The Passenger

by Daniel Hurst

  This is all my fault. Louise would have been counting on me to save her, and I’ve let her down because I thought there was a way out of this that wouldn’t involve me giving up the code to that safe. But I was a fool for thinking like that. No matter what I have done in my past and what secrets I am trying to keep hidden, these men are clearly more dangerous than me.

  ‘Okay, I’ll give you the code,’ I say, feeling utterly defeated.

  ‘Finally,’ he replies, and he holds his phone in anticipation to send the sequence of numbers that I am about to give him.

  I take a deep breath and go for it. ‘It’s 257—’

  ‘Good evening. Sorry to trouble you both, but I’m raising money for disadvantaged youths in Brighton, and I was wondering if you would be so kind as to donate? It’s a very good cause, and we have helped hundreds of youngsters so far, including many young children who are—’

  I look at the young man standing by our table in his bright yellow bib with a white bucket in hand, and even in my distressed state, I feel touched to see someone like 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 from inside. Then he slides it across the table towards me.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, not wanting to pick it up yet because whatever it is, it surely can’t help make what I am about to do any easier.

  ‘Open it,’ Charles says with his charming smile, and I do as he says as he takes another glug of his wine.

  I reach into the envelope and pull out two tickets. Turning them over, I see they are for a performance of Chicago at a theatre in Covent Garden.

  ‘Your favourite show,’ Charles says, placing his wine glass carefully back down on the table. ‘I thought we could go for our next date. There’s a performance next Tuesday. I checked with the agency beforehand, and they said you were free.’

  It’s a thoughtful gesture, and I’m touched by the generosity, as well as the fact that he remembered my favourite show from our discussion a few weeks ago, but this isn’t helping me say goodbye.

  ‘Thank you, Charles. This is very kind,’ I say, sliding the tickets back into the envelope. ‘But I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline. I’m so sorry.’

  I see the disappointment on Charles’s face instantly, and I feel terrible. Why couldn’t my last date as an escort be with some sexist pig who drinks too much and chews food with his mouth open? Instead, it’s with one of the most charming, friendly and sensitive men I have ever met.

  They certainly don’t make them like Charles anymore, that’s for sure.

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity,’ he says, lowering his eyes to the tablecloth. �
�Have I made a mistake?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ I quickly reply, reaching out and gently resting my hand on his own on the table.

  I know the people at the agency advised against any physical contact during dates in case it gave the wrong impression, but I’m making an exception for Charles because he is so sweet, and I don’t want him to feel like I don’t care about his feelings. He looks like he could burst into tears at any moment, and that would kill me.

  ‘It’s just that I’m not going to be available anymore for these dates,’ I tell him. ‘I’m leaving the agency. I’m going to have a go at being a writer full time. Like I discussed, remember?’

  I hope that adding in the part about me pursuing my dream will soften the blow for him and lead to him being excited for me rather than just feeling sorry for himself. That way we can both toast to our future endeavours and then be on our way. But the look on Charles’s face lets me know that he isn’t excited.

  He is crushed.

  He removes his hand from under mine and picks up the envelope before tucking it back into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, genuinely worried.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he tells me as he checks his watch. ‘It’s almost nine. You can leave if you like.’

  I know he is telling me that because nine o’clock is the time when our date is scheduled to end, and he presumably thinks I just want to get home and get on with what I’d rather be doing. But he’s wrong. I enjoy our dates together, even though they are a business transaction, and that is evidenced by the fact that I didn’t realise it was late already. The time we spent chatting has just flown by. Then I’m reminded that we did start the date a little after the scheduled start time because Charles was running late.

  He was running late because he had stopped to buy me flowers.

  ‘Charles, I want you to know that I’ve enjoyed our evenings together, and I probably shouldn’t say this, but you were my favourite client.’

  I know I definitely shouldn’t have said that because that was another thing that the agency told me not to do. Apparently, an escort telling a client that they are their favourite can lead to them forming strong emotional attachments that can prove difficult to break. But I think it’s already too late for that in this case. I can see that because it looks like Charles has a tear in his eye.

  He wipes it away quickly before I can say another word, and it’s not long until his fragile demeanour has been replaced by a stiff upper lip and a dogged determination to carry on.

  ‘To the future,’ he says, raising his glass of wine in the air.

  I smile at him and pick up my own drink, pleased to see that we are going to be able to end our arrangement on good terms after all.

  ‘To the future.’

  It’s ten minutes later when we step outside the busy bar, and I thank Charles as he holds the door open for me. A true gentleman until the end, that is how I will remember him.

  I’m glad we are ending things on a positive note, and I’m just about to say goodbye and take out my phone to book a taxi to the station when I notice that he is looking rather forlorn again.

  ‘I’m tired of being alone,’ he says to me softly, and my heart breaks in that moment as I look at him.

  ‘Oh, Charles, you’re not alone,’ I say, putting my hand on his arm and feeling his thin bones through his thick jacket. ‘You have your family, right? Your daughter. The grandchildren. And what about your friends? There’s Bill and Andrew at the billiards club, yeah?’

