24 Hours: An intense, suspenseful psychological thriller by Claire Seeber Page A

don’t think it occurred to me, in fact, because it never felt easy with him. It was more like trying to keep up. Trying to dodge forwards, one step in front of him, and guess which way he would go next. It was exhausting.
    But then, everything about Sid was difficult. That was what became addictive. And later, he admitted why he was attracted to me in the first place. Because I had dared, that first day, to run away.
    I should have kept on running.

20

NOW: HOUR 9
    5.00 PM

    T he train rattles through the dusk. Far away the sun, invisible all day, begins to set, bleeding into the sky, the clouds to my left stained vermillion, reminiscent of yesterday’s fiery heavens.
    I think of Sid’s work, the paintings that made him famous, a kneeling naked Mary holding her dying son in a desert beneath a clashing sunset, distraught. The idealised mother he had always felt would have saved him from himself; the mother who would never have abandoned him. So very far from his own experience. The other Mary licking the Son of God’s feet, sucking his toes, imbued with an eroticism and a bond it felt almost embarrassingly personal to share. When Sid suggested Magdalen for our daughter’s name, I’d already seen the sketches for this work. Blanching, I refused flatly.
    I push Sid firmly from my mind.
    Think, Laurie, think . Who else is out there? Who else can help?
    Normally I would find peace on long train journeys, but there is no peace to be had here. Every minute is torturous.
    I try to ring my own mother again but there is still no answer from her landline, and no life at all in the old phone to retrieve her mobile number, and as we sway between the high banks and the tall trees, the signal keeps cutting out anyway. The guard comes back the other way; thank God he doesn’t notice as I slink down in my seat. Across the aisle, an old lady pops paracetamol from a box, offered by her doughy-faced son. Like some kind of junkie I watch her gnarled hands on the pills, desperate to ask for some. I don’t dare. I don’t want to draw attention to myself.
    I listen to their conversation. They are talking about her hip operation, and how well it went. Then they move on to whether George will come and collect them, and whether he will arrive on time, which they doubt, because he’s always at least five minutes late, and will he have brushed the car seats down because the dogs are so dirty and moulting all the time, and smell, and it’s all such a pain.
    It’s so very normal in its mundanity, I am soothed by it.
    The Tannoy announces that we are nearing our next stop and the old lady and her son begin to clear away their clingfilm and their Tupperware; I am about to dial directory enquiries again to see if I can get a number for the Eurostar office when the train comes to a sudden juddering halt; brakes screeching, metal on metal, a hideous jarring sound.
    For a moment there is silence in the carriage and then chatter breaks out, spreading down the aisle with a sense of outrage.
    I stand up and move to the door to see what is happening, but all that’s visible in the gloom are a few cows mooching in the field beyond the hedge. Nothing more.
    Anxiety rises.
    ‘Typical,’ a low voice says behind me.
    It’s the tall boy from earlier; the boy with the rings in his face.
    ‘What do you think’s happened?’ I ask, peering out into nothing.
    He shrugs. ‘Sheep on the line, probably. Usually is.’
    ‘Perils of the countryside.’ But even as I make the innocuous remark, the despair wells up. ‘Oh God.’ I bite my lip so hard in an effort to quell my impatience that I taste blood. ‘I really need this train to keep going.’
    Laconically, he considers me. ‘Why so desperate?’
    ‘I’m not …’ I begin, and then I meet his eyes. In a hard, angular face, they are beautiful; deep-set, long, grey. Why lie? ‘I need to get to my daughter.’
    ‘Where is she?’
    ‘With my mother. Coming back from France.’
    ‘Is it?’ he shrugs