Murder on the christmas.., p.10
Murder on the Christmas Express, page 10
She tried to nod, but he was holding her too tight. He then sighed and placed his forehead against hers. He’d seen heroes do that on a Netflix show about Vikings and had been doing it ever since. Thought it connected him with what he claimed were his Nordic ancestors. She hoped the inspiration would stop there. He had once threatened to “blood eagle” her when she hadn’t replied to a text one night. She’d had to look up what it was and had started shaking. Just his head touching hers though, made her lean into him, wanting more.
“We’ll go to bed when I say so,” he said. “Got to give them their money’s worth.” He then reared back, letting her go so abruptly that she tipped forward and banged her head against the table. “Be more careful,” he said, then turned back to the partying.
Blake cheered, coming toward him. “Grant!” he said, handing him a full glass of whisky. “We’re comparing specialist subjects. Mine’s ‘The Life and Works of Douglas Adams.’ What’s yours?”
“Women,” Grant said and raised his glass. People laughed.
Meg felt the fog descend again. She wished she wasn’t so dependent on him, but maybe that’s what love was. Mum had called her relationship with Dad “a roller coaster of emotions, sweetheart,” but, to Meg, a roller coaster was too safe a comparison. Even if your feet weren’t touching anything, you were always strapped in on a ride. And unless you were in the wrong place and the wrong time, a roller coaster wouldn’t kill you. Love, though, quickly had its hand around your throat and wouldn’t stop squeezing until one of you called time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The blue hospital curtains screech apart. Roz tries to count the ceiling tiles, but now they’re moving too fast. The porter stares down at her as he pushes the trolley. Corridors close in. Roz has never known tiredness like this. A heavy caul lies over her. She wants to curl up under it and never surface.
Machines beep and blare. “Baby’s heart rate is slowing. Mum’s is racing,” someone says. “We need to get her out, now.” Her heart is already pulling away from Heather’s; it can’t take its own beats.
Her mum runs next to her. “It’s going to be okay,” she says. But Roz can’t see how anything will be okay again.
* * *
Roz sat on her bed, trying to click away the memories. The mirrored cube multiplied the ceiling light and flashed it around the cabin. “I’m here right now. I’m safe and okay.”
Once the past had slunk back to its place behind the present, Roz took out her phone. She didn’t have God to turn to, all she had was Google. How long do cesareans take? she asked it. Other potential queries included consequences of preeclampsia? and chances of baby surviving birth six weeks early? Google, as ever, provided many conflicting answers. That was why people liked deities—at least they gave you definitives.
She was aware, though, that she was using the rhythm of the train as a kind of rosary, saying “Please let them live,” over and over, in time to it. Her own grandmother’s Catholicism coming through at a moment of crisis.
She held her phone in her hand, willing it to ring. When it did, she reacted so quickly that she fumbled the device. She could hear Ellie’s voice, low to the ground.
“Ellie?” she said, on the floor herself now. She gripped the phone, lifting it up. She wasn’t going to let go again.
“Heather’s out of surgery,” Ellie said. “They’re taking her to the Maternity Emergency Unit. She’s having seizures.”
Roz had read enough in the last hour to know this could lead to a stroke. “They’re going to give her magnesium, right?”
“Yes, straight away.”
Roz made herself say it: “What about the baby?”
“She’s not breathing well.” Roz could hear Ellie walking quickly along an echoing hospital corridor. Something on wheels rolled nearby. “I’m going with her to the neonatal ward, where they’ll put her in an incubator with oxygen.” Ellie paused. It sounded like she was the one fighting for breath. “She’s so small, Roz. Barely four pounds, and they said she’ll lose more weight. I can’t bear it.” Her voice was full of tears, as if they’d all gathered in her throat.
“Bearing it doesn’t mean not feeling pain. It means getting beyond it, in time. Adrenaline and love will see you through for now.”
“But if I go with the little one, I can’t be with Heather.”
“What did Heather say?” Roz said, knowing the answer.
“She said I should be with the baby.”
