The Passenger by Daniel Hurst (ready to read books .TXT) 📗

him trying to raise money for a good cause. He looks to be around Louise’s age, but unlike most teenagers I know, he is actually doing something productive with his time.

‘Not right now,’ my harasser says, cutting the fundraiser off quickly.

‘Oh. Okay. How about you, miss? Could you spare a little change? It really is for a good cause. I’m raising funds for a new youth centre where youngsters who don’t have any support can go in the evenings after school. I actually spent a lot of time in one myself when I was growing up, but the council closed it down, unfortunately.’

‘I said no!’ the man says again, this time with more venom in his voice, and the fundraiser gets the message this time and goes to leave.

But I put a hand out to stop him because I don’t want him to leave yet, although it’s not because I feel bad for him.

It’s because he might be the distraction that I need to get my hands on that phone.

‘I can give you something,’ I say, reaching into my handbag and pulling out my purse. ‘I’ll give you twenty pounds if my friend here gives you something too. How does that sound?’

The fundraiser smiles. ‘That sounds very generous. Thank you!’

I smile at the young man and turn to the less pleasant one sitting at my table.

‘You heard me. Get your money out,’ I tell him as I unzip my purse.

‘We don’t have time for this,’ he replies, but I shrug my shoulders.

‘I’ve changed my mind about what we were talking about. Unless you donate too, I won’t give you what you want.’

I notice the puzzled look on the fundraiser’s face, but I ignore it and watch the man opposite.

Is he going to go along with this?

‘Fine, whatever,’ he says, and he reaches into his pocket to get his wallet out. But as he does, he puts his phone down on the table, and that is the chance I need.

Quick as a flash, I grab his device and leap up out of my seat, running down the carriage before he can grab hold of me.

‘Hey!’ he calls after me, and I turn back to see him pushing his way past the confused fundraiser and chasing after me. But I have a good head start on him, and I’m already at the doors to the next carriage.

I push the button, and they slide open automatically, allowing me to run through. I see a few people dotted around in their seats as I race past them, and it’s a little busier in this carriage than it was on mine. Fortunately, everybody is sitting down, so the aisle is free for me to move along.

I spot the sign for the toilets up ahead and keep going, praying that I can make it there and lock the door before he catches up with me. To find out if that is realistic, I turn around to see where he is and spot him coming through the doors behind me.

He is definitely closing on me. But I’m going to make it.

At least I am right up until the moment when I slip on something.

The sudden loss of my footing causes the phone to fly out of my hand and hit the floor of the carriage. I look behind me to see what caused my fall and spot the discarded newspaper lying in the aisle. I slipped on it, and several of the pages have scattered around, now lying on the floor around me.

Then I feel the hand on my shoulder.

It must be him.

He’s caught me.

Now it’s over.

But then I look up and see the concerned face of a middle-aged woman. It’s just a fellow passenger checking if I am okay and trying to help me back to my feet. He hasn’t caught up with me yet.

But he will any moment now.

I’m just about to climb back to my feet to retrieve the phone when I notice the photo on one of the pages of the newspaper. It’s a picture that accompanies one of the articles.

It’s a man I recognise.

It’s the man whose face I will never forget.

28

AMANDA

ONE MONTH EARLIER

My last date as an escort is almost over. Charles and I have enjoyed a lovely bottle of wine and some good conversation in this classy wine bar in West London, but now it’s time for the moment I’ve been nervously putting off.

I’m going to tell him that I won’t be seeing him again.

I feel bad because I know he will be disappointed. He clearly enjoys my company, even with the age difference between us, and we have found plenty of things in common during our dates. I assumed most men who paid for an escort without the promise of sex at the end were doing it because they were lonely and just needed somebody to talk to, and Charles is no different. But what does make him different from all the other men I have sat across the table from in places like this over the last few months is that he doesn’t have time on his side like they do. Those men are still young, and they will probably remarry. But Charles has made it clear that he doesn’t want to remarry after the loss of his wife and that if it weren’t for the service that the agency provides, he would be alone every night in his apartment with nothing but photos of the past to keep him company.

I don’t want to upset him, but I have to break the news to him myself; otherwise he will hear that I have left when he calls the agency again to arrange another date, and that’s not fair. I should be the one to tell him. That way we can say our proper goodbyes.

I take a large gulp of my red wine and prepare to get it over with.

Here we go.

But just before I speak, Charles reaches into his jacket pocket and removes an envelope