The Door To Love Is Beyond Your Deepest, Darkest Fear
If you haven’t the courage, it could cost you eternity
The draught from the far end of the platform was colder than the season deserved, even at this late hour. Only two weeks ago the Indian summer had finally faded into autumn; and while Katie’s hooded top was more than adequate to fend off the chill, still she shivered angrily.
Beside her in the bustle, a suited old gentleman observed to his wife, ‘they said it might be snowing in Paris.’ They smiled at each other, and Katie’s grimace deepened. Of course it’s going to snow. She had packed little more than she was already wearing, so she, personally, had ordained it.
But the weather could only reflect the bleakness of the whole trip. Katie’s French-Canadian mother and stepfather would be happy to see her, of course. At first. But soon the conversation would turn to her mediocre job, her social stagnation, and, inevitably, her solitude.
Not that she was actually alone, of course. But they would not acknowledge her girlfriend, not ever. Even if she reminded them herself, spitefully, they would wave the topic away with furious disdain; before continuing to cross-examine her about the virtues of all the men she had ever been foolish enough to mention.
And so the weekend would pass, the desolate pretence of family get-together. And then Katie would get back on the train and return to London, to her life, and to her girlfriend.
Her girlfriend, who had persuaded her to go in the first place. Her girlfriend, who she lived with, but who had become so distant that they barely even touched.
As she paused, waiting for the elderly couple to negotiate the train door, Katie let out a sigh of inward frustration; then flushed with shame as the lady glanced back at her. She hung her head, and paused a moment longer to allow another passenger to come between them. Somewhere inside lurked a dull throb of self-hatred, but it did not impinge on her thoughts, and by the time she moved onto the train they had already returned to endlessly replaying the foreshadow of her mother’s scorn.
She negotiated the aisle, buffeted by passengers noisily stowing luggage and arranging themselves. Some apologised cheerily; some accusingly, as if they were offended by her mouse-like attempts to stay out of the way. She counted down the seat numbers, checking redundantly against her ticket, her mind unable to cling to the meaning of the grainy text.
But when she raised her eyes the final time they were dragged suddenly and forcefully away from the seat number, and she had to fight to keep them from widening. Across the table from her reserved seat, was a beautiful girl.
She was engrossed in a magazine, permitting Katie a moment to gaze. Perfectly flowing golden-brown hair partly hid her face, one side loosely tucked over her ear. What Katie saw of that face was so arresting, she couldn’t breathe; but inevitably her eyes were also drawn to the elegant form beneath: a tight tie-die crop top left little to the imagination; and suddenly, as she reeled from the sight of naked, sculpted abdomen, Katie knew she had stared too long.
‘Salut,’ said the girl lightly, as Katie desperately thrust her gaze back to her own seat, and then glanced back guiltily to smile in response. ‘Hello,’ she said, and hurriedly busied herself with her bag. Oh please, she said to herself fervently, don’t talk to me. What could she possibly say to this vision, this dream? The French girl was out of her league, and besides, Katie was taken.
Taken. Katie felt her forced smile collapsing as she took her seat, studiously looking out of the window. There was no thought to form, just a familiar sadness which sloshed caustically through her. But would the girl notice her unease? Perhaps she would be moved to sympathy. Katie could not bring herself to regain eye contact, to risk making a fool of herself. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the girl turn back to her magazine, still smiling warmly.
Taking great care to arrange her trainers safely away from the half-glimpsed blue slip-ons beneath the table, Katie reached back and pulled her hood over her head, crossed her arms, and leaned aside on the headrest, staring fixedly but unseeingly out of the window.
But as her eyes cycled aimlessly through their focal range, she realised with a jolt that she could see, superimposed on some late-arriving passengers hurrying among the bright lights of the station, the reflection of the girl, who was now openly looking at her. She could not prevent herself reflexively returning the glance; at the contact the French girl leaned forward to speak, and Katie’s heart jumped.
‘Bonjour! filles. Aller à Paris? Il est excitant, non?’
Katie turned in surprise at the high-pitched nasal voice that had suddenly overwhelmed all else. A doughy older lady had arrived beside her, and was depositing a pile of gaudy and impractical bags onto the seat and table. Forgetting herself, Katie just gaped.
‘Oh! You are English?’ the lady ran on. Then, without pause, ‘I am in love with your city, London! You two are going to see Paris?’