“Then you’re doing the right thing. And you’re all in the right place,” Roz said, feeling like one of those platitudinous baby books herself. She had to do better. “Look, love, this is going to be hard for you, I know. Incredibly. You now have two people to love. But hearts are like mozzarella: warm them up and they’ll stretch as far as they’re needed.”
Ellie laughed through the tears. “Trust you to use a cheese simile.”
“What can I say, I Camembert to be without one.” Roz heard the tears in her own voice now, could taste the salt running down her throat.
“We’re at the unit,” Ellie said. The wheels stopped and a door opened. “I have to go. I’ll send you the photos the midwife took.”
“Ellie,” Roz said, not wanting to let her go. “I just wanted to say, congratulations. You’re a mum. May you be a better one than me.”
Ellie ended the call. Roz called Heather’s phone but got the answerphone. “Ellie just called,” she said after the beep. “You, my wonderful daughter, have a daughter! You’re incredibly brave. Rest well and know that I love you. And get some of the hospital toast—the cliché that toast eaten post-childbirth is the best you’ll ever have is absolutely true.”
Roz was still on the floor, her back against the toilet door. There was nothing to do now but wait and repeat the prayer of the train: “Please let them live, please let them live, please let them live.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Meg had lost track of time. And Grant. He had slipped out for yet another vape break and not returned, but that must have been a while ago. Or was it? The club car was almost empty for the first time since they’d entered. Only she, Ember, and Liv remained. They were in the corner, sharing a packet of crisps.
“Where’s everyone gone?” Meg asked them.
Ember looked over to her. “Grant led the conga out, saying that there wasn’t enough room in here. Though the corridors are even smaller in the sleeping cars.”
“He’s probably knocking on doors, waking people up,” Meg replied. At the beginning of their relationship, she would have found this kind of behavior exciting, arousing even. She’d loved his spontaneity and cheek. She knew now that it wasn’t about “having a bit of fun” as he’d insisted. It was about Grant having an impact on people, for good and bad.
Meg felt so strange, as if her head were too big. The lights were too bright. The room wouldn’t stay still, even though she knew it wasn’t moving. But then she’d hit her head on the table when Grant let her go. Either that or she drank too much with too little in her stomach. She needed to pull herself together quickly, as she had to do another live stream soon. The fans were getting restless, demanding more. She had played for time by inviting an AMA—Ask Me Anything—and was trying to reply, but one question had left her unable to answer.
What would be your biggest achievement in life?
And she didn’t know. She didn’t even know what she wanted. At least now she wanted to know what she wanted.
Meg heard laughter and the raucous singing of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” in the next railcar. Grant’s voice was the loudest. She wondered who he was talking about…or singing to.
Beefy charged through the club-car doors. He stared back up the corridor toward the singing. “Back in here, everyone, and I’ll thank you to be quiet. This is a train for sleeping on, you know. You might consider doing that.” He then slumped into a booth and folded his arms, as the conga line returned to the club car.
Beck was at the front of the line, with Grant behind her, then Ayana. Aidan was next, looking as if he was having the time of his life, followed by a stumbling Sally, her eyes barely open, then Blake and Sam. The conga line’s movements blurred into one, a millipede of mullered people. Maybe she could get everyone to do a Christmas dance for TikTok, because this conga line would not make good viewing.
Beefy stared at Grant as if he wanted to throw him from the train. Meg didn’t blame him. Grant’s long legs kicked out of time, his singing was out of tune, and his arms were wrapped around Beck’s waist. Earlier, they’d seemed to loathe each other, but now she wouldn’t have been able to slip a piece of paper between them.
Meg felt the prickly heat of jealousy.
Ember and Liv walked over to Meg, dodging the weaving dancers, stepping over or around the raised legs.
Liv yawned and rubbed her eyes. She looked exhausted, her eyes shadowed, and younger, as if tiredness had stripped away a few years.
“I’m off to bed,” she said.
