The Girl On The Train - DropPDF
RIVERHEAD BOOKSPublished by the Penguin GroupPenguin Group (USA) LLC375 Hudson StreetNew York, New York 10014USA Canada UK Ireland Australia New Zealand India South Africa Chinapenguin.comA Penguin Random House CompanyCopyright 2015 by Paula HawkinsPenguin supports copyright. Copyright fuelscreativity, encourages diverse voices,promotes free speech, and creates a vibrantculture. Thank you for buying an authorizededition of this book and for complying withcopyright laws by not reproducing, scanning,
or distributing any part of it in any formwithout permission. You are supportingwriters and allowing Penguin to continue topublish books for every reader.Library of Congress Cataloging-inPublication DataHawkins, Paula.The girl on the train / Paula Hawkins.p. cm.ISBN 978-0-698-18539-51. Railroad travel—Fiction. 2. Commuters—Fiction. 3. Strangers—Fiction. 4. London(England)—Fiction. 5. Psychological fiction.I. Title.PR6108.A963G57 2015 2014027001823'.92—dc23This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,places, and incidents either are the product of
the author’s imagination or are usedfictitiously, and any resemblance to actualpersons, living or dead, businesses,companies, events, or locales is entirelycoincidental.Version 1
CONTENTSTitle LMEGANRACHELMEGAN
NARACHELANNARACHELMEGAN
MEGANRACHELMEGANRACHEL
ANNARACHELAcknowledgments
FOR KATE
She’s buried beneath a silverbirch tree, down towards theold train tracks, her gravemarked with a cairn. Notmore than a little pile ofstones, really. I didn’t want todraw attention to her restingplace, but I couldn’t leave herwithout remembrance. She’llsleep peacefully there, no oneto disturb her, no sounds but
birdsong and the rumble ofpassing trains.
One for sorrow, two for joy,three for a girl . . . Three for agirl. I’m stuck on three, I justcan’t get any further. Myhead is thick with sounds, mymouth thick with blood.Three for a girl. I can hear themagpies—they’re laughing,mocking me, a raucouscackling. A tiding. Badtidings. I can see them now,
black against the sun. Not thebirds, something else.Someone’s coming. Someoneis speaking to me. Now look.Now look what you made medo.
RACHEL FRIDAY, JULY 5, 2013MORNINGThere is a pile of clothing onthe side of the train tracks.Light-blue cloth—a shirt,
perhaps—jumbled up withsomething dirty white. It’sprobably rubbish, part of aload dumped into the scrubbylittle wood up the bank. Itcould have been left behindby the engineers who workthis part of the track, they’rehere often enough. Or it couldbe something else. Mymother used to tell me that Ihad an overactiveimagination; Tom said that,too. I can’t help it, I catch
sight of these discardedscraps, a dirty T-shirt or alonesome shoe, and all I canthink of is the other shoe andthe feet that fitted into them.The train jolts and scrapesand screeches back intomotion, the little pile ofclothes disappears from viewand we trundle on towardsLondon, moving at a briskjogger’s pace. Someone in theseat behind me gives a sigh ofhelpless irritation; the 8:04
slow train from Ashbury toEuston can test the patienceof the most seasonedcommuter. The journey issupposed to take fifty-fourminutes, but it rarely does:this section of the track isancient, decrepit, beset withsignalling problems andnever-ending engineeringworks.The train crawls along; itjudders past warehouses andwater towers, bridges and
sheds, past modest Victorianhouses, their backs turnedsquarely to the track.My head leaning againstthe carriage window, I watchthese houses roll past me likea tracking shot in a film. I seethem as others do not; eventheir owners probably don’tsee them from thisperspective. Twice a day, Iam offered a view into otherlives, just for a moment.There’s something
comforting about the sight ofstrangers safe at home.Someone’s phone isringing, an incongruouslyjoyful and upbeat song.They’re slow to answer, itjingles on and on around me.I can feel my fellowcommuters shift in their seats,rustle their newspapers, tap attheir computers. The trainlurches and sways around thebend, slowing as itapproaches a red signal. I try
not to look up, I try to readthe free newspaper I washanded on my way into thestation, but the words blur infront of my eyes, nothingholds my interest. In my headI can still see that little pile ofclothes lying at the edge ofthe track, abandoned.EVENINGThe premixed gin and tonicfizzes up over the lip of the