Katie and the French girl had glanced at each other. She seemed to be suppressing a grin. Katie stumbled out: ‘Oh, we’re not together.’ She realised her mistake as the girl lifted her magazine a fraction, and Katie felt a tug of annoyance at having lost the game.
‘I was thinking you are sisters!’ exclaimed the lady, collapsing heavily into the seat, her bulk overflowing enough to press on Katie’s arm. ‘You are both très jolie. Is my English good? A-ha-ha.’ She tried smiling at the French girl but quickly returned to Katie, rebuffed by the other’s blunt absorption in her reading.
‘Are you students?’ The lady was twisted in her seat, the fingers of her right hand curled into the table almost in front of Katie.
‘I’m not,’ said Katie. ‘I’m a data analyst. I’m thirty-one,’ she added pointedly. A small part of her was relieved, but the rest was smarting at the missed opportunity to talk to the beautiful French girl. Even if she had dreaded it. And would have fluffed it.
‘Oh, but you look eighteen!’ rattled on the whining voice. ‘Alors, you should be a model!’
Right, thought Katie, suppressing a grimace. You too.
But no silent barb had the power to derail the lady’s chatter. As the train left St. Pancras into the early night and hummed through Stratford, the one-sided conversation just kept on rolling, taking Katie with it in a cocoon of quiet despair. She could see no escape. She sat smiling and trying with exquisite care to seem engaged, while dully hating herself for her cowardly politeness, for allowing the path of least resistance to lead her on.
When all she wanted, really wanted, was to kiss the French girl.
Inside, her imagination soared. That first eye contact had led to a stumbling, laughing attempt to talk: the girl’s English was just as non-existent as Katie’s French. But just when things had seemed hopeless, their fingers had chanced to touch. Electricity had crackled into fire; and the next moment, Katie was in the fourth, unoccupied seat, and they were kissing, golden brown hair cascading about their faces.
‘My dear, you are okay?’
Katie jumped in her seat, and smiled wanly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, wondering how she must have appeared while a million miles away. ‘I’m just tired.’
‘I buy you a drink,’ said the lady with maternal determination, throwing her arm out into the aisle to attract the attention of the nearby refreshments trolley attendant.
‘No, no,’ said Katie vigorously. Then, at the lady’s surprised glance, ‘That’s very kind.’ An idea suddenly came to her. ‘But I need the toilet.’ She pointed querulously over the lady’s bulk. ‘May I?’
Once in the aisle, Katie looked which way to go. The nearest illuminated WC sign was at the other end of the carriage, beyond the trolley; she even smiled to herself at the good fortune of being forced to go the wrong way. With a final glance at the French girl, now looking out at the ethereal lights from cars and homes blurring by in the darkness, she set out down the aisle towards the glass door at the near end.
As she passed the last line of seats there was a jolt, and she had to right herself against a seat back, thankful it had happened when she had something to grab onto. She heard a few mutters of annoyance, probably from those with drinks; and such a bump was indeed odd, now that she thought about it.
She raised her hand towards the door handle. At the same moment there was an almighty roar, and the unopened door came to meet her where she stood, crushing her body against it with unbelievable force.
Into Katie’s mind, with incredible clarity, despite her own pain and the screams of others, came an image of the heavy steel refreshments trolley.
She was on the grey-carpeted floor of the carriage, crumpled against the glass door.
Her body ached, both from the bruises of its collision with the door, and from the length of time she seemed to have spent in this awkward position. She groaned, and uncurled a little. Turning her head despite the protest of her neck and shoulders, she looked back, down the aisle.
There was no sign of the trolley, or of the attendant.
Her heart seemed to suddenly find itself and pounded hard, making her cough. What happened? Train crash?
But there were no sounds of panic or hurt, any more. Only the hum mingled with the muffled rush of air outside; normal sounds of a train passing through the night.
Did I daydream it? But why was she on the floor; why was she in pain?
Frightened, she turned herself into a sitting position against the door, her legs beside her. She could not see much beyond the backs of the nearest seats. On one side was a full luggage rack; on the other, a single empty seat beside a space for a wheelchair. She frowned. She was sure someone had been sitting in that seat.
A foreboding washed over her, as she painfully tried to come to her feet. And when she stood, and looked down the aisle, it grew into a tremor of panic.
There was no-one in the carriage.
Her breath was sucking and whimpering around the hand that had clamped, unbidden, to her mouth. She stumbled forward to where she had righted herself after the jolt, and looked in disbelief at the empty seats. But movement caught her eyes, and they were drawn to the blackness of the windows. She stood, paralysed for a moment in abject terror; and then she was screaming as she reeled backward, stumbling, falling back onto the grey, stained carpet.
