Trafika Europe 9/10 - UK in Europe

Adam Thorpe

sudden smoothness. The first thing Jasper ever said to her – or rather, shouted – was in a club: ‘You look like Amy Adams.’ ‘Except that I’m a natural red,’ she shouted back. ‘Please,’ Jasper complains, now. ‘ So sorry…’ She needs tea and a pack of gingers like it’s an emergency. The girl has stopped yelling into her mobile, though she is still laughing. It is an amazing laugh. Husky like her voice and breaking into bubbles, little chuckles. It’s like a firework, spraying out at the top of its arc. Then they hear the girl say, ‘Been up since five, hun, so don’t expect miracles. No, I can’t make a snowman. Wrong type of snow. I’ll give him a shout on Facebook, yeah? Speak

to yo’ in a bit. See ya!’ And then there is only the sound of the train edging through the snowy fields. Edging is the word. Click- uh-tee-clack. Ithasdecided to go slowly forever, now. Like a night bus between Lincoln and Spilsby when you’ve drunk way way too much and you are literally a candidate for A&E and desperate for a piss and you’re officially in Hell. Now it’s because of the ice. We can skid on the tracks or derail, a little voice says. There must be stretches without ice, she thinks, because now and again it’s hurtled along as normal through the pancake-flat countryside. She could get her own phone out, but she’s too tired. And she’s taken a vow not to use her mobile so much. To read books. Or just medidate. Six years of addiction.

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