I barely sleep, tossing and turning most of the night. I can’t stop thinking about Carrie. About everything that happened that night. That pig, Sergei. Hurting her. Well he can’t hurt her anymore, that’s for sure. And thanks to good old Ivan ‘not so terrible’ he is long gone. Carrie is, too, and I need to get her out of my head.
My phone is charging beside the bed, and I pick it up and go straight to Facebook. I was shocked when I realised that Carrie hadn’t been updating her page throughout the trip, but then when I thought about it, she hadn’t really been taking any photos either. It was as if she didn’t want people to know what she was up to. In fact, she barely seems to use Facebook at all. Most of her posts are ‘friends only’ so it’s just as well that she accepted my request that first night in Beijing. Thinking about it, she did say that she didn’t really use it much. I suppose it’s not that unusual; it’s just that I always enjoy keeping up with people on there. Not that I comment, or even like things. I suppose I could be called a lurker … but I’d say it’s more that I prefer to live vicariously. Or perhaps I am just a bit of a voyeur.
Carrie’s last post is from more than a month ago, a photo she’s been tagged in. A bunch of people in a pub, holding glasses aloft. Carrie is almost out of shot, not looking at the camera. She’s not someone who likes to be photographed, I think. Definitely not a selfie-taker. It’s a shame, as I’d love to look at more photos of her, but either I don’t have the level of access I need to see them, or there just aren’t any there. I don’t know why I expected any updates – I’ve seen this photo before, and I know that she hasn’t added anything since, but I’m still disappointed.
I type in Sam’s name and go to look at his page instead. As usual, there are several new posts since I last looked. I’m getting a little bored with all the party pics, and the mad-for-it status updates – not to mention the myriad of hangers-on, and the Botoxed females. Sometimes I look at these pictures and think how lucky I was to get a piece of him at all, even for a short while. I am definitely not like any of his other lovers.
I suppose that’s why it was never going to last.
Enough now.
I give myself a mental shake and climb out of bed. I know I should have a shower while I have the chance – I don’t even know where I’m going to be sleeping after I leave here – but I can’t be arsed. Most of my things are already packed, so I quickly throw on yesterday’s clothes and toss everything else into the rucksack. I do a final sweep of the room, making sure nothing’s been left behind, under the beds or in a drawer or some other stupid place that will end up incriminating me, then I grab one of the towels from the bathroom and begin the process of wiping everything down.
The blood might be gone, and I have Ivan to thank for a good job there – but I can’t actually remember him doing it. I assume I had passed out by then. I can’t trust him to have wiped down everything else that I might’ve touched, and besides, I’ve been in there another night. I bundle up the sheets and pull off the pillowcases and roll them all into a big ball, then I hitch my rucksack onto my back, and have one final glance around. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, and I’m not surprised to see that I look like complete shit. My eyes are bloodshot, red-rimmed and decorated with dark circles beneath. My hair is greasy and matted – I don’t even know when I last washed it. My skin is a disturbing shade of grey.
I look away from the mirror, not wanting to dwell on it anymore. I shove a hand into my shorts, making sure I still have the cash, and then I pick up the bundle of sheets and towels and slip out of the room. The maid’s trolley is at the end of the corridor, but she is nowhere to be seen. I toss my laundry into the cart, then jumble it around a bit with the other stuff in there. No one will know which room it came from – it will all get thrown into the washer together, and if there does come a time when the events that occurred in my room are investigated for some reason, I’ll be long gone.
I take the stairs instead of the lift, knowing that there’s no way the receptionist or the manager will be walking up them to try and corner me before I do a runner. I have the cash to pay now, but that makes it even more invigorating as I open the fire escape and head outside. I let Ivan in this way the other night, so I already knew that the door isn’t alarmed. I hurry down the alleyway, not looking back. I pause for a moment as I pass the dark stain on the ground, closing my eyes briefly – remembering what happened to Sergei. Then I blink it away, and carry on. I need to get away from here. The good thing is, there is no record of me being here at all. Another one of the benefits of sharing Carrie’s accommodation.
