_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

When I reach the harbour, I turn left and walk around its edge towards
the stretch of beach along which I could walk, if I wanted to, all the way
back to Holkham. It’s almost dark now, and cold down by the water, but
I keep going. I want to walk until I’m exhausted, until I’m so tired I can’t
think, and maybe then I will be able to sleep.
The beach is deserted, and it’s so cold, I have to clench my jaw to stop
my teeth chattering. I walk quickly along the shingle, past the beach
huts, so pretty in daylight but now sinister, each one of them a hiding
place. When the wind picks up they come alive, their wooden boards
creaking against one another, and under the sound of the sea there are
murmurs of movement: someone or something, coming closer.
I turn back, I start to run.
I know there’s nothing out here, there’s nothing to be afraid of, but it
doesn’t stop the fear rising from my stomach to my chest and into my
throat. I run as fast as I can. I don’t stop until I’m back on the harbour, in
bright street light.
Back in my room I sit on my bed, sitting on my hands until they stop
shaking. I open the minibar and take out the bottled water and the
macadamia nuts. I leave the wine and the little bottles of gin, even
though they would help me sleep, even though they would let me slide,
warm and loose, into oblivion. Even though they would let me forget, for
a while, the look on his face when I turned back to watch him die.
The train had passed. I heard a noise behind me and saw Anna coming
out of the house. She walked quickly towards us and, reaching his side,
she fell to her knees and put her hands on his throat.
He had this look on his face of shock, of hurt. I wanted to say to her,
It’s no good, you won’t be able to help him now, but then I realized she
wasn’t trying to stop the bleeding. She was making sure. Twisting the
corkscrew in, farther and farther, ripping into his throat, and all the time
she was talking to him softly, softly. I couldn’t hear what she was saying.
The last time I saw her was in the police station, when they took us to
give our statements. She was led to one room and I to another, but just
before she parted, she touched my arm. “You take care of yourself,
Rachel,” she said, and there was something about the way she said it that
made it feel like a warning. We are tied together, forever bound by the
stories we told: that I had no choice but to stab him in the neck; that
Anna tried her best to save him.
I get into bed and turn the lights out. I won’t be able to sleep, but I
have to try. Eventually, I suppose, the nightmares will stop and I’ll stop
replaying it over and over and over in my head, but right now I know