can as I bring it to my mouthand sip. Tangy and cold, thetaste of my first-ever holidaywith Tom, a fishing villageon the Basque coast in 2005.In the mornings we’d swimthe half mile to the littleisland in the bay, make loveon secret hidden beaches; inthe afternoons we’d sit at abar drinking strong, bitter ginand tonics, watching swarmsof beach footballers playingchaotic twenty-five-a-side
games on the low-tide sands.I take another sip, andanother; the can’s alreadyhalf empty, but it’s OK, Ihave three more in the plasticbag at my feet. It’s Friday, soI don’t have to feel guiltyabout drinking on the train.TGIF. The fun starts here.It’s going to be a lovelyweekend, that’s what they’retelling us. Beautiful sunshine,cloudless skies. In the olddays we might have driven to
Corly Wood with a picnic andthe papers, spent all afternoonlying on a blanket in dappledsunlight, drinking wine. Wemight have barbecued outback with friends, or gone tothe Rose and sat in the beergarden, faces flushing withsun and alcohol as theafternoon went on, weavinghome, arm in arm, fallingasleep on the sofa.Beautiful sunshine,cloudless skies, no one to
play with, nothing to do.Living like this, the way I’mliving at the moment, isharder in the summer whenthere is so much daylight, solittle cover of darkness, wheneveryone is out and about,being flagrantly, aggressivelyhappy. It’s exhausting, and itmakes you feel bad if you’renot joining in.The weekend stretches outahead of me, forty-eightempty hours to fill. I lift the
can to my mouth again, butthere’s not a drop left.MONDAY, JULY 8, 2013MORNINGIt’s a relief to be back on the8:04. It’s not that I can’t waitto get into London to start myweek—I don’t particularlywant to be in London at all. I
just want to lean back in thesoft, sagging velour seat, feelthe warmth of the sunshinestreaming through thewindow, feel the carriagerock back and forth and backand forth, the comfortingrhythm of wheels on tracks.I’d rather be here, looking outat the houses beside the track,than almost anywhere else.There’s a faulty signal onthis line, about halfwaythrough my journey. I assume
it must be faulty, in any case,because it’s almost alwaysred; we stop there most days,sometimes just for a fewseconds, sometimes forminutes on end. If I sit incarriage D, which I usuallydo, and the train stops at thissignal, which it almost alwaysdoes, I have a perfect viewinto my favourite tracksidehouse: number fifteen.Number fifteen is muchlike the other houses along
this stretch of track: aVictorian semi, two storeyshigh, overlooking a narrow,well-tended garden that runsaround twenty feet downtowards some fencing,beyond which lie a fewmetres of no-man’s-landbefore you get to the railwaytrack. I know this house byheart. I know every brick, Iknow the colour of thecurtains in the upstairsbedroom (beige, with a dark-
blue print), I know that thepaint is peeling off thebathroom window frame andthat there are four tilesmissing from a section of theroof over on the right-handside.I know that on warmsummer evenings, theoccupants of this house, Jasonand Jess, sometimes climbout of the large sash windowto sit on the makeshift terraceon top of the kitchen-
extension roof. They are aperfect, golden couple. He isdark-haired and well built,strong, protective, kind. Hehas a great laugh. She is oneof those tiny bird-women, abeauty, pale-skinned withblond hair cropped short. Shehas the bone structure to carrythat kind of thing off, sharpcheekbones dappled with asprinkling of freckles, a finejaw.While we’re stuck at the
red signal, I look for them.Jess is often out there in themornings, especially in thesummer, drinking her coffee.Sometimes, when I see herthere, I feel as though shesees me, too, I feel as thoughshe looks right back at me,and I want to wave. I’m tooself-conscious. I don’t seeJason quite so much, he’saway a lot with work. Buteven if they’re not there, Ithink about what they might
be up to. Maybe this morningthey’ve both got the day offand she’s lying in bed whilehe makes breakfast, or maybethey’ve gone for a runtogether, because that’s thesort of thing they do. (Tomand I used to run together onSundays, me going at slightlyabove my normal pace, himat about half his, just so wecould run side by side.)Maybe Jess is upstairs in thespare room, painting, or
maybe they’re in the showertogether, her hands pressedagainst the tiles, his hands onher hips.EVENINGTurning slightly towards thewindow, my back to the restof the carriage, I open one ofthe little bottles of CheninBlanc I purchased from theWhistlestop at Euston. It’snot cold, but it’ll do. I pour