  I recall the people that he has told me about in the past, doing my best to remind him that he is not as lonely as he thinks he is. But it doesn’t seem to work. Charles looks no happier.

  ‘That’s not what I mean. I miss my Mary. I miss having somebody to talk to in the evenings when I’m sitting at home. I miss playing a record for her and reading the paper while she potters around me. I miss it all.’

  I always knew how much Charles was pining after his late wife, because he has brought her up on every single one of our dates. But unlike those other occasions where he would only reminisce about the happier memories like their holidays overseas or their times spent raising a family, now it seems he is focusing on the negatives. It’s the negative of never getting to be with the woman he loves again.

  ‘You don’t understand, Amanda. These dates might have just been work for you, but for me, they have given me a purpose. Something to look forward to when I’m sitting alone all day. It’s taken me a long time to find somebody at the agency whom I could trust and who would actually listen to me instead of just humour me. And now you’re leaving.’

  I feel terrible. But what can I say?

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Charles. If there was anything I could do to make you feel better, I would do it, but—’

  ‘Have one more drink with me.’

  I’m surprised by the invitation, mainly because we both know our allotted time has come to an end.

  ‘I’m not able to do that, Charles. Agency rules.’

  ‘I’ll pay you if that’s what you’re worried about,’ he snaps back, and that only makes me feel worse because I know that he only thinks I am with him for the money. I was at the beginning, but I’ve gotten to know him since then, and I wish he knew that I saw him as a friend and not just a client these days.

  ‘I don’t want your money,’ I tell him, and I mean it. I just want to have a civil goodbye and get in a taxi.

  ‘Two thousand pounds,’ Charles says.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’ll give you two thousand pounds if you come for one more drink with me,’ Charles says, and the crazy thing is that I can see that he means it.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I tell him, even though my mind is swimming with the possibilities of what I could do with that money. Considering I’m planning on quitting my job in the near future and pursuing the unreliable career path of an author, every extra penny would help. But I can’t accept the offer. It’s too much money, even for somebody as wealthy as him.

  ‘Charles, I think it’s best if we just say goodbye,’ I say. ‘I wish you all the best in the future.’

  ‘I’ll give you the cash tonight. Just one drink, that’s all I ask. Then we can say goodbye somewhere more comfortable than this street corner.’

  I look at the old man standing in front of me, and my heart breaks for him because he didn’t ask for any of this. He was happy with his wife until she passed away and left him all alone. Now here he is standing outside a wine bar, throwing money at me just to give him a little more company before I leave him forever.

  I check the time on my phone and figure I still have plenty of wiggle room before my last train home. I could stay with him for a little while longer, I suppose.

  ‘Okay, one more drink,’ I say, going against my better judgement. ‘But you’re not paying me. This one is on the house.’

  I feel bad enough for this poor man as it is without exploiting him.

  ‘Excellent,’ he replies with a beaming smile, and it’s clear I’ve just made his night.

  ‘So where do you want to go?’ I ask as I drop my phone back into my handbag.

  ‘My place,’ Charles quickly replies, and he turns to walk away.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ I call after him, suddenly regretting my decision to agree. ‘I thought we were going to another bar.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I said one more drink somewhere more comfortable. I would like that drink at my apartment.’

  This is definitely against all the rules that were explained to me when I joined the escort agency. Never mind no physical contact and not talking about personal issues. The number one rule was do not go back to a client’s apartment.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say to Charles. ‘It has to be a public place, or I can’t do it.’

  Charles thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs.

  ‘Five thousand pounds.’

  29

  AMANDA

  LATER THAT NIGHT

&n
bsp; I shouldn’t be doing this. I should have said no. But £5,000 is a lot of money, and I’d be a fool to turn it down. I’d have to work for over two months in my office job to earn that. Or I could just have one drink with a lonely old man. Considering I’m preparing to leave my job, how could I turn him down? I can stretch that money out to last me a long time when I’m trying to make it as a struggling writer. So I said yes. I followed Charles home. Now we’re in his apartment, and I’m watching him make me a drink.

  ‘So what do you think of the old place?’ he asks as he pours me a measure of gin at the impressive mahogany bar he has fitted into his luxurious front room.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ I admit, shaking my head as I look around at the surroundings.

  I can’t quite believe I’m in a place like this. It’s a palatial three-bedroom apartment in Chelsea, and while I knew it would be unlike any home I had been in before, I still hadn’t been prepared for the sight that met me when I walked through the front door and actually laid eyes on it.

  The enormous rooms are filled with the very best furniture money can buy, with garish features like the giant bar, the enormous sauna in the bedroom and the huge hot tub on the balcony.

  And the view.

  Oh my, the view.

  The apartment overlooks the Thames, and from this prime position on the banks of the river, we can see the boats sailing past and the lights twinkling on the water from all the high-rise buildings that line the edge of London’s famous inlet.

  I dread to think what a place like this must cost, but it’s obviously in the millions. No wonder Charles is so flush with his cash. He obviously can afford to be.

  It’s a far cry from my little flat in Brighton, where Louise and I are constantly tripping over each other’s things in our daily battle for space and privacy. But the size of this apartment also makes me feel a little sad because it’s far too big for one man to live in alone.