My heart rate starts to drop from the second I slide the lock across on the inside of the toilet door. It has an instant calming effect, and I’m thankful for small mercies. I run the cold tap and pool some water in my hands before splashing it onto my face. I do this a few times, enjoying the feel of the ice-cold water on my skin. The tap’s noisy, though, and I realise there’s no way I’ll be able to hear the station announcements from here with it running, so I turn it back off and sit with my head bowed over the sink, cold water dripping into the basin from my nose and chin.
I’m aware of the swooshing sound of the intercarriage doors opening at the far end of the carriage, and the voice of a man calling out. He says a few words, in a variety of foreign languages. French, German and something else I don’t recognise. But there are four words I definitely do recognise, because they’re English.
‘Tickets and passports, please!’
It takes me a couple of seconds to realise I’m doing it, but I’m holding my breath. I can hear his voice getting closer and closer every time he calls out. Something that sounds like German. Then the language I don’t recognise but presume to be Slovak. Then French. Then those unmistakable words yet again.
‘Tickets and passports, please!’
He’s now right up near my end of the carriage. Probably only a few seat rows away from the toilet. I can hear his appreciative murmuring as my fellow passengers show him their tickets. I wonder if any of them will point out the fact that there’s a guy in the toilet? I really hope not.
In England, ticket inspectors are pretty wise to the usual tricks: getting up and going to the toilet when the ticket inspector comes into your carriage, walking down the carriage and jumping off at the next stop before getting back on further up the train. They know all the methods. Right now, I’m just thankful that I got up and went to the toilet before he could even be seen.
All I can do now is hope and pray that he walks straight past the toilet. I certainly can’t risk having to show this guy my passport. The game will be up. Here. On a train somewhere between Austria and Slovakia.
My brain runs through a million thoughts in just a couple of seconds. Do we have an extradition treaty with Austria? What about Slovakia? Of course we do – we’re in the EU. Would I be put into a local jail or sent straight back to the UK? How would I get a lawyer? How on earth can I explain running away from the scenes of two murders? Will all this circumstantial evidence be enough to convict me? Who the hell’s doing this? Why? Why?
They’re all thoughts I’ve had over and over since finding Lisa’s body, but now they’re all coming at once, firing themselves into my consciousness, screaming and rattling around inside my skull. I can hear the blood pulsing in my ears, my heart trying to jump out of my mouth. My legs and arms trembling, filled with adrenaline.
What will I do if he knocks on the door? Do I ignore it? No. He’ll know I’m there. There’s a tiny window, but it’s got a grille over it and there’s no way I’d be able to squeeze out anyway.
I could open the door and jump him. Kick his head in. Get off at the next station and run. Judging by the current pattern, we can’t be more than about thirty seconds from the next stop.
No, I should just sit and wait it out. If I jump him, that’ll be game over. They’ll be out looking for me, and they’ll know exactly where I am. As things stand, no-one can be certain where I am. Even I’m not entirely sure.
I think about the recent migrant crisis in this part of Europe. Surely they’ll be even more vigilant with checking passports now? Hiding out in the toilets has to be a pretty common way for people to try smuggling themselves over borders. So many of the borders have already closed thanks to political pressure, and the ones that are open are far more hawk-eyed when it comes to checking passports and identities. I manage to comfort myself by remembering that the migrants are heading west through Europe, into Austria and Switzerland – not the other way. Might that make this guy less worried about checking everyone if he’s got to be super vigilant when the train’s going in the other direction? I hope so.
Only a few seconds have passed, and I can hear his voice right outside the toilet now. He’s on the back row of seats, not far from where I was sitting.
‘Tickets and passports, please!’
It sounds almost as if he’s calling it through the door to me. I look wide-eyed at the door lock, expecting to see it wiggle but willing it not to move. My heart is in my mouth and I realise I’m holding my breath again. My eyes start to mist up.
And then I hear the anti-climactic whooshing of the doors into the next carriage and the familiar but fading voice of the inspector.
‘Tickets and passports, please!’
38
The train pulls into Bratislava at almost exactly two o’clock in the morning. The station’s quite impressive, an odd mixture of old Eastern bloc and modern glass. My first thoughts on leaving the building are that I’m actually pretty disappointed. It looks just like any other town or city: bus stops, zebra crossings and what looks to be a shopping centre on the other side of the road, almost completely made from glass. I don’t recognise any of the brands, but I presume one of them to be a gym. Tatra Banka, presumably, is a bank. Other than that I haven’t a clue.
I turn left and walk a little further down the road, crossing over onto the shopping centre side of the road. At the end of the building is a familiar sign that leaves me chuckling: Tesco Express. My light chuckle becomes a chortle, then a belly laugh as I sit down on the brown brick steps outside the Tesco Express and let it all out.
I feel like a lunatic. It’s two in the morning, there’s no-one around, and I’m sitting outside a Tesco Express in Slovakia, laughing and crying at the same time. The pure bizarreness of the situation makes me laugh even more. I don’t know how long I’m sat there, but by the time the feeling has subsided my stomach hurts like hell, as does my face and the two muscles that run from the base of my skull down the back of my neck.
I look down at my bag and then up at my surroundings. And suddenly I realise this is all I’ve got in the world. This is now my home. I stand up, pick up my bag and start walking.
The overriding thought in my mind is that I need to find somewhere to sleep. I had tried to get some rest on the train, but it was just impossible. My worries about someone jumping on at the next stop or suddenly recognising me were starting to take over. There was just no way I’d have been able to keep my eyes closed for more than about five seconds. I feel even more tired from the travelling and the almost constant adrenaline rushes, not to mention the amount of walking I’ve done over the past few days.