up và gone to lie down for a while and just forgotten all about it, because I woke up around ten & I could hear Cathy và Damien talking và he was saying how disgusting it was that I would leave the kitchen like that. Cathy came upstairs to see me, she knocked softly on my door and opened it a fraction. She cocked her head to lớn one side & asked if I was OK. I apologized without being sure what I was apologizing for. She said it was all right, but would I mind cleaning up a bit? There was blood on the chopping board, the room smelled of raw meat, the steak was still sitting out on the countertop, turning grey. Damien didn"t even say hello, he just shook his head when he saw me và went upstairs to Cathy"s bedroom. After they"d both gone lớn bed I remembered that I hadn"t drunk the second bottle, so I opened that. I sat on the sofa và watched television with the sound turned down really low so they wouldn"t hear it. I can"t remember what I was watching, but at some point I must have felt lonely, or happy, or something, because I wanted lớn talk to someone. The need for contact must have been over-whelming, and there was no one I could gọi except for Tom. There"s no one I want lớn talk khổng lồ except for Tom. The gọi log on my phone says I rang four times: at 11:02, 11:12, 11:54, 12:09. Judging from the length of the calls, I left two messages. He may even have picked up, but I don"t remember talking to lớn him. I remember leaving the first message; I think I just asked him to call me. That may be what I said in both of them, which isn"t too bad.The train shudders to lớn a standstill at the red signal and I look up. Jess is sitting on her patio, drinking a cup of coffee. She has her feet up against the table & her head back, sunning herself. Behind her, I think I can see a shadow, someone moving: Jason. I long to lớn see him, to lớn catch a glimpse of his handsome face. I want him khổng lồ come outside, to stand behind her the way he does, khổng lồ kiss the đứng top of her head. He doesn"t come out, & her head falls forward. There is something about the way she is moving today that seems different; she is heavier, weighed down. I will him to come out khổng lồ her, but the train jolts and slogs forward & still there is no sign of him; she"s alone. Và now, without thinking, I find myself looking directly into my house, và I can"t look away. The French doors are flung open, light streaming into the kitchen. I can"t tell, I really can"t, whether I"m seeing this or imagining it—is she there, at the sink, washing up? Is there a little girl sitting in one of those bouncy baby chairs up there on the kitchen table? I close my eyes & let the darkness grow and spread until it morphs from a feeling of sadness into something worse: a memory, a flashback. I didn"t just ask him to hotline me back. I remember now, I was crying. I told him that I still loved him, that I always would. Please, Tom, please, I need khổng lồ talk lớn you. I miss you. No no no no no no no. I have khổng lồ accept it, there"s no point trying khổng lồ push it away. I"m going to feel terrible all day, it"s going khổng lồ come in waves—stronger then weaker then stronger again—that twist in the pit of my stomach, the anguish of shame, the heat coming lớn my face, my eyes squeezed tight as though I could make it all disappear. & I"ll be telling myself all day, it"s not the worst thing, is it? It"s not the worst thing I"ve ever done, it"s not as if I fell over in public, or yelled at a stranger in the street. It"s not as if I humiliated my husband at a summer barbecue by shouting abuse at the wife of one of his friends. It"s not as if we got into a fight one night at home and I went for him with a golf club, taking a chunk out of the plaster in the hallway outside the bedroom. It"s not like going back to work after a three-hour lunch & staggering through the office, everyone looking, Martin Miles taking me khổng lồ one side, I think you should probably go home, Rachel. I once read a book by a former alcoholic where she described giving oral sex khổng lồ two different men, men she"d just met in a restaurant on a busy London high street. I read it và I thought, I"m not that bad. This is where the bar is set.   EVENING I have been thinking about Jess all day, unable khổng lồ focus on anything but what I saw this morning. What was it that made me think that something was wrong? I couldn"t possibly see her expression at that distance, but I felt when I was looking at her that she was alone. More than alone—lonely. Perhaps she was—perhaps he"s away, gone lớn one of those hot countries he jets off lớn to save lives. & she misses him, & she worries, although she knows he has khổng lồ go. Of course she misses him, just as I do. He is kind và strong, everything a husband should be. Và they are a partnership. I can see it, I know how they are. His strength, that protectiveness he radiates, it doesn"t mean she"s weak. She"s strong in other ways; she makes intellectual leaps that leave him openmouthed in admiration. She can cut khổng lồ the nub of a problem, dissect và analyse it in the time it takes other people lớn say good morning. At parties, he often holds her hand, even though they"ve been together years. They respect each other, they don"t put each other down. I feel exhausted this evening. I am sober, stone-cold. Some days I feel so bad that I have to drink; some days I feel so bad that I can"t. Today, the thought of alcohol turns my stomach. But sobriety on the evening train is a challenge, particularly now, in this heat. A film of sweat covers every inch of my skin, the inside of my mouth prickles, my eyes itch, mascara rubbed into their corners. My phone buzzes in my handbag, making me jump. Two girls sitting across the carriage look at me and then at each other, with a sly exchange of smiles. I don"t know what they think of me, but I know it isn"t good. My heart is pounding in my chest as I reach for the phone. I know this will be nothing good, either: it will be Cathy, perhaps, asking me ever so nicely to lớn maybe give the booze a rest this evening? Or my mother, telling me that she"ll be in London next week, she"ll drop by the office, we can go for lunch. I look at the screen. It"s Tom. I hesitate for just a second and then I answer it. "Rachel?" For the first five years I knew him, I was never Rachel, always Rach. Sometimes Shelley, because he knew I hated it and it made him laugh to lớn watch me twitch with irritation and then giggle because I couldn"t help but join in when he was laughing. "Rachel, it"s me." His voice is leaden, he sounds worn out. "Listen, you have lớn stop this, OK?" I don"t say anything. The train is slowing, & we are almost opposite the house, my old house. I want to say lớn him, Come outside, go và stand on the lawn. Let me see you. "Please, Rachel, you can"t gọi me like this all the time. You"ve got khổng lồ sort yourself out." There is a lump in my throat as hard as a pebble, smooth & obstinate. I cannot swallow. I cannot speak. "Rachel? Are you there? I know things aren"t good with you, & I"m sorry for you, I really am, but . . . I can"t help you, & these constant calls are really upsetting Anna. OK? I can"t help you anymore. Go lớn AA or something. Please, Rachel. Go lớn an AA meeting after work today." I pull the filthy plaster off the kết thúc of my finger và look at the pale, wrinkled flesh beneath, dried blood caked at the edge of my fingernail. I press the thumbnail of my right hand into the centre of the cut và feel it xuất hiện up, the pain sharp và hot. I catch my breath. Blood starts to lớn ooze from the wound. The girls on the other side of the carriage are watching me, their faces blank.