No one is looking for me, because they don’t even know that I exist.
It’s strange being on the train without Carrie. Even stranger not having a cabin, or a ticket, but as long as I keep moving I’m pretty sure I can get away with it. I just need to be careful at the station stops, make sure I avoid the guards. I walk up and down through the carriages until I find a luggage rack with some space at the end of the standard-class dining car. Perfect. I push my rucksack as far back as it will go, then cover it with a bright-red wheelie suitcase. It reminds me of some of the luggage on the first train, where Carrie was chatting to the tour group. That couple she befriended … Steve something. Street? Yes, Steve and Marion Street. The couple she planned for us to meet up with in Moscow. Well, that’s not going to be happening now. It was all so effortless for Carrie – the way she slid into the seat beside them, started charming them, making them laugh. I wasn’t interested then, but I might have to dig deep if I want to make it to Moscow without attracting any attention from the guards.
I’m sliding the red suitcase back into position when I realise that neither the main compartment, nor any of the pockets on the front or back, are locked. I smile to myself. Rookie mistake. Everyone knows you’re supposed to lock up all your zips when you leave your luggage on an unattended rack on a train. Especially in a strange country. Didn’t these people read the guidebook? I think about the long cable padlock that Carrie had, and I wish I’d bought one for myself. I didn’t before, but I have something in my bag that’s worth stealing now.
Glancing up and down the carriage to make sure that no one is going to come over and disturb me, I carefully unzip the pockets of the red suitcase one by one. Nothing much of interest in the front. But in the back one, I strike gold. A cardboard wallet, the kind you get in the travel agent’s when they hand over the currency you ordered. I open it, fully expecting it to be empty, or maybe with just a receipt inside, but no. There are several fresh, crisp notes.
Someone has been very irresponsible leaving them in this case like this – but I’m not going to hang around and wait for them to realise their mistake. I slide the notes out of the wallet, then put the wallet back inside. Then I pull my rucksack towards me again and open the top. I fiddle around inside until I find the zip for the secret pocket, and then I slide the notes in, zip it up and close the flap again. I push my rucksack back to the corner of the rack, leaving the red suitcase back in its original position. If they do come back, wondering where their money is – they’d never think to look in the bag next to it. I imagine a husband and wife arguing about which one of them was stupid enough to leave the wallet in the bag, and which one of them didn’t bother to put on the padlocks. Neither of them will ever know that their money is less than thirty centimetres away, but lost to them forever.
I’m humming a little tune to myself as I saunter off down the carriage and into the dining car. I realise now that Carrie was holding me back. My feelings for her clouded my judgement, dulled my senses. She made me weak, helpless – humbled by her sexy charms.
Well, not anymore. Because the real Violet is back.
The dining car is already nearly full, people chattering over maps and guidebooks, teas and beers. I stop at a table where two women in their sixties are pouring small bottles of tonic into tall glasses filled with ice and lemon. They look up when they see me standing there, and I give them my best, most vulnerable smile.
‘Do you mind if I join you, ladies? I don’t want to impose … it’s just, well … I’m traveling alone, and I was mugged last night.’ I pause to push out a tear, and I rub at my face, pressing my fists into my eyes, then I look back down at them, and they are looking up at me sympathetically, thinking, ‘This could be my daughter … this is someone’s daughter…’
‘Oh you poor thing,’ the one on the left says, eventually. ‘Please, sit down with us. What happened? Do you have any money at all?’ She slides her drink towards me. ‘Here, have this. I think you could use it more than me. I’ll get another.’ She turns, gesturing to the barman, and the other one lays a hand on top of mine, and I close my eyes, remembering. Soft hands, soft lips.
‘What’s your name, dear?’ the other one says.
I sniff, stifle a sob. ‘Thank you both, you’re so kind. I’m … I’m Carrie. My name is Carrie.’