Ember gave Liv a little hug and watched as she exited the car. Meg felt another stab of envy, this time at how Ember and Liv had managed to become friends in such a short time. Meg hadn’t made real friends since leaving the sixth form. Fame brought fake friends.
“Shall we join in?” Ember asked her. She was holding out a hand and watching Meg carefully.
“Not sure I’m not in the mood,” Meg replied. Part of her yearned to join in, and she loved feeling wanted.
“You’d be doing me a favor. I don’t have the confidence to do it by myself.”
Meg sighed and nodded. She’d already had too much to drink, and not nearly enough to eat, but she swallowed the last of Ayana’s drink anyway. As she took Ember’s outstretched hand, she saw that the bruise on her own wrist was showing through the makeup.
Ember didn’t say anything, so she may not have seen it. Although she did give Meg’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Come on,” she said, as the conga reached the bar. The line broke for a moment, as it awkwardly turned to go back the other way, far too many people in a narrow space.
Tapping Beck on the shoulder, Ember said, “May I cut in?” As Beck looked around, confused, Ember took over at the front of the line, with Meg, then Grant behind her. Beck stood, glowering, as the conga took off again without her.
“Decided to join us, have you?” Grant leaned down and whispered. His breath was sour.
She nodded. “I wanted to be with you.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said, putting his arms fully around her waist and squeezing so tightly she could hardly breathe. She’d once dreamed about being held by him. The first thing she’d noticed about him was his arms. The carved-out chunk of them emerging from his sleeves. Their first date had been to a bowling alley. He’d got strike after strike, the pins not standing a chance. He’d then scooped her up in celebration at the end, making her feel small, light, and safe. Now she just felt small.
“Keep it to a dull roar, would you?” Beefy the steward said as he walked out of the club car. His face seemed to pulse and glow, like Christmas tree lights stuck on an annoying setting.
Grant let go of her and stepped out of the line, looking around. He then grinned at Ember and slipped back into the conga behind her.
Meg looked at her hands. They were gripped tightly together, nails pressing into her flesh. She let go, her fingers cramping. What was she doing? Perhaps Grant was right, and her jealousy was out of control. He thought it a symptom of her relationship with her dad. “You’re projecting his rejection of you onto me, darling,” he’d said to her after he’d been on the reality show Celebrity Therapy. Meg and Grant each went on several of those C-list celeb programs a year, from interior design to cooking to deep-sea diving. They helped to, as Grant put it, “build the brand and grow the cash stash.” Usually they forgot everything they’d picked up within a week, but Grant had actually learned a lot from that therapy show. He was really sweet for a while afterward but was still able to point out that she was invading his boundaries when she asked where he had been all night.
She should have been grateful for Grant and everything else she had—she’d learned that on Celebrity Ashram. She moved out of the conga line, hoping to make things up with him, to him. Then she saw Grant turn and bend his head close to Ember’s shoulder. He whispered in her ear and kissed her on the neck. He then placed his hand on her shoulder. Ember froze as if never wanting the moment to end. Of course she did. Why wouldn’t she? He’s Charming Grant! It would always be like this. He would never be happy with just Meg. She could see that now.
Meg felt as if she was rotting inside. The conga carried on, circling her. An unending train of faces laughing, gurning, turning toward her and away. Faces coupling and decoupling. She didn’t know what was real or unreal anymore.
She lurched forward as Grant passed her, grabbing his arm. He shook her away. She put her arms around his neck, and he just lifted her up and stood her on one of the triangular tables. She was small, but her head still touched the ceiling. Stooping, she placed a palm onto the window to steady herself. It felt cool under her hot fingertips, and she wanted to press herself naked against the glass.
The conga had broken into clumps of people, all dancing. They seemed far below her, undulating. Meg scanned the club car. Maybe she could go to Beefy for help. He seemed kind. But she couldn’t see him anywhere.
Meg felt the scream come out of her throat but didn’t hear it. Others seemed to though. They stopped undulating and stared at her. The scream kept coming, like a magician’s handkerchief. She didn’t know where it all came from. She felt frozen in place, a brittle figure on a wedding cake.