The missing people were there, in the reflection of the windows, sitting calmly as though nothing were amiss, reading, eating, talking; but silent.
Her scream diminished to a keening whine as she crabbed backward towards the luggage rack and pressed herself into the corner. Her thoughts tumbled incoherently. This can’t be real. This is a nightmare. Or I’m dead. I’m dead! I was killed by the trolley. This is hell. I’m in hell.
Nothing happened; just the gentle rocking and thrum of the train in motion. Through tears of fright, Katie gazed around wide-eyed at the visible sphere of velour seat backs, luggage, door and wall. There was a small window behind the single seat opposite, pure black, reflecting the bags above her. She craned her neck, even lifted herself off the floor a little. What she saw made her whimper. She herself had no reflection.
As the quiet gradually eroded her panic she came to her feet again, though she was shivering uncontrollably. She had to do something. Stop the train. Get off. Wake up. Live.
In the corridor on the other side of the door she could see a green box on the wall with the caption ‘alert the driver’. The door swished open on demand, and she slipped through sideways, trying to keep the carriage in view. The box lid unlatched easily; inside was a green handle. She hesitated, but then yanked it down.
Nothing happened. She waited, breathing hard, cringing away from the nearby door to the outside world, whose window showed a perfect image of the empty corridor — and the unopened, untouched ‘alert the driver’ box.
She realised she was sweating, but she could not accept a moment of blindness taking off her hooded top. Instead, she cajoled herself into motion again, and shuffled around the corner towards the next carriage, keeping her back to the wall.
Through the next door she could see that it, too, was empty. And just glimpsed in the windows, were the heads of some of the people who would have been facing her.
For some minutes she stood, shivering and sweating, in a paralysis of fright and indecision. Perhaps she could get to the end of the train — reach the driver in person. But to do that, she would have to walk all the way through several haunted carriages. Her mouth was open; she licked her lips, moaning softly on each out-breath. She couldn’t. She couldn’t walk amongst all those people. Living people — her, the ghost, flitting invisibly beside them.
She held herself, gripped her arms tightly, until it hurt. She was real.
She had to escape. She stood forward, gasped a breath; and opened the door.
As she shuffled into the compartment, no-one in the reflections saw her. They were oblivious to her; some still seemed excited by the journey; most were just relaxing, as though nothing at all were amiss. Katie slowed to watch them, in rising fascination. The reflections in the blackness were good enough to see small details: eyes bumping along a line of text; the twitches of a hand making a point; a lopsided shrug to settle a body more comfortably in a seat.
Each person expressed much that was familiar, and much that was unique; and, yet, each was so whole, so complete, in their smiles and frowns, their gestures, their laughs, their drowsy fidgeting.
Not like her. A tear formed in Katie’s eye as she watched a little girl kneel on the seat to show her mother a drawing. She herself was dead now, dissociated from them; but really, it was no different to before. She had always been incomplete, a ghost of a person, washed downstream by the turbulence of life, but never taking charge, never making herself heard. To her mother — or to anyone else.
She moved on. The reflections showed that the occupant of the next seat was rather wider than the allotted space, and Katie took care to squeeze past the invisible frills and flesh without impinging on them. She glanced in the next window above the table to check she had succeeded; and stopped with a gasp.
It was the French lady she had been talking to. Opposite, looking bored and discomfited, the beautiful girl. And the emptiness of her own seat was like the serrated edge of a knife.
Katie glanced around, her heart hammering. She had gone to the next carriage, but here she was, back where she had started.
The real but empty seats around her; the people in the reflections; the unreachable beauty of the girl: in that moment it all collapsed in on her, and she was crying, and running, trainers thudding, body ricocheting from seat backs. When she reached the next carriage she slowed, squinting through her tears at each passing window: and there again, the little girl kneeling, the lady, the French girl.
‘Help,’ she whispered to the girl, watching her imploringly. She tried to shout, ‘Help!’ but her voice cracked. ‘Help me,’ she finished, whispering again.
The girl still looked perturbed. She glanced at Katie’s seat, then lithely twisted away to look down the reflected aisle in the direction Katie had gone.
Katie’s heart thudded. ‘I’m here,’ she said, reaching out with one hand as the girl settled back down. ‘Look this way,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m here.’
But the girl seemed to have given up. She was leaning forward, her arm under the table to reach her shoes; then she turned again, lifting her bare feet up onto the seat beside her. She hugged her knees and rested her head sideways against the seat, her back to Katie’s tears of anguish.
