By the time my train finally flashes up on the board, I feel as though I should be fluent in German. I’ve read almost the entire paper back to back, and I didn’t understand a word.
I make my way to the platform and board the train. I feel a bit of a wally walking on with a carrier bag when everyone else has suitcases or rucksacks, but my holdall is far too recognisable now to risk it being visible. I’ll buy a new one in Bratislava.
The train is far smarter and more comfortable than the ones I’m used to back in England. I’ve found that whenever I’ve been abroad, though, which is quite bizarre seeing as our railways are mostly owned by foreign European governments anyway. Everywhere else I go, the level of comfort and style always seems to be much higher, except for the metro system in Brussels, which seems to be made entirely of orange plastic.
Despite the fact it’s an overnight journey, this isn’t a sleeper train. That means it’s going to be a long five and a half hours trying to get to sleep in a chair while we bounce through Austria as I try not to get too paranoid about the people around me in the carriage. I’m not worried about passing strangers recognising me, but what if someone’s sat opposite me for a good few hours with a copy of the newspaper right in front of them?
Fortunately, there’s nobody sat anywhere near me until we stop almost two hours later at Salzburg, at which point an elderly lady plonks herself down across the aisle from me, facing in my direction. She beams a big, friendly smile at me. I think for a moment, then return an upturned corner of my mouth – so different from my usual smile that’d be in all the pictures that I’m actually pretty impressed with myself.
That’s the last time she even looks in my direction, as a couple of minutes later she seems to be fast asleep. At least, I hope she’s asleep. If she’s not, I’m convinced I’m some sort of walking death magnet.
The effect of the train swaying gently on the tracks as it trundles through Austria is deeply relaxing, but it’s not enabling me to sleep. I can’t. Not while I’m out here in an open carriage, potentially exposed to all sorts of threats. Even the windows worry me. Despite the fact that we’re hurtling along at God knows what speed, there’s always a worry in my mind about the blackness outside. There’s nothing to be seen save for a few distant lights, and a part of my brain tries to convince me of all sorts of things that can see in, even though I can’t see out.
It’s paranoia trying to creep in again.
I won’t let it.
Shortly before twelve thirty, we arrive at Vienna Central Station. I know it’s going to be tight to make the connecting train to Bratislava: it’s meant to leave at 00.50, and I don’t know which platform it’s from. As it’s an international train, it might be from a different building altogether.
I make sure I’m first off the train, then I jog along the platform until I see the information boards showing the trains due to leave and arrive. I see 00.50 BRATISLAVA on the board. It’s platform 9, the adjacent platform, and my ticket tells me I need to be boarding at the carriages A–C end.
The train’s already there, so I head for carriage C and show the ticket inspector my ticket. He waves me aboard and, thankfully, doesn’t ask me for my passport. All I’ve got is another hour and a half until I’m clear. If my luck continues to hold out like this, I’ll be alright. I’m certainly due a run of luck right about now, that’s for sure.
As I wait for the train to depart, I allow my brain to start mulling over the possibilities. How could someone have tracked us to a campsite in Switzerland? We drove all the way to Claude’s and changed cars, and there’s no way in hell anyone followed us there, as he lives in the middle of nowhere. There’s no way they’d be able to get anywhere near us without us seeing. Then we headed to Switzerland in an unknown car. If someone had followed us on that whole journey, we would have noticed. We were so careful.
So what was it? A tip-off? If so, from who? And how would they have been able to tip off the killer? If someone spotted us, recognised us and reported us, they’d call the police. And the police wouldn’t turn up and murder Jess; they’d arrest us.
All I can assume is that somehow someone is following me. Not one person, I’m sure of it. More. It’s the only way they’d be able to do it without being seen. It still doesn’t explain how they twigged about the switch at Claude’s place, but I’m sure I’ll figure that out, too. Unless . . . unless Claude was in on it. It makes no sense, though, especially as Jess trusted him so much. She might have been a perfect enigma, but she was a good judge of character. I knew that much. She spoke about Claude with such passion, almost like a mother protecting a child. If I trust Jess’s judgement, I have to trust that Claude couldn’t have been involved. That leaves me with some more thinking to do, then.
It also leaves me with the enormous worry as to why a whole group of organised criminals would be out to get me. Willing to kill Lisa. Willing to kill Jess. Willing to chase me halfway across Europe to see me terrorised and possibly even dead.
As the train starts to pull away from the station, I know that’s a question I must answer, and answer soon.
37
The train stops every few minutes. Far from being a direct service, I don’t think we’ve gone more than five minutes without a stop. It’s agonising, knowing we must be so close to Bratislava yet unable to get there any quicker. It’s even more irritating that no-one seems to get on or off the train at any of these stations. There are nineteen people in this carriage – I’ve counted them – but not one of them has got on or off since Vienna.
As the train pulls away from Gattendorf station (the fourteenth one we’ve stopped at in the past fifty minutes – I’ve been counting), I decide I need a change of scenery to stop me going insane. I pick up my bag and head for the toilet.
I don’t need to go – I just want to be able to sit somewhere, quietly, without stressing myself out. Some solitude, perhaps. The frequency of the stops isn’t helping my paranoia at all; I’m convincing myself that the next time the train stops, those doors are going to open and a police officer’s going to step on. Not that hiding in the toilet will make much difference, but at least I’ll feel safer, calmer.