Summary, we are introduced to the character of Rachel, an alcoholics who has split up from her husband. Rachel catches the same commuter train at the same time each morning and evening. She sees the same thing every day on her train route from the junctions to the countryside houses. When the train stops at the signal on mornings she sees a couple having breakfast on their deck. She has grown so accustomed and fond of them that she assigned them names, jess and Jason. She often compares their relationship to the one she lost with Tom who still occupies their old house.
The, girl on the, train
She is one of those tiny bird-women, a beauty, pale-skinned with blond hair cropped short. She has the bone structure to biography carry that kind of thing off, sharp cheekbones dappled with a sprinkling of freckles, a fine jaw. While were stuck at the red signal, i look for them. Jess is often out there in the mornings, especially in the summer, drinking her coffee. Sometimes, when I see her there, i fe). Advertisements, review, contents, the girl on the Train has more fun with unreliable narration than any chiller since. The girl on the Train has. Gone girl type fun with unreliable spouses, too. The girl on the Train is liable to draw a large, bedazzled readership too. The girl on the Train is full of backstabbing, none of it literal Hawkins keeps all these fibs, threats and innuendoes swirling through her book, to the point where they frighten and undermine each of her characters. —janet maslin, the new york times.
If I sit in carriage d, which i usually do, and the train stops at this moliere signal, which it almost always does, i have a perfect view into my favourite trackside house: number fifteen. Number fifteen is much like the other houses along this stretch of track: a victorian semi, two storeys high, overlooking a narrow, well-tended garden that runs around twenty feet down towards some fencing, beyond which lie a few metres of no-mans-land before you get. I know this house by heart. I know every brick, i know the colour of the curtains in the upstairs bedroom (beige, with a dark-blue print i know that the paint is peeling off the bathroom window frame and that there are four tiles missing from a section of the roof. I know that on warm summer evenings, the occupants of this house, jason and Jess, sometimes climb out of the large sash window to sit on the makeshift terrace on top of the kitchen-extension roof. They are a perfect, golden couple. He is dark-haired and well built, strong, protective, kind. He has a great laugh.
The weekend stretches out ahead of me, forty-eight empty hours to fill. I lift the can to my mouth again, but theres not a drop left. Monday, july 8, 2013, morning, its a relief to be back on the 8:04. Its not that I cant wait to get into london to start my week—i dont particularly want to be in London at all. I just want to lean back in the soft, sagging velour seat, feel the warmth of the sunshine streaming through the window, feel the carriage rock back and forth and back and forth, the comforting rhythm of wheels on tracks. Id rather be here, looking out at the houses beside the track, than almost anywhere else. Theres a faulty signal on this line, about halfway through my journey. I assume it must be faulty, in any case, because its almost always red; we stop there most days, sometimes just for a few seconds, sometimes for minutes on end.
The, girl on the, train : paula hawkins
I take another sip, and another; the cans already half empty, but its ok, i have three more in the plastic bag at my feet. Its Friday, so i dont have to feel guilty about drinking on the train. The fun starts here. Its going to be a lovely weekend, thats what theyre telling. Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies.
In the old days we might have driven to corly wood with a picnic and the papers, spent all afternoon myth lying biography on a blanket in dappled sunlight, drinking wine. We might have barbecued out back with friends, or gone to the rose and sat in the beer garden, faces flushing with sun and alcohol as the afternoon went on, weaving home, arm in arm, falling asleep on the sofa. Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies, no one to play with, nothing. Living like this, the way im living at the moment, is harder in the summer when there is so much daylight, so little cover of darkness, when everyone is out and about, being flagrantly, aggressively happy. Its exhausting, and it makes you feel bad if youre not joining.
The journey is supposed to take fifty-four minutes, but it rarely does: this section of the track is ancient, decrepit, beset with signalling problems and never-ending engineering works. The train crawls along; it judders past warehouses and water towers, bridges and sheds, past modest Victorian houses, their backs turned squarely to the track. My head leaning against the carriage window, i watch these houses roll past me like a tracking shot in a film. I see them as others do not; even their owners probably dont see them from this perspective. Twice a day, i am offered a view into other lives, just for a moment. Theres something comforting about the sight of strangers safe at home.
Someones phone is ringing, an incongruously joyful and upbeat song. Theyre slow to answer, it jingles on and on around. I can feel my fellow commuters shift in their seats, rustle their newspapers, tap at their computers. The train lurches and sways around the bend, slowing as it approaches a red signal. I try not to look up, i try to read the free newspaper I was handed on my way into the station, but the words blur in front of my eyes, nothing holds my interest. In my head I can still see that little pile of clothes lying at the edge of the track, abandoned. The premixed gin and tonic fizzes up over the lip of the can as I bring it to my mouth and sip. Tangy and cold, the taste of my first-ever holiday with Tom, a fishing village on the basque coast in 2005. In the mornings wed swim the half mile to the little island in the bay, make love on secret hidden beaches; in the afternoons wed sit at a bar drinking strong, bitter gin and tonics, watching swarms of beach footballers playing chaotic twenty-five-a-side games.
The, mystery of the, blue
Its probably rubbish, part of a load dumped into the scrubby little wood up the bank. It could have been left behind by the engineers who work this part of the track, theyre here often enough. Or it could be something else. My mother used to tell me that I had an overactive imagination; Tom said that, too. I cant help it, i catch sight of these discarded scraps, a dirty t-shirt or a lonesome shoe, and all I can think of is the other shoe and the feet that fitted into them. The train jolts and scrapes and screeches back into motion, the little pile of clothes disappears from paper view and we trundle on towards London, moving at a brisk joggers pace. Someone in the seat behind me gives a sigh of helpless irritation; the 8:04 slow train from Ashbury to euston can test the patience of the most seasoned commuter.
The characters are not who they seem and even the good guys have flaws. The book leaves one thinking about the characters and their lives long after the book is back on the shelf. Download your copy today! For a limited time discount of only.99! Available on pc, mac, smart phone, tablet or Kindle device. 2015 All Rights Reserved. Rachel, friday, july 5, 2013, morning, there is a pile writing of clothing on the side of the train tracks. Light-blue cloth—a shirt, perhaps—jumbled up with something dirty white.
themselves in their shoes. Hawkins characters represent the general public with problems echoing those of the reader. Hawkins then takes these characters through a well woven web of deceit and self-doubt. The mystery unwinds slowly enough to savor and fast enough to keep the reader interested. The characters are introduced by chapters depicting their names and the reader gets to know them each a little at a time and piece the story together themselves. The layout is enticing and unique. The girl on the Train presents characters we start to care about and feel for. The mystery gives the excitement one hopes to find in a book of this genre while still appealing to the readers humanity.
Right before the climax, author pretty much goes like "you know all the facts I told you in the entire story? Here are some new ones outta nowhere just for shock value. It feels cheap for a mystery, and apart from the last few chapters in the book, it doesn't do a good job at being a thriller either. The unreliable narration trick has been tried with great success before (see agatha Christie's The murder of Roger Ackroyd but this unfortunately is not one of them. The girl on the Train, by paula hawkins brings mystery to the life of Rachel Watson, who could very well where be any one. This is what makes this book so appealing, the humanity of the characters. Hawkins manages to create an exciting story line using characters that the general public can relate too. While murder may not resonate with most peoples daily lives, the underlying problems of the characters are those that can be well understood. Most people know an alcoholic or someone with a cheating spouse.
The, girl on the Train (2016) - trailerAddict
An unreliable narrator, mostly because she's always drunk and drowning resume he sorrows, tells most of this thriller/mystery. Rachel, recently divorced and fired from her job, drinks to pass the day. S seen something but because of her groggy and befuddled memory, she can't clear up what she might have seen or who she might have seen. She wants to be good, she wants to be sober, she wants love, but misery overtakes her day after day. This is a mystery but also a study on who we are and whether we know the people we live with. The staple of a good mystery is laying out all facts as honestly as possible in front of the reader and letting them run amok all over the misleading traps laid by the story. This is sadly not the case here.