some into a plastic cup, screwthe top back on and slip thebottle into my handbag. It’sless acceptable to drink on thetrain on a Monday, unlessyou’re drinking withcompany, which I am not.There are familiar faces onthese trains, people I seeevery week, going to and fro.I recognize them and theyprobably recognize me. Idon’t know whether they seeme, though, for what I really
am.It’s a glorious evening,warm but not too close, thesun starting its lazy descent,shadows lengthening and thelight just beginning to burnishthe trees with gold. The trainis rattling along, we whip pastJason and Jess’s place, theypass in a blur of eveningsunshine. Sometimes, notoften, I can see them fromthis side of the track. Ifthere’s no train going in the
opposite direction, and ifwe’re travelling slowlyenough, I can sometimescatch a glimpse of them outon their terrace. If not—liketoday—I can imagine them.Jess will be sitting with herfeet up on the table out on theterrace, a glass of wine in herhand, Jason standing behindher, his hands on hershoulders. I can imagine thefeel of his hands, the weightof them, reassuring and
protective. Sometimes I catchmyself trying to rememberthe last time I had meaningfulphysical contact with anotherperson, just a hug or aheartfelt squeeze of my hand,and my heart twitches.TUESDAY, JULY 9, 2013MORNING
The pile of clothes from lastweek is still there, and itlooks dustier and moreforlorn than it did a few daysago. I read somewhere that atrain can rip the clothes rightoff you when it hits. It’s notthat unusual, death by train.Two to three hundred a year,they say, so at least one everycouple of days. I’m not surehow many of those areaccidental. I look carefully, asthe train rolls slowly past, for
blood on the clothes, but Ican’t see any.The train stops at thesignal as usual. I can see Jessstanding on the patio in frontof the French doors. She’swearing a bright print dress,her feet are bare. She’slooking over her shoulder,back into the house; she’sprobably talking to Jason,who’ll be making breakfast. Ikeep my eyes fixed on Jess,on her home, as the train
starts to inch forward. I don’twant to see the other houses;I particularly don’t want tosee the one four doors down,the one that used to be mine.I lived at number twentythree Blenheim Road for fiveyears, blissfully happy andutterly wretched. I can’t lookat it now. That was my firsthome. Not my parents’ place,not a flatshare with otherstudents, my first home. Ican’t bear to look at it. Well, I
can, I do, I want to, I don’twant to, I try not to. Everyday I tell myself not to look,and every day I look. I can’thelp myself, even thoughthere is nothing I want to seethere, even though anything Ido see will hurt me. Eventhough I remember so clearlyhow it felt that time I lookedup and noticed that the creamlinen blind in the upstairsbedroom was gone, replacedby something in soft baby
pink; even though I stillremember the pain I felt whenI saw Anna watering therosebushes near the fence, herT-shirt stretched tight overher bulging belly, and I bitmy lip so hard, it bled.I close my eyes tightly andcount to ten, fifteen, twenty.There, it’s gone now, nothingto see. We roll into Witneystation and out again, thetrain starting to pick up paceas suburbia melts into grimy
North London, terracedhouses replaced by taggedbridges and empty buildingswith broken windows. Thecloser we get to Euston, themore anxious I feel; pressurebuilds; how will today be?There’s a filthy, low-slungconcrete building on theright-hand side of the trackabout five hundred metresbefore we get into Euston. Onits side, someone has painted:LIFE IS NOT A
PARAGRAPH. I think aboutthe bundle of clothes on theside of the track and I feel asthough my throat is closingup. Life is not a paragraph,and death is no parenthesis.EVENINGThe train I take in theevening, the 5:56, is slightlyslower than the morning one—it takes one hour and oneminute, a full seven minutes
longer than the morning traindespite not stopping at anyextra stations. I don’t mind,because just as I’m in nogreat hurry to get into Londonin the morning, I’m in nohurry to get back to Ashburyin the evening, either. Notjust because it’s Ashbury,although the place itself isbad enough, a 1960s newtown, spreading like a tumourover the heart ofBuckinghamshire. No better
or worse than a dozen othertowns like it, a centre filledwith cafés and mobile-phoneshops and branches of JDSports, surrounded by a bandof suburbia and beyond thatthe realm of the multiplexcinema and out-of-townTesco. I live in a smart(ish),new(ish) block situated at thepoint where the commercialheart of the place starts tobleed into the residentialoutskirts, but it is not my
home. My home is theVictorian semi on the tracks,the one I part-owned. InAshbury I am not ahomeowner, not even a tenant—I’m a lodger, occupant ofthe small second bedroom inCathy’s bland and inoffensiveduplex, subject to her graceand favour.Cathy and I were friends atuniversity. Half friends,really, we were never thatclose. She lived across the
hall from me in my first year,and we were both doing thesame course, so we werenatural allies in those firstfew daunting weeks, beforewe met people with whom wehad more in common. Wedidn’t see much of each otherafter the first year and barelyat all after college, except forthe occasional wedding. Butin my hour of need shehappened to have a spareroom going and it made
sense. I was so sure that itwould only be for a couple ofmonths, six at the most, and Ididn’t know what else to do.I’d never lived by myself, I’dgone from parents toflatmates to Tom, I found theidea overwhelming, so I saidyes. And that was nearly twoyears ago.It’s not awful. Cathy’s anice person, in a forceful sortof way. She makes you noticeher niceness. Her niceness is
writ large, it is her definingquality and she needs itacknowledged, often, dailyalmost, which can be tiring.But it’s not so bad, I canthink of worse traits in aflatmate. No, it’s not Cathy,it’s not even Ashbury thatbothers me most about mynew situation (I still think ofit as new, although it’s beentwo years). It’s the loss ofcontrol. In Cathy’s flat Ialways feel like a guest at the
very outer limit of herwelcome. I feel it in thekitchen, where we jostle forspace when cooking ourevening meals. I feel it whenI sit beside her on the sofa,the remote control firmlywithin her grasp. The onlyspace that feels like mine ismy tiny bedroom, into whicha double bed and a desk havebeen crammed, with barelyenough space to walkbetween them. It’s
comfortable enough, but itisn’t a place you want to be,so instead I linger in theliving room or at the kitchentable, ill at ease andpowerless. I have lost controlover everything, even theplaces in my head.WEDNESDAY, JULY 10, 2013MORNING
The heat is building. It’sbarely half past eight andalready the day is close, theair heavy with moisture. Icould wish for a storm, butthe sky is an insolent blank,pale, watery blue. I wipeaway the sweat on my top lip.I wish I’d remembered to buya bottle of water.I can’t see Jason and Jessthis morning, and my sense ofdisappointment is acute. Silly,I know. I scrutinize the house,
but there’s nothing to see.The curtains are opendownstairs but the Frenchdoors are closed, sunlightreflecting off the glass. Thesash window upstairs isclosed, too. Jason may beaway working. He’s a doctor,I think, probably for one ofthose overseas organizations.He’s constantly on call, a bagpacked on top of thewardrobe; there’s anearthquake in Iran or a
tsunami in Asia and he dropseverything, he grabs his bagand he’s at Heathrow within amatter of hours, ready to flyout and save lives.Jess, with her bold printsand her Converse trainers andher beauty, her attitude,works in the fashion industry.Or perhaps in the musicbusiness, or in advertising—she might be a stylist or aphotographer. She’s a goodpainter, too, plenty of artistic
flair. I can see her now, in thespare room upstairs, musicblaring, window open, abrush in her hand, anenormous canvas leaningagainst the wall. She’ll bethere until midnight; Jasonknows not to bother her whenshe’s working.I can’t really see her, ofcourse. I don’t know if shepaints, or whether Jason has agreat laugh, or whether Jesshas beautiful cheekbones. I
can’t see her bone structurefrom here and I’ve neverheard Jason’s voice. I’venever seen them up close,they didn’t live at that housewhen I lived down the road.They moved in after I left twoyears ago, I don’t know whenexactly. I suppose I startednoticing them about a yearago, and gradually, as themonths went past, theybecame important to me.I don’t know their names,
either, so I had to name themmyself. Jason, because he’shandsome in a British filmstar kind of way, not a Deppor a Pitt, but a Firth, or aJason Isaacs. And Jess justgoes with Jason, and it goeswith her. It fits her, pretty andcarefree as she is. They’re amatch, they’re a set. They’rehappy, I can tell. They’rewhat I used to be, they’reTom and me five years ago.They’re what I lost, they’re
