_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

on my legs. I feel sick. I sit back down on the bed and put my head
between my knees, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. I get to my
feet, grab my dressing gown and open the bedroom door just a crack.
The flat is quiet. For some reason I am certain Cathy isn’t here. Did she
tell me that she was staying at Damien’s? I feel as though she did, though
I can’t remember when. Before I went out? Or did I speak to her later? I
walk as quietly as I can out into the hallway. I can see that Cathy’s
bedroom door is open. I peer into her room. Her bed is made. It’s
possible she has already got up and made it, but I don’t think she stayed
here last night, which is a source of some relief. If she isn’t here, she
didn’t see or hear me come in last night, which means that she doesn’t
know how bad I was. This shouldn’t matter, but it does: the sense of
shame I feel about an incident is proportionate not just to the gravity of
the situation, but also to the number of people who witnessed it.
At the top of the stairs I feel dizzy again and grip the banister tightly.
It is one of my great fears (along with bleeding into my belly when my
liver finally packs up) that I will fall down the stairs and break my neck.
Thinking about this makes me feel ill again. I want to lie down, but I
need to find my bag, check my phone. I at least need to know that I
haven’t lost my credit cards, I need to know who I called and when. My
handbag has been dumped in the hallway, just inside the front door. My
jeans and underwear sit next to it in a crumpled pile; I can smell the
urine from the bottom of the stairs. I grab my bag to look for my phone
—it’s in there, thank God, along with a bunch of scrunched-up twenties
and a bloodstained Kleenex. The nausea comes over me again, stronger
this time; I can taste the bile in the back of my throat and I run, but I
don’t make it to the bathroom, I vomit on the carpet halfway up the
stairs.
I have to lie down. If I don’t lie down, I’m going to pass out, I’m
going to fall. I’ll clean up later.
Upstairs, I plug in my phone and lie down on the bed. I raise my
limbs, gently, gingerly, to inspect them. There are bruises on my legs,
above the knees, standard drink-related stuff, the sort of bruises you get
from walking into things. My upper arms bear more worrying marks,
dark, oval impressions that look like fingerprints. This is not necessarily
sinister, I have had them before, usually from when I’ve fallen and
someone has helped me up. The crack on my head feels bad, but it could
be from something as innocuous as getting into a car. I might have taken
a taxi home.