_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

eyes on me; I just want to hide, to disappear. The train judders off, and in
seconds we’re pulling into Witney station and people start jostling one
another for position, folding newspapers and packing away tablets and e-
readers as they prepare to disembark. I look up again and am flooded
with relief—he’s turned away from me, he’s getting off the train.
It strikes me then that I’m being an idiot. I should get up and follow
him, talk to him. He can tell me what happened, or what didn’t happen;
he might be able to fill in some of the blanks at least. I get to my feet. I
hesitate—I know it’s already too late, the doors are about to close, I’m in
the middle of the carriage, I won’t be able to push my way through the
crowd in time. The doors beep and close. Still standing, I turn and look
out of the window as the train pulls away. He’s standing on the edge of
the platform in the rain, the man from Saturday night, watching me as I
go past.
The closer I get to home, the more irritated with myself I feel. I’m
almost tempted to change trains at Northcote, go back to Witney and
look for him. A ridiculous idea, obviously, and stupidly risky given that
Gaskill warned me to stay away from the area only yesterday. But I’m
feeling dispirited about ever recalling what happened on Saturday. A few
hours of (admittedly hardly exhaustive) Internet research this afternoon
confirmed what I suspected: hypnosis is not generally useful in retrieving
hours lost to blackout because, as my previous reading suggested, we do
not make memories during blackout. There is nothing to remember. It is,
will always be, a black hole in my timeline.