‘No,’ whispered Katie. ‘No, I’m here. I’m here.’
Her legs seemed to collapse under her, and she found herself on the floor pressed against the hard plastic of the seat opposite, curled up like the French girl, but sobbing uncontrollably.
It may have been minutes or hours later, when Katie came round. Her body still ached, but it was the heat that had finally broken into her cocoon of misery. She was sweating; and it could not still simply be because of her own exertions. The carriage no longer had the manufactured neutral coolness of the air conditioning; instead, it was uncomfortably warm.
She looked up, the skin of her face tight around dried lines of tears and sweat. From this low angle she could only glimpse the hair of the girl, still with her back to the window; but it was the background that claimed her attention. No longer the blackness of a cloudy night or a tunnel; there was a dim but unmistakable red glow there, as though the train was descending into the depths of the earth.
The image made her whimper. I’m going to hell, she thought. I’m going to burn.
Desperation caught hold of her, and she stood, looking around as if the empty seats could inspire her with a means of escape. The people in the red-backed reflections were still there, unchanged and unconcerned.
She made her way once more to the end of the carriage. Beyond the door was the ‘alert the driver’ handle, standing incongruously proud of its open box as she had left it. To the right another box, glass-fronted with a red case, contained an ineffectual-looking hammer.
Could she climb out from a train hurtling down a tunnel of magma? She didn’t care. She had to do something. She thumped her elbow against the glass, not hard enough. She leaned against the wall opposite and drove her trainer at it. It smashed with a crunch. The hammer inside detached from its plastic clips easily as her fingers groped at it.
She took a step to the door, and awkwardly drove the pointed head of the hammer at the glass of its window, gritting her teeth against the image of the empty corridor in the reflection.
The steel head struck with an unsatisfying, dull click. The glass was unmarked.
Breathing hard, Katie tried twice more, but the hammer had no effect whatsoever.
‘Fuck!’ she cried vehemently, looking around again. Perhaps another window? She made her way back into the carriage. She could not bear to climb onto a seat that was occupied in reflection; instead she crawled onto a table, swung at the glass angrily.
Again the useless click, and again her curse. She lost all control in her fury and began to work her way down the carriage, trying the hammer against every window she could reach without touching the people, who continued their journey, blind and deaf to her desperate shadow. When she reached her own table she paused, but then clambered onto it doggedly to attack the window beyond.
She was barking curses now, panic enfolding her as she repeatedly attacked the uncaring crystal, her knuckles sometimes thudding painfully against it as her wrist became tired. The final time she lost her grip, and the hammer bounced beside her on the table, and then toppled to the floor. Then she was slapping the glass with her palm, sobbing and shouting.
Finally, she wound down like a clockwork toy, her forehead resting beside her reddened palm on the warm glass, her eyes screwed shut against the tears.
But then something made her open them, a premonition, a connection, felt but not seen.
There was another hand beside hers, pressing onto the glass from the other side.
And staring at Katie, wide-eyed and achingly beautiful: the French girl.
For a moment Katie was paralysed. The girl’s lips were moving: she was speaking, but Katie could not hear any words, nor could she respond in her amazement. The girl seemed to recognise that she could not be heard, and slapped her palm on the window deliberately. Katie had barely the presence of mind to reciprocate, but when she did, the French girl beamed in wonder.
A gush of laughter suddenly burst from Katie’s violently abused throat. It did not seem to matter that she was still trapped. She had touched someone, and that was a joy to her.
The girl was now exclaiming, to the garrulous old lady, and also to the people opposite; pointing at Katie’s empty seat and to the window. But by their expressions, it was clear that they could not see her themselves. And with brutal inevitability, one by one they began to be embarrassed. The lady frowned through her soft features. When the girl motioned her vigorously to stand and look closer, she adjusted herself in her seat and looked aside.
Familiar shame reared up in Katie’s mind. She was causing this beautiful girl, this angel, to make a fool of herself. Even if the girl herself seemed only amazed, and not at all ashamed, nevertheless Katie automatically rocked back on her heels and pulled away from the window.
The effect was immediate. The girl’s eyes lost her, and she brought her face close to the window, trying to see. But when Katie experimentally reached her palm to the glass once more, the girl jumped in surprise and their eyes re-connected.
Katie drew a sleeve across her own face to soak away some of the sweat and tears. Then she mouthed, slowly, ‘Help me.’ And — ‘M’aider. Please.’