everything I want to be.EVENINGMy shirt, uncomfortablytight, buttons straining acrossmy chest, is pit-stained, damppatches clammy beneath myarms. My eyes and throatitch. This evening I don’twant the journey to stretchout; I long to get home, toundress and get into theshower, to be where no one
can look at me.I look at the man in theseat opposite mine. He isabout my age, early tomidthirties, with dark hair,greying at the temples.Sallow skin. He’s wearing asuit, but he’s taken the jacketoff and slung it on the seatnext to him. He has aMacBook, paper-thin, open infront of him. He’s a slowtypist. He’s wearing a silverwatch with a large face on his
right wrist—it looksexpensive, a Breitling maybe.He’s chewing the inside ofhis cheek. Perhaps he’snervous. Or just thinkingdeeply. Writing an importantemail to a colleague at theoffice in New York, or acarefully worded break-upmessage to his girlfriend. Helooks up suddenly and meetsmy eye; his glance travelsover me, over the little bottleof wine on the table in front
of me. He looks away.There’s something about theset of his mouth that suggestsdistaste. He finds medistasteful.I am not the girl I used tobe. I am no longer desirable,I’m off-putting in some way.It’s not just that I’ve put onweight, or that my face ispuffy from the drinking andthe lack of sleep; it’s as ifpeople can see the damagewritten all over me, can see it
in my face, the way I holdmyself, the way I move.One night last week, whenI left my room to get myself aglass of water, I overheardCathy talking to Damien, herboyfr
Hawkins, Paula. The girl on the train / Paula Hawkins. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-698-18539-5 1. Railroad travel—Fiction. 2. Commuters— Fiction. 3. Strangers—Fiction. 4. London (England)—Fiction. 5. Psychological fiction. I. Title. PR6108.A963G57 2015 2014027001 823'.92—dc23 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents .
May 02, 2018 · D. Program Evaluation ͟The organization has provided a description of the framework for how each program will be evaluated. The framework should include all the elements below: ͟The evaluation methods are cost-effective for the organization ͟Quantitative and qualitative data is being collected (at Basics tier, data collection must have begun)
Silat is a combative art of self-defense and survival rooted from Matay archipelago. It was traced at thé early of Langkasuka Kingdom (2nd century CE) till thé reign of Melaka (Malaysia) Sultanate era (13th century). Silat has now evolved to become part of social culture and tradition with thé appearance of a fine physical and spiritual .
On an exceptional basis, Member States may request UNESCO to provide thé candidates with access to thé platform so they can complète thé form by themselves. Thèse requests must be addressed to esd rize unesco. or by 15 A ril 2021 UNESCO will provide thé nomineewith accessto thé platform via their émail address.
̶The leading indicator of employee engagement is based on the quality of the relationship between employee and supervisor Empower your managers! ̶Help them understand the impact on the organization ̶Share important changes, plan options, tasks, and deadlines ̶Provide key messages and talking points ̶Prepare them to answer employee questions
Dr. Sunita Bharatwal** Dr. Pawan Garga*** Abstract Customer satisfaction is derived from thè functionalities and values, a product or Service can provide. The current study aims to segregate thè dimensions of ordine Service quality and gather insights on its impact on web shopping. The trends of purchases have
and 3 Grades 3rd Graders Bridge to Girl Scout Juniors Girl Scout Juniors th4th thand 5 Grades 5 Graders Bridge to Girl Scout Cadettes Girl Scout Cadettes th th6 , 7th and 8 Grades 8th Graders Bridge to Girl Scout Seniors Girl Scout Seniors th 9 and 10 th Grades 10 Graders Bridge to Girl Scout Ambassadors Girl Scout Ambassadors th11 and 12th Grades 12th Graders Bridge to Adult Girl Scouting
Girl Scouts Great Plains Council Girl Scouts of Central Kansas, Inc. Girl Scouts of the Kaw Valley Council Girl Scouts of the Mid-Continent Council Girl Scouts of the Midland Empire Girl Scouts of the Ozark Area Council Girl Scouts of the USA Girl Scouts of the Wichita Area Council Girl Scouts Red Lands C
The Young-Girl as Phenomenon 23 2. The Young-Girl as Technique of the Self 48 3. The Young-Girl as Social Relation 62 4. The Young-Girl as Commodity 74 5. The Young-Girl as Living Currency 88 6. The Young-Girl as Compact Political Apparatus 97 7. The Young-Girl as War Machine 105 8. The Young-Girl Against Communism 114 9.
