A woman enters. Our eyes meet in the mirror. She’s middle-aged, wearing jeans and canvas shoes and a bulky sweater. Her lank hair has been dyed so often that her natural colour is a distant memory. She enters a cubicle and locks the door.
‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Can you lend us a tenner? My mum is real sick and I need to get to London.’
The woman doesn’t answer.
‘I lost my purse. I think someone stole it.’
‘I can’t help you,’ the woman says.
‘It’s only ten quid.’
‘How do I know you’re not a junkie?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t know that.’
‘Junkies don’t normally dress like me.’
‘You could be a hooker.’
‘If I was a hooker I wouldn’t need to borrow money.’
‘Oh, so you’re borrowing now.’
‘I’ll pay you back.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
She flushes the toilet. The cubicle door opens. This time she’s holding a can of something in her fist, pointing it at my face. ‘Come anywhere near me and you’ll get this,’ she says, waving the aerosol.
‘That’s deodorant,’ I say.
‘No, it’s pepper spray.’
‘I can read the brand name. It says Dove.’
Clutching a tote bag to her chest, the woman skirts the sinks, keeping her eyes on me. The zip of her jeans is still undone.
‘Are you going to wash your hands?’ I yell, but the woman has gone.
Back on the concourse, I approach the ticket office where a middle-aged man is putting new paper in a printer.
‘Won’t be a second, love,’ he says, snapping the lid shut and pressing a button to make the paper feed through a slot.
Short and thickset, he’s wearing a uniform that is so tight across his stomach that the fabric gapes between the buttons, showing his white singlet.
‘How can I help you?’
‘I need a ticket to London.’
‘Return?’
‘One way.’
He looks up at the screen. ‘There’s one leaving in ten minutes. I have three seats left.’
‘I’ll take one.’
He rings up the register. ‘That’ll be nine-fifty.’
‘I don’t have any money.’
He sighs rather than frowns.
‘I’m really good at telling when someone is lying,’ I say.
‘That’s a coincidence – so am I.’
‘No, I’m being serious. Test me.’
‘Get lost.’
‘Tell me something true or false and I’ll tell you if you’re lying.’
‘I’m not here to play games.’
I notice the drawer of the cash register is open. ‘Look at a banknote. Don’t show me. Tell me the last digit of the serial number. I’ll say if you’re lying or not.’
The clerk looks past me, wondering if this is some sort of scam. He picks up a ten-pound note.
‘What’s the last number?’ I ask.
‘Seven.’
‘That’s true. Try another.’
‘The first number is a zero.’
‘No.’
I grow more confident. ‘If I get the next two right – will you give me a ticket to London?’
The clerk doesn’t reply. He examines the note more carefully. ‘The fourth digit is a nine.’
‘Can you look at me when you say that?’
‘What?’
‘I need to see your face.’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘It’s not a nine,’ I say, feeling my chance slipping away.
He sighs heavily down his nostrils. ‘Step back from the window.’
‘What! No! I’m right.’
‘I think you had a friend come in earlier who gave me that tenner after you’d memorised the serial number.’
‘I don’t have a friend. Pick another note. Test me.’
‘Step away or I’ll call the police.’ He reaches for the phone.
I retreat angrily, as if robbed all over again. Finding an empty row of seats, I hug my knees, feeling the pain in my back where a boot must have landed. Cyrus will have called the police by now. They’ll be looking for me. I’ll be sent back to Langford Hall or some worse place. I should get away from the bus station. It’s one of the first places they’ll look.
‘Hello there,’ says a voice.
I brace myself, ready to run. A young man is grinning at me. He’s holding two cans of Coca-Cola. ‘I thought you looked thirsty.’ He holds one out to me.
I eye him warily, as he pops the lid of his can and drinks. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and looks like a tiny animal trapped in his throat. Tall and thin, he has mutton-chop sideburns that crawl down his cheeks but seem to run out of energy before they reach his chin.
‘I’m Felix,’ he says, belching quietly. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Not to me.’ He laughs, showing a chipped front tooth. ‘You could be Queen Nefertiti for all I care.’
‘Who?’
‘She was one of the most beautiful women who’s ever lived. An Egyptian queen. Married to a Pharaoh. That’s what Nefertiti means – a beautiful woman to come.’
‘How come you know so much about Egypt?’
‘A past life,’ Felix laughs. ‘Hey, you hungry? I know this place down the road that opens early for breakfast. They make proper French pastries, you know, pain aux raisins and pain au chocolat. One sniff and you’ll swear you were in Paris.’
‘I’ve never been to Paris.’
‘All the more reason . . .’
I open the can of drink. The cold liquid feels good sliding down my throat and the sugar charges through my veins, shaking exhaustion away. I spend a fraction too long gazing at Felix, wondering why he doesn’t look in the mirror and see the absurdity of his facial hair.
‘Can you lend me ten pounds? I need to get to London.’
‘Going to meet your boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Family?’
‘I don’t have any.’
This answer seems to please Felix. ‘I can’t just give you the money,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘But you could earn it.’
I look at him warily. ‘I’m not fucking you.’
‘Keep it down,’ he whispers, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Nobody said anything about fucking anyone.’
‘What do I have to do?’
‘Let’s discuss it over breakfast.’
‘I can’t afford breakfast.’
‘That’s OK. I’m buying.’
41
At some point I tumble into an exhausted sleep, full of shadowy dreams and images of Jodie Sheehan floating in a pond or lying half-naked in a clearing, surrounded by trees. My mind’s eye moves closer, zooming in from above, down through the branches, coming into focus until it settles on a face that belongs to a different girl.
I sit bolt upright, unable to draw breath; a scream is stuck in my throat. But I’m not awake. I’m dreaming of being in a dream. Evie is standing in front of me, by the side of the bed. I can almost touch her. She is holding a pack of cards, shuffling them, asking me to play a game.