BooksBarbecue
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Chapters (50)
  1. Cover
  2. VIOLET
  3. VIOLET
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Contents
  7. Prologue
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. Epilogue
  48. Acknowledgements
  49. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  50. Copyright

P.P.S. I know you keep banging on about me using Messenger but I am trying to avoid being on there because … YOU KNOW WHY … and anyway, you can look forward to my emails like I’m sending you a postcard – in fact, maybe I will send you a postcard #oldskool

P.P.P.S. I got you a badge

Beijing – Ulaanbaatar

5

We made it onto the train without any issues. Smartly suited but unsmiling hostesses showed us to our cabin, and we immediately went off to find the dining car, to have a drink and to see who else was around, and now that the buzz has worn off a little, and the hangovers are kicking in, we’re back in the cabin, sitting on the edges of our beds. I’ve dealt us both our cards and placed them on the small table under the window between us, but they remain untouched next to two plastic cups filled with warm Coke. It was Carrie’s idea to play poker, but apart from her telling me the rules, we haven’t got very far. Carrie gazes out of the window and I watch her, watching the landscape.

Flat fields of cracked ochre mud. Pylons and rundown shacks. I have no idea where we are. Other than that we are still in China, because we haven’t stopped yet to let the border guards come on. I heard someone earlier – one of the old ones from the organised tour group – say that we would hit the border late at night. Or early in the morning. They’d slow down the journey on purpose, so that the guards could join the train when most people were sleeping. Then we’d sit for a while as they changed over the wheels on each carriage, because of the wider tracks outside of China.

We saw the sellers clambering on at the last stop, laden with chequered laundry bags filled with cheap jeans, fake branded T-shirts, bags and caps. The guards might let some of them through without paying import tax, or they might not. It was a risky business, but it was better than drugs, and people had to make a living somehow. Those sellers won’t be sleeping tonight. They’ll be waiting in their cabins, drinking black coffee to stay alert. Their gifts for the border guards stashed under the bunks, hoping for a sympathetic ear.

I wanted to take a sleeping pill and avoid the whole thing. I’d experienced it all before at other border crossings, and I knew the guards would be loud and rude and unreasonable. They could search the whole of our cabin, toss everything on the floor if they wanted. I didn’t know if Carrie knew any of this.

‘Have you crossed a border on a train before?’ I ask her.