Page 17 of The Life Experiment

The tannoy crackled, announcing the next stop, but Layla barely registered the information. She didn’t need to. She knew there were another ten minutes left of her train journey. The route from London to Hull was drilled into her, even if she hadn’t taken it recently.

With her forehead resting on the window, the world whizzed past Layla in short flashes.

A skeletal tree, a crumbling house, a barren field.

Flash, flash, flash, the train’s speed blurred the surroundings.

Layla preferred it that way. The distorted world mimicked her erratic mind – she didn’t need to see where she was going, she just needed to keep moving.

In the seat beside her, a balding man shifted his weight with a sigh. Layla tried not to be irritated by his presence, but it was hard when his spread legs meant he was taking up most of her room. He had got on the train six stations ago, smelling mildly of a meat pasty.

As if the space invasion and odour weren’t bad enough, the man had made a call as soon as the train set off.

‘Gazzaaaaa,’ he bellowed down the line, seemingly oblivious to the carriage full of people surrounding him.

From there, it got worse. Loudly and disdainfully discussing asylum seekers (‘Don’t they realise we don’t want them?

’), then his mother’s ill health (‘Looks like I’ll be coming into my inheritance soon, mate’), every second spent beside him had been torture.

The worst moment was when the man left his seat to collect one of the train’s free newspapers then practically sat on Layla’s knee upon return.

‘Sorry, love,’ he said, winking as if his butt cheek against her thigh was harmless fun. When Layla’s nose wrinkled in disgust, all joviality left his face. ‘Miserable bitch,’ he muttered, not at all quietly.

Since then, the man had ensured he took up as much space as possible. Flipping the pages of his newspaper with unnecessary force, his elbow dug into Layla’s forearm with each turn.

The sound of rustling paper reminded Layla of Sunday mornings. Her dad stifling a yawn as he read the newspaper cover to cover. Maya extracting the gossip section so she could look at outfits worn by her favourite celebrities. Her mother serving breakfast, something sweet for a weekend treat.

Layla’s mouth watered at the memory. Then, like it always did when she thought of those days, her heart hurt.

Inside her pocket, Layla’s phone buzzed.

She pulled it out with difficulty, narrowly avoiding brushing her arm against the man, and checked the notifications.

There was a message from Sinead asking if she could call Layla for advice, and Saira’s daily check-in text.

It had been five days since her unexpected visit.

Five days of Are you okay? messages and muddling through work until something inside Layla snapped and told her to book some personal leave.

I’m fine , Layla replied. I’m on my way to Hull. I think seeing my family might help.

Saira’s reply was fast and in agreement with Layla’s plan. Clicking out of their exchange, Layla allowed herself a second to hope that another message was waiting. A message from someone else entirely.

Someone who, quite inexplicably, possessed the power to make Layla’s mind wander away from her impending death.

But she had no other messages. In fact, in the time that had passed since Layla had met Angus, no contact had been made at all.

Layla knew she shouldn’t be surprised. She’d hardly been good company that day, what with finding out she only had two years left to live, but Angus didn’t know that. All he knew was that he’d taken a seat opposite an odd, grumpy stranger.

Layla’s toes curled at the directive she’d given him…

You can only call or message when you have a really, really bad day.

Layla wasn’t even sure why she said it. That day, she had wanted the world to be as miserable as her, but now Layla wanted to be consumed by anything other than the ticking clock in her mind reminding her how little time she had left.

And Angus, with his thick hair and kissable lips, was someone Layla would have no issue being consumed by. No issue at all.

In her most desperate moments, Layla had tried googling him, but it was useless. All she knew was that he was called Angus and that his smile shone