Chapter 1 1 Wednesday, October 7, 2026 Edinburgh to London Sleeper Train Lightning strikes like it has a vendetta. The electrified air snaps but Maya sleeps on. It is her first good sleep in months. A level of submersion only achieved through three exhausting days in her old family home, four miniature bottles of whiskey, and the cradle-sway of a cross-country sleeper carriage. Since the summer, Maya has rarely left her flat without her husband, Arthur. An unacknowledged shrinking of a life that everyone is too polite to discuss. To plunge into a multi-night, multi-train trip from London to Edinburgh and back, without Arthur, felt as ludicrous as greasing up to swim the Channel. But she did it, got her metaphorical medal and is now floating home, face down. Her right arm lies under her body and will be numb by morning. Her wrist bends awkwardly, her bracelet pressing into her chest. Her heart beats against it. Now a frond of lightning hits the roof of her carriage and engulfs it for less than a second. Just long enough for all the man-made maps to rearrange themselves under the tracks. She is still sprawled in the same position when she wakes, momentarily confused by the cabin that looks different in the morning light. She lifts her head and hazy window shapes crystallize into the busy heads of commuters. She rubs her dead arm to bring it back to life, puzzled. Why hasn't her alarm gone off? Ah shit, her phone is dead, the socket can't have been working. From the corridor, a severe voice warns stragglers to vacate all cabins in the next five minutes. Maya lurches out of bed, feeling foolish and nauseous. Now she climbs down to the platform with a suitcase that looks like a raccoon packed it, and a fabric "I Love Libraries" tote bag that's spilling over. The sleeper train was supposed to arrive back in grubby Euston, but the platform sign says Blackfriars. It must have been diverted, but the friction of this unexpected change unsettles her. She's never had a reason to come to this station, which sits on a bridge with glass windows at either side framing the huge gray Thames churning underneath. An unusual combination of art deco and brutalist, its polished concrete walls butt up to ornate steel ceiling arches. A huge, suspended station clock says it's gone eight a.m. A row of framed timetables sits below this, next to a Karo cigarette machine. A cigarette machine? Must be some kind of vintage thing. Clusters of armed officers roam in dull forest green uniforms. During these unemployed months that she's been licking her wounds, the city has changed. A maroon-fronted shop called kiosk advertises cigarettes, beer, newspapers, and magazines. She glances over at a bulging rack of newspapers-- The Guardian, The Mirror, The Morning Star . They look bigger, the mastheads different since she last laid them out at her library. She imagines those final editions still lying in wait, a dusty time capsule, but the inside of that building has already been scraped for redevelopment. Like everything else, it will soon be executive apartments. There's no Starbucks, Marks & Spencer, or Pret here. Instead, people line up at a stand selling Vietnamese coffee. She pushes on toward the underground escalators over which hangs a mosaic depiction of some uniformed man with black-tiled eyes. Instinctively reaching for her useless phone to tap in at the underground barriers, she realizes with relief that they're currently open. Her case bashes ankles and elbows as she stuffs herself into a packed District Line train. The stale carriage is a discordant symphony of sniffs and coughs. A few of the men lucky enough to have seats doze with their heads back against the window, mouths gaping like baby birds. The women sit as vigilantly as they do everywhere. She would normally read her way through any journey, but she's left her book jumbled up in the sleeper train bedding. Undistracted and without caffeine, her brain just loops around her to-do list. She has been unemployed since she and her library colleagues went through the meat grinder of local authority cuts over six months ago. She has been hiding in this excuse for too long, but once she's showered and stuffed her things in the washing machine, she has resolved to finally find another job. Any job. At Whitechapel, she climbs into one of the ancient, clanging elevators to the surface. Maya and Arthur live among the largest Bangladeshi community in the UK, but she's too fixated on getting home to notice that the Bengali language sign over the exit has now been replaced with Cyrillic. Her suitcase bounces along Whitechapel Road, where the hipster coffee shop is now Quick Snack, selling coffee and honey cake. Another kiosk has snuffed out a newsagent. A sausage restaurant, with framed photos of mustard-smothered sausages and some kind of vegetable puree, has replaced her favorite Bengal restaurant. She weaves between the flapping awnings of the market. Spilling crowds block her view of the stalls that normally sell cartoonish kesar mangoes and now sell juniper berries and Rossiyskiy cheese. Less than a minute later, she is at their flat above... oh, it's now a Turkmenistan Grill? It's changed a few times since she's lived here, the landlord upping the price and boxing tenants out. In her mind, she is already in their corner kitchen making tea and a slice of toast, sliding her shoes off without undoing them. Washing, showering, the dismal job search. Her key jams in the lock. She jiggles it then tries again, pulls it out and rubs it on her coat as if for luck. It still doesn't work. She tries again anyway. For fuck's sake! Maybe there was a break-in? Has Arthur had an emergency locksmith out? He didn't mention anything when they spoke last night. He did seem a little off though, a little snappy. Perhaps he didn't want to worry her. Since summer, he has been like this, wrapping her in kid gloves. She rings her own bell--the top flat of two. Arthur doesn't answer. She rings it again. And again. "Hello?" The voice through the ancient intercom is not Arthur's. It is a woman's voice. "Um, who are you?" "Sorry?" The voice is soft and lilting. A nice voice. "Is Arthur there?" "Who?" The voice is growing impatient now, still melodic but dubious. "Arthur? He lives there?" "No he doesn't." The tone skirts curiosity and irritation. "You've got the wrong address." "I've definitely not. I've lived with him here for the last two years." There's no reply. The woman has hung up the ancient intercom. How dare she? Maya presses the button again. Nothing. She presses the bell for the other flat even though the downstairs neighbor hates her. Then the top-floor flat again, and again. She holds her thumb to it, kicks the door and draws sharp looks from nearby shoppers and a clutch of children in some kind of scout uniform. Eventually, the voice is back and now it's furious. "What the fuck is your problem? Do you want me to call the police?" "Yes," Maya says. "And I'll tell them a random woman has broken into my home and isn't--" "Look, obviously you do not want me to call the police," the woman says, firm but quiet. "But I was allocated this flat fair and square." "When did you move in?" A pause. "Yesterday." "Yesterday?" "Yeah." A defiant pause but then, softer, "The guy who was here moved out on Monday and I moved in the next day. I don't know if... maybe you..." "He moved out on Monday?" "Yes," the voice says. "Arthur moved out on Monday?" "I don't know his name, I just know this place came up quickly. You know how it goes. Now I really need to get ready for work and I've still got shampoo in my hair 'cos I was in the shower." "Can I come in? Can I see--" "No!" An exasperated laugh. "Can I at least charge my phone?" There's no reply. When she rings again, the woman does not pick up. Excerpted from The Sleeper: A Novel by Holly Seddon All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