The girl’s face was a picture of concern and wonder. She looked over her shoulder, then changed her open palm to a single upraised finger. She said something that must have been ‘Attend,’ and then she was leaping away over the seat beside her, into the aisle. The old lady and the passengers opposite watched her out of the corners of their eyes.
Katie did not dare remove her hand again, but her knees were bruising on the hard table-top. She could just make out that the girl had disappeared through the door at the end of the carriage, so she shifted position tentatively; then, on a whim, she twisted and dropped herself gingerly into her own seat, crushing herself against the outside to save touching the invisible old lady beside her. Then, her palm still pressed against the glass, she craned her neck to watch in the reflection for the return of the French girl.
Before long, there she was, almost dragging a Eurostar staff member behind her. She could obviously see Katie even from the aisle, and her amazed smile made Katie’s heart leap. She pointed, speaking quickly.
The grey-suited staff member had appeared encouragingly neutral to begin with — perhaps French was his second language, and he was giving the girl the benefit of the doubt about the incredible tale she must have told him — but now he frowned in confused annoyance as he squinted at the window, obviously unable to see Katie himself.
The girl was becoming ever more animated, stabbing her finger alternately at Katie’s seat and its empty reflection. And, like the moving of weight from one side of a balance to the other, the man grew commensurately more exasperated. Finally he raised his hand, and said something sharp enough to make the French girl’s eyes narrow with anger.
The window was growing hot to Katie’s skin, the discomfort mingling with the shame she felt on the girl’s behalf. Slowly, slowly, her desperation for escape was being overcome. Her palm lifted from the glass, leaving only her fingertips connecting her to the red-backed reflections. The conflict in her mind was making her whimper.
And yet, it felt so familiar.
Katie shrunk back even further into her seat. She was invisible. She had always been invisible. And when people saw her — saw the real her, saw what others could not see — she hurt them.
The girl had turned her attention back to Katie, dismissing the attendant by ignoring him. She seemed to detect Katie’s withdrawal, concern making her eyes all the more beautiful. She slid back towards her seat, but remained standing, and her hand pressed to the glass beside Katie’s fingers. Her lips were moving. Katie could not help but watch them: shorn of words, they became a source of sensuous wonder.
Somehow the impregnable glass was nullifying Katie’s ingrained shyness, and she found herself watching the French girl with unashamed desire. A part of her mind was shocked that she should think of intimacy in such grave circumstances, but the sentiment was quashed as her crush on the girl took violent hold, and shook her to the core.
She was leaning forward; she was reaching out. The girl had stopped talking. A fleeting quizzical look had passed over her face, but now she seemed to understand. Her one hand was still pressed to the glass, but her other came to her heart. She nodded fractionally, then cupped her palm and extended it towards Katie.
Katie’s own heart soared. In this strange extremity she found that all shackles had fallen from her, and it was as though she could love for the first time. And to find that love reciprocated was like finding she could fly.
Her mouth had opened, and she whispered, ‘Be with me.’
The girl’s lips shaped the unmistakable, ‘Oui.’
Katie was overwhelmed, she was laughing, she was crying. Suddenly, she wanted to live. She tore off her hooded top, and though the heat had not lessened, her body exulted to be free of its damp heaviness. She stood, laid both hands on the window. She wanted to live. She wanted to love. She wanted to kiss the angel beyond the glass, to hold her, to love her.
It did not even seem to matter that they could not touch. The girl blew her a kiss, and it was as though their lips had really brushed together, for the first time, and Katie’s eyes blinked as she received it. The girl said something: perhaps, ‘Bisous,’ though Katie did not know what it meant. She tried repeating it back, the unfamiliar syllables like a caress on her tongue.
For a moment they watched each other, both awed by their unexpected tenderness. Katie felt desire pouring down into her loins, pooling there. She was astonished, but could do nothing to stem the flow. Her eyes trailed, unbidden, over the French girl’s cheeks and chin; the smooth skin of her neck faintly creased across; the wide set of her shoulders at odds with the delicate narrowness of her arms and torso; the soft press of her breasts against the fabric that encompassed them; and then, oh! her long, long, naked abdomen.
Katie found herself pressing forward, so that her thighs thrust painfully against the edge of the table. She had brought one hand to her chest, and she felt the heaviness of her breast on her forearm. Her mouth hung slightly open around her rushing breath as she watched the French girl’s face: there she read warmth, acceptance, and desire.
