I know this train line so well. But it’s been years since I travelled it, or since anyone travelled on it to see me. Victoria to Gatwick. And on to Brighton.

Brighton. So close to where my parents live.

The whole thing feels like some crazy coincidence. But I agreed, didn’t I, to meet her here? I knew that I would have to take this train. So am I setting this all up for myself? I remember calling home the other night, that strange impulse that overtook me. I’m supposed to be finding out what happened to Sarah, but the further I go with that, the deeper I look, the more it seems I’m trying to trace back what happened with me.

It’s too messed up, too weird. I press my forehead hard against the glass window of the carriage. I close my eyes and try not to think of anything at all.

In a matter of minutes, we arrive at Gatwick. The train shudders to a halt and, all around me, people with bags and suitcases stand to get off. I only have my coat and handbag, but I get off and follow them too. I can’t remember ever being to this airport before. There have been only two times in my life that I have flown anywhere, and both times I was a child, and can hardly remember.

As soon as I step off the train, I feel disorientated. I don’t know where to go or what to do. People rush past me, focused, determined. Businessmen and -women who must do this all the time. I search for the signs that say ‘Arrivals’. Chloe has given me the number of her flight, and said that I can meet her there. She’ll come out through the gates, and then we’ll go to some airport café, and order coffees and be able to talk. That’s what we’ll do.

There are long corridors that I have to walk down, bright lights and rivers of passengers in both directions. So many signs, and my eyes don’t seem to be working very well. But I find the Arrivals area at last. There are monitor screens showing the flights and I scan them, the letters blurring. Someone knocks me with their suitcase, clipping my ankle, right on the bone.

I scour the boards until I find it. Flight 128, Edinburgh to Gatwick. The plane is twenty minutes delayed.

I find a seat and shakily sit down. My legs ache these days if I stand too long; it’s as though my blood can’t get round them properly. I know I should buy lunch, but I’m worried that if I go wandering off, I’ll miss her, and we have even less time now, with her incoming flight delayed.