Grant approached her. He was a cartoon version of himself, his movements and speech coming out slowly. His face morphed in micro-moments between laughter, surprise, embarrassment, and rage. She knew she was humiliating him. The most dangerous thing she could do. Meg put a hand to her face to stop herself from laughing and found instead she was being sick. It poured through her spread fingers onto her shoes, the table, and the floor.
“You’re disgusting,” Grant whispered. Spittle glistened from his capped tooth to his filled lip.
Meg twisted away and placed her forehead against the cool window, bent over with shame. She stared at her reflection. Her reflection tried to smile back.
“Don’t you turn away from me.” He grabbed her hips and swiveled her around to face him, as if she were a broken ballerina in a music box. Everything whirled around her as she tried to get her balance. “You’re a joke. A fucking embarrassment.” His voice was so quiet she could hardly hear it, and he kept a loving smile on his face. Always performing for other people. Always hiding what he was in plain sight.
Something clicked inside her. She broke away from him, lurching off the table into Craig, who helped her down. “What were you doing, with her?” she said to Grant, pointing at Ember. “I saw you kiss her.”
Grant’s upper lip curled into a sneer. “You’re crazy. Now everyone will know it.”
Ember held up a hand, shaking her head. “He just said I looked and smelled nice.” She shrugged as if to say that was hardly a crime, and, hey, she did look and smell nice. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I promise.”
Meg laughed. She knew she sounded unhinged but found she didn’t care. “That’s the biggest cliché. Because if you know what I’m thinking, it’s probably true.”
“You’re drunk,” Grant said, “and God knows what else. You need to go away before you say or do something you regret.”
“Sounds a bit like a threat, mate,” Craig said, his accent thickening. “I’d back off if I were you.”
“Fuck off,” Grant said, pushing Craig away. “Don’t ‘mate’ me. I don’t even know you. You’re just an ugly old fucker trying to party with young people. What are you, some kind of pervert?”
“Why is everyone shouting?” Sally bellowed from her booth.
“You keep out of it too,” Grant snapped at her. “Think you can lecture me? Do your children usually see you off your face? ’Cos sure looks like they’re used to it. And if you think your husband has been faithful to you, you’re as stupid as your children.”
Aidan blinked, confused and hurt.
Meg knew how he felt. The world was tipping and it was all her fault. “Please, stop,” she screamed. “I can’t take it. I’ll go, then it’ll all be okay again.”
“Meg,” Ember was calling to her, but her voice sounded strange, as if she were underwater. “I can help you!” It was this that made the tears form, that someone wanted to rescue her. But Grant would think he had caused them, that he had won. Again.
Meg wouldn’t let him see her cry, not this time. She ran out of the club car, aware of the phone cameras turning her way. Her eyes stung as she stumbled down the corridor to their cabin. The train itself seemed to whisper to her: he doesn’t love you, he doesn’t love you, he never loved you.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Roz lay on her bed trying to read, but the words slipped through her head without her registering them. Minutes clicked by. The last message from Ellie was a while ago. Heather was being given magnesium sulphate for the seizures, and tablets to try to bring her blood pressure down. The baby, not yet named, was being fed formula through her nose and into her stomach.
Roz scrolled through her photos to the last one Ellie had sent. Her granddaughter, eyes yet to open, was bundled in blankets in an incubator. She looked so small, so unheld. Roz had to twist the mirrored cube to stay in the present, and not tumble into her past. She turned it along with her thoughts, feeling her own blood pressure decrease with each click. A plan formed as the room lights bounced off the reflected surfaces. She would go straight to the hospital and form a tag team with Ellie—one of them with the baby, the other with Heather, then switch. At night, she’d go to their flat, and cook protein-rich food—important, according to her recent, frantic research into severe preeclampsia—and bring it to Heather’s bed. Roz would be there to do skin-to-skin with the baby, again important for preemies (how she wished she didn’t know that was the name for premature babies), when Ellie was by Heather’s side.