The girl had returned her own hand to her chest, as if to mirror Katie. And just at that moment, the train jolted against the tracks, tipping them both towards the window, both of their arms flexing to maintain their balance.
Katie heart thumped painfully as she remembered the last time; and the hand she had pushed so gently against herself fled to the table top to brace against what might come next. Within the same second the thought occurred to her that the jolt might this time herald a return to reality; but also, her eyes were distracted to the faces of the passengers opposite.
Ostensibly, there was nothing remarkable about them: but the hard set of their lips and the deliberate focus of their eyes showed that they were studiously ignoring the behaviour of the French girl at the window. And that was enough. Enough to smash to pieces Katie’s arousal, her desire, even her love, more completely than another catastrophic impact like the one that had brought her here.
The girl saw her sudden discomfiture, but misread the cause, and with a look of desperate compassion she lifted her hand and punched the window with the side of her fist, hard, as if trying to break through.
Katie cringed. ‘No,’ she said quietly, willing the girl to stop.
The people were glancing at the girl again. She was miming something now, pointing to herself and away down the carriage, then rocking her wrist towards the window as if bringing something to bear on the glass.
Katie’s blood ran cold. She beseeched the girl with her eyes. ‘No, don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Please, don’t.’
The girl’s mouth was moving; she was nodding, she was drawing away. She seemed to be reassuring Katie that she would return.
With the hammer.
Panic seized Katie; of an entirely different kind to before, when she had found herself in this empty, parallel world. Now came the old, familiar panic, of making a scene, of not fitting in, and most of all of denying someone else their normality — and for her sake!
With a gasp, she pulled her hand away from the glass.
She watched through her tears as the French girl’s eyes widened, then, losing focus, began to hunt for the vanished image. She turned fully back to the window, leaned against it with both hands. She was speaking, calling.
Katie stood for a moment, fighting to control her sobs. But she had trodden this path many times. It was familiar to her feet. She was safe, now, in the empty carriage. Where she belonged. Alone.
She slumped back into her seat; drew her feet up in front of her, hugging her knees. And closed her eyes.
When she opened them, it was so hot in the carriage that she could barely breathe. She immediately noticed movement: some of the passengers in the reflection were standing up, fetching down bags from overhead, packing up books and tablets.
The girl opposite was sitting in her seat, the fingertips of one hand still loosely touching the glass, her eyes looking listlessly through it but focussed into the distance. She looked as though she had been crying.
Katie’s body ached with the heat, but she accepted it. She deserved to die. She always had, anyway. To burn was her birthright, the fate she had learned from her mother but had chosen for herself. She watched the remnants of her pitiful selfishness play themselves out on her latest, and last, victim, the beautiful French girl: who even now waited for her to re-appear, even though the train had stopped, and the people were disembarking.
The ghostly people filed away with surprising speed, until only the two girls remained. Katie willed the French girl to get up, to return to her life, to find, or return to, her own, real, love. But she did not move; even when a train attendant came, and touched her shoulder mechanically as if she were asleep. ‘Nous sommes arrivés,’ he was saying, clearly, and not unkindly.
She glanced at him. He smiled, and inclined his head to the exit. She seemed poised to begin an argument. But then her eyes dropped, and she nodded.
Katie’s breath sighed out; but her heart was pounding, as though it could not condone her inaction. The girl stood, looked one last time in the glass, then pressed her forehead against it and used her outstretched fingers to transfer a kiss from her lips to the uncaring crystal. Then she turned away.
Suddenly, Katie wanted to scream. The conflict within her was a conflagration, flames streaming up to an uncaring sky. She watched the girl move into the aisle without a backward glance.
At last, something crumbled. Katie’s hand flew up, pressed against the scalding glass. She was crying out. The girl did not hear her, did not look back. Katie scrambled onto her feet and out from between seats and table, ricocheting off the seats opposite, her eyes on the reflection of the girl’s receding back.
She caught a glimpse of the girl in the glass door at the end of the carriage, ran towards it. They both reached it at the same moment, and Katie’s palm slapped onto it.
The French girl’s eyes shot wide in surprise and recognition.
The door slid open. The reflection was lost.
‘No!’ Katie screamed, collapsing to her knees before the opening.
A moment later, the door slid shut again, and all Katie could see was her own face, eyes red with tears and pain.
Behind her, in the windows of the empty carriage, snow was falling in Paris.
Hi! I’m Cody Kmochova, and I write fantasies — often with an erotic core. Why not try this for your next read:
