I knew what they had told me but i also knew you, and I couldnt believe them. I felt sure that when i opened the door, there you would be, tall and thin and not at all pleased to see. The room was empty. It had the feeling of a place just vacated, as though youd just slipped out and run downstairs to make a cup of coffee. As though youd be back any minute. I could still smell your perfume in the air, something rich and sweet and old-fashioned, like one of the ones Mum used to wear, Opium or Yvresse. I said your name softly, as if to conjure you up, like a devil.
M: The, girl on the, train by, paula, hawkins
Look again and mission you see its not just bridges, its beachy head, aokigahara forest, Preikestolen. The places where hopeless people go to end it all, cathedrals of despair. Opposite the entrance, images of the Drowning pool. Over and over and over, from every conceivable angle, every vantage point: pale and icy in winter, the cliff black and stark, or sparkling in the summer, an oasis, lush and green, or dull flinty grey with storm clouds overhead, over and over and over. The images blurred into one, a dizzying assault on the eye. I felt as though I were there, in that place, as though I were standing at the top of the cliff, looking down into the water, feeling festival that terrible thrill, the temptation of oblivion. You loved the mill house and the water and you were obsessed with those women, what they did and who they left behind. Did you really take it that far? Upstairs, i hesitated outside the master bedroom. My fingers on the door handle, i took a deep breath.
It flooded one year and everything was left coated in silt, as though the house were becoming part of the riverbed. I stepped into what had become your studio. It was filled with camera equipment, screens, standard lamps and light boxes, a book printer, papers and books and files piled up on the floor, filing cabinets ranged against the wall. And pictures, of course. Your photographs, covering every inch of the plaster. To the untrained eye, it might seem you were a fan of bridges: the golden Gate, the nanjing Yangtze river Bridge, the Prince Edward viaduct. Its not about the bridges, its not some love of these masterworks of engineering.
The plasterwork had been stripped back, exposing bare brick beneath, and the decor was all you: oriental carpets on the floor, heavy ebony furniture, big sofas and leather armchairs, and too many candles. And everywhere, the evidence of your obsessions: huge framed prints, millaiss. Ophelia, beautiful and serene, eyes and mouth open, flowers clutched in her hand. Triple hecate, goyas, witches Sabbath, his, drowning Dog. I hate that one most of all, the poor beast fighting to keep his head above a rising tide. I could hear a phone ringing, and it diary seemed to come from beneath the house. I followed the sound through the living room and down some steps— i think there used to be assignment a storeroom there, filled with junk.
I could find out for sure if I crawled underneath to search for the marks you and I left there, but just the thought of that made my pulse quicken. I remember the way it got the sun in the morning, and how if you sat on the left-hand side, facing the Aga, you got a view of the old bridge, perfectly framed. So beautiful, everyone remarked upon the view, but they didnt really see. They never opened the window and leaned out, they never looked down at the wheel, rotting where it stood, they never looked past the sunlight playing on the waters surface, they never saw what the water really was, greenish-black and filled with living things and. Out of the kitchen, into the hall, past the stairs, deeper into the house. I came across it so suddenly it threw me, the enormous windows giving out onto the river— into the river, almost, as though if you opened them, water would pour in over the wide wooden window seat running along beneath. All those summers, mum and I sitting on that window seat, propped up on pillows, feet up, toes almost touching, books on our knees. A plate of snacks somewhere, although she never touched them. I couldnt look at it; it made me heartsick and desperate, seeing it again like that.
The, girl on the, train (ebook) by, paula, hawkins
I could see you there still, sitting on the windowsill, feet dangling out. The policeman looked uncertain. He turned away from me and said something quietly into his radio before turning back. Yes, its all right. You can. I was blind walking up the steps, but I heard the water and I smelled the earth, the earth in the shadow of the house, underneath the trees, in the places untouched by sunlight, the acrid stink of rotting leaves, and the smell transported.
I pushed for the front door open, half expecting to hear my mothers voice calling out from the kitchen. Without thinking, i knew that Id have to shift the door with my hip, at paper the point where it sticks against the floor. I stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind me, my eyes struggling to focus in the gloom; I shivered at the sudden cold. In the kitchen, an oak table was pushed up under the window. It looked similar, but it couldnt be; the place had changed hands too many times between then and now.
I started the car and pulled back onto the road, drove over the bridge where the lane twists around. I watched for the turning— the first on the left? No, not that one, the second one. There it was, that old brown hulk of stone, the mill house. A prickle over my skin, cold and damp, my heart beating dangerously fast, i steered the car through the open gate and into the driveway. There was a man standing there, looking at his phone.
A policeman in uniform. He stepped smartly towards the car and I wound down the window. Im Jules, i said. Look— he glanced back at the house— theres no one here at the moment. Im not exactly sure where. He pulled the radio from his belt. I opened the door and stepped out. All right if I go into the house? I was looking up at the open window, what used to be your old room.
The, girl on the, train by paula hawkins - penguin books
I pulled over to the side of shredder the road and legs turned off the engine. There were the trees and the stone steps, green with moss and treacherous after the rain. My entire body goose-fleshed. I remembered this: freezing rain beating the tarmac, flashing blue lights vying with lightning to illuminate the river and the sky, clouds of breath in front of panicked faces, and a little boy, ghost-white and shaking, led up the steps to the road. She was clutching his hand and her eyes were wide and wild, her head twisting this way and that as she called out to someone. I can still feel what I felt that night, the terror and the fascination. I can still hear your words in my head: What would it be like? To watch your mother die?
back tears, blood on my thigh, laughter ringing in my ears. I can still hear. And underneath it all, the sound of rushing water. I was so deep into that water that I didnt realize id arrived. I was there, in the heart of the town; it came on me suddenly as though Id closed my eyes and been spirited to the place, and before i knew it I was driving slowly through narrow lanes lined with suvs, a blur of rose. I kept my eyes on the tarmac in front of me and tried not to look at the trees, at the river. Tried not to see, but couldnt help.
Picnics on the sandy bank by the pool, the taste of sunscreen on my tongue; catching fat brown fish in the sluggish, muddy water downstream from the mill. You coming home with blood streaming down your leg after you misjudged one of those jumps, biting down on a tea towel while dad cleaned the cut because you werent going to cry. Not in front. Mum, wearing a light-blue sundress, barefoot in the kitchen making porridge for breakfast, the soles of her thesis feet a dark rusty brown. Dad sitting on the riverbank, sketching. Later, when we were older, you in denim shorts with a bikini top under your Tshirt, sneaking out late to meet a boy. Not just any boy, the boy.
New trailer for The girl on the Train
Order us, order canada, order uk, the author that brought you the global phenomenon. The girl On The Train, returns with the addictive 1. New York times bestselling novel, into The water, now in paperback! Eligible for free shipping, summer reading, product Details. Isbn-13:, publisher: Penguin Publishing Group, publication date:, pages: 400, sales rank: 186. Product dimensions:.13(w).97(h).99(d read an Excerpt, why is it that I can recall so perfectly the things that happened to me when book I was eight years old, and yet trying to remember whether or not I spoke to my colleagues about. The things I want to remember I cant, and the things I try so hard to forget just keep coming. The nearer I got to beckford, the more undeniable it became, the past shooting out at me like sparrows from the hedgerow, startling and inescapable. All that lushness, that unbelievable green, the bright acid yellow of the gorse on the hill, it burned into my brain and brought with it a newsreel of memories: Dad carrying me, squealing and squirming with delight, into the water when I was four.