The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins, Hardcover. Not more than a little pile of stones, really. I didn’t want to draw attention to her resting place, but I couldn’t leave her without remembrance. She’ll sleep peacefully there, no one to disturb her, no sounds but birdsong and the rumble of passing trains. I’m stuck on three, I just can’t get any further. The Girl on the Train (2015) is a psychological thriller novel by British author Paula Hawkins. The novel debuted at No. 1 on The New York Times Fiction Best Sellers. Buy the Paperback Book The Girl On The Train by Paula Hawkins at Indigo.ca, Canada's largest bookstore. My head is thick with sounds, my mouth thick with blood. I can hear the magpies—they’re laughing, mocking me, a raucous cackling. I can see them now, black against the sun. Not the birds, something else. Someone is speaking to me. Now look what you made me do. RACHEL. Light- blue cloth—a shirt, perhaps—jumbled up with something dirty white. It’s 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, they’re 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 can’t 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 view and we trundle on towards London, moving at a brisk jogger’s pace. Someone in the seat behind me gives a sigh of helpless irritation; the 8: 0. Ashbury to Euston can test the patience of the most seasoned commuter. 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. Girl On The Train Movie 2015My 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 don’t see them from this perspective. Twice a day, I am offered a view into other lives, just for a moment. There’s something comforting about the sight of strangers safe at home. Someone’s phone is ringing, an incongruously joyful and upbeat song. They’re slow to answer, it jingles on and on around me. 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. EVENINGThe 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 2. The Girl On the Train Official Trailer 1 (2014) - Thriller HD A documentary filmmaker boards a train at Grand Central Terminal, heading to upstate New York. Listen to The Girl on the Train Audiobook by Paula Hawkins, narrated by Clare Corbett, Louise Brealey, India Fisher. Girl On The Train Discussion QuestionsTHE GIRL ON THE TRAIN is a dark, haunting and depressing psychological thriller, but it's incredibly effective thanks to the writing skills of author Paula Hawkins. The Girl on the Train. Loved the Novel About a Girl on a Train? You May Have Read the Wrong Book Thrillers with similar names cause some confusion; Paula Hawkins' gripping new thriller begins with bitter, dissolute Rachel, who sees what she believes to be a perfect couple, every morning on the train to. The Girl on the Train is a #1 New York Times Bestseller The Daily Beast: The Fastest-Selling Adult Novel in History: Paula Hawkins’ In the mornings we’d swim the half mile to the little island in the bay, make love on secret hidden beaches; in the afternoons we’d sit at a bar drinking strong, bitter gin and tonics, watching swarms of beach footballers playing chaotic twenty- five- a- side games on the low- tide sands. I take another sip, and another; the can’s already half empty, but it’s OK, I have three more in the plastic bag at my feet. It’s Friday, so I don’t have to feel guilty about drinking on the train. The fun starts here. It’s going to be a lovely weekend, that’s what they’re telling us. Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies. In the old days we might have driven to Corly Wood with a picnic and the papers, spent all afternoon lying 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 to do. Living like this, the way I’m 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. It’s exhausting, and it makes you feel bad if you’re not joining in. The weekend stretches out ahead of me, forty- eight empty hours to fill. I lift the can to my mouth again, but there’s not a drop left. MONDAY, JULY 8, 2. MORNINGIt’s a relief to be back on the 8: 0. It’s not that I can’t wait to get into London to start my week—I don’t 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. I’d rather be here, looking out at the houses beside the track, than almost anywhere else. There’s a faulty signal on this line, about halfway through my journey. I assume it must be faulty, in any case, because it’s almost always red; we stop there most days, sometimes just for a few seconds, sometimes for minutes on end. If I sit in carriage D, which I usually do, and the train stops at this 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- man’s- land before you get to the railway track. 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 over on the right- hand side. 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. She is one of those tiny bird- women, a beauty, pale- skinned with blond hair cropped short. She has the bone structure to carry that kind of thing off, sharp cheekbones dappled with a sprinkling of freckles, a fine jaw. While we’re 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 feel as though she sees me, too, I feel as though she looks right back at me, and I want to wave. I’m too self- conscious. I don’t see Jason quite so much, he’s away a lot with work. But even if they’re not there, I think about what they might be up to. Maybe this morning they’ve both got the day off and she’s lying in bed while he makes breakfast, or maybe they’ve gone for a run together, because that’s the sort of thing they do. It’s not cold, but it’ll do. I pour some into a plastic cup, screw the top back on and slip the bottle into my handbag. It’s less acceptable to drink on the train on a Monday, unless you’re drinking with company, which I am not. There are familiar faces on these trains, people I see every week, going to and fro. I recognize them and they probably recognize me. I don’t know whether they see me, though, for what I really am. It’s a glorious evening, warm but not too close, the sun starting its lazy descent, shadows lengthening and the light just beginning to burnish the trees with gold. The train is rattling along, we whip past Jason and Jess’s place, they pass in a blur of evening sunshine. Sometimes, not often, I can see them from this side of the track. If there’s no train going in the opposite direction, and if we’re travelling slowly enough, I can sometimes catch a glimpse of them out on their terrace. If not—like today—I can imagine them. Jess will be sitting with her feet up on the table out on the terrace, a glass of wine in her hand, Jason standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. I can imagine the feel of his hands, the weight of them, reassuring and protective. Sometimes I catch myself trying to remember the last time I had meaningful physical contact with another person, just a hug or a heartfelt squeeze of my hand, and my heart twitches. TUESDAY, JULY 9, 2. MORNINGThe pile of clothes from last week is still there, and it looks dustier and more forlorn than it did a few days ago. I read somewhere that a train can rip the clothes right off you when it hits. It’s not that unusual, death by train. Two to three hundred a year, they say, so at least one every couple of days. I’m not sure how many of those are accidental. I look carefully, as the train rolls slowly past, for blood on the clothes, but I can’t see any. The train stops at the signal as usual. I can see Jess standing on the patio in front of the French doors. She’s wearing a bright print dress, her feet are bare. She’s looking over her shoulder, back into the house; she’s probably talking to Jason, who’ll be making breakfast. I keep my eyes fixed on Jess, on her home, as the train starts to inch forward. I don’t want to see the other houses; I particularly don’t want to see the one four doors down, the one that used to be mine. I lived at number twenty- three Blenheim Road for five years, blissfully happy and utterly wretched. I can’t look at it now. That was my first home. Not my parents’ place, not a flatshare with other students, my first home. I can’t bear to look at it. Well, I can, I do, I want to, I don’t want to, I try not to. Every day I tell myself not to look, and every day I look. I can’t help myself, even though there is nothing I want to see there, even though anything I do see will hurt me. The Girl on the Train (2. The Girl on the Train is a 2. American mysterythrillerdrama film directed by Tate Taylor and written by Erin Cressida Wilson, based on Paula Hawkins' 2. The film stars Emily Blunt, Rebecca Ferguson, Haley Bennett, Justin Theroux, Luke Evans, Allison Janney, . Produced by Marc Platt and Dream. Works Pictures, The Girl on the Train was the first Dream. Works Pictures film to be distributed by Universal Pictures, as part of Dream. Works' new distribution deal. During their marriage, Rachel was prone to alcohol- induced blackouts during which she engaged in self- destructive behavior that Tom later informed her about, and to which she attributes the ending of their marriage, in addition to her being sterile. Rachel shares an apartment with her friend Cathy (Laura Prepon). She spends her days commuting on a train and often stalking Tom, Anna, and their newborn daughter Evie. During her trips, Rachel grows fascinated with Tom's neighbors, Scott (Luke Evans) and Megan Hipwell (Haley Bennett), a young couple in what Rachel believes is a perfect marriage. In reality, Scott is aggressive and controlling, while Megan is detached and unfaithful, maintaining affairs with numerous men, including her psychiatrist, Dr. After a drinking binge, Rachel leaves the train to confront Megan, only to black out and awaken hours later at her apartment, injured. Rachel later finds out that Megan is missing and presumed dead, and is questioned by Detective Sergeant Riley (Allison Janney), who suspects Rachel might be involved due to her recent erratic behavior. Rachel, pretending to be a friend of Megan's, approaches Scott and tells him about Megan's affair. Scott identifies Abdic as Megan's lover. Believing Abdic is behind Megan's disappearance, Rachel schedules an appointment with him, wherein they discuss Rachel's troubled relationship with Tom, particularly an incident in which she lashed out at an office party and aggravated Tom's boss's wife Martha (Lisa Kudrow), leading to Tom being fired. At a bar, Rachel recognizes another commuter, who reveals that he followed her when she left the train the night that Megan disappeared and heard her cursing at a woman before being beaten by an unseen figure in a tunnel, where the commuter later found Rachel, although she declined his help. Rachel returns to the tunnel and remembers seeing Megan with Tom and shouting at her before being ambushed. Meanwhile, Anna becomes suspicious of Tom after Sgt. Riley suggests Tom might want to stay in contact with Rachel which is why she keeps calling. Anna decides to try to hack into his computer; in the process, she finds a secret phone with several voice messages to another woman Tom is having an affair with, and she discovers that the phone was Megan's. Megan is found dead and forensics determine she was pregnant, but the child was neither Scott's nor Abdic's. Scott becomes a suspect and confronts Rachel, believing she is conspiring against him, and in the process he reveals he assaulted Megan prior to her death. Rachel runs into Martha and apologizes for her behavior at the party, only to discover she didn't lash out or get Tom fired, but rather Tom was fired for having sexual relations with numerous co- workers. Rachel realizes Tom planted false memories in her head to account for his own abusive behavior. Anna identifies the woman Tom was exchanging phone calls with as Megan, and finds out Tom and Megan were having an affair. Rachel realizes Megan was pregnant with Tom's baby and confided that to Abdic, and she misinterpreted the nature of their encounter on the balcony. After leaving the train that day, Rachel caught Tom meeting with Megan and shouted at her, mistaking her for Anna. Tom then beat Rachel before returning to Megan, who announced she was keeping the baby, which would thereby expose their affair and Tom chose to murder Megan. Rachel goes to Tom's house to warn Anna, but Anna reveals that she already knows. Tom arrives and confronts them, and while he argues with Anna, Rachel steals a corkscrew and steps outside to call the police. However, Tom catches up to her and attempts to strangle her, as Anna watches from the window. Rachel stabs Tom in the neck with the corkscrew, but he is not dead yet. Anna then exits the house and pushes the corkscrew deeper into Tom's neck, finishing him off. Rachel and Anna come to an understanding and separately confirm to the police that Rachel killed Tom in self- defense, after he revealed himself to be Megan's killer. One year later, Rachel has become sober and found a new job, and while still commuting on the same train, she sits on the opposite side, leaving her old neighborhood in the past. Production. Platt was set to produce through Marc Platt Productions. Kamal Abdic, who is in an affair with the married Megan, and becomes a suspect in her disappearance. However, Dream. Works and Disney did not renew their distribution deal, and in December 2. Universal Pictures acquired the film's distribution rights, as part of their new distribution deal with Dream. Works' parent company, Amblin Partners. The film was expected to play like the similarly- themed Gone Girl, which opened to $3. October 2. 01. 4, although that film had more star power to carry it. Review aggregator. Rotten Tomatoes reported a 4. The site's critical consensus reads, . Alternately overly convoluted and predictable, the film relies too heavily on its twists while offering little in the way of character development, leaving its three central women as unrelatable and unlikable stereotypes. British Board of Film Classification. Retrieved September 1. Retrieved October 1. The Hollywood Reporter. Retrieved December 2. Retrieved December 2. Retrieved June 3, 2. Retrieved June 3, 2. Retrieved June 3, 2. Retrieved August 1. Retrieved November 7, 2. Retrieved August 1. Retrieved August 2. Retrieved October 2. Retrieved November 7, 2. Retrieved November 7, 2. Retrieved November 7, 2. Retrieved November 7, 2. Retrieved November 7, 2. Retrieved January 8, 2. Retrieved November 7, 2. Retrieved November 7, 2. Retrieved December 8, 2. Retrieved January 8, 2. Retrieved January 3. Retrieved August 2. Retrieved November 6, 2. Channing Tatum's 'Gambit'. Retrieved November 6, 2. Retrieved November 5, 2. The Hollywood Reporter. Retrieved December 2. Channing Tatum's 'Gambit'. Retrieved November 6, 2. Retrieved August 3. Retrieved October 2, 2. Retrieved October 1. Retrieved October 1. Retrieved October 1. Retrieved October 1. Retrieved October 1. Retrieved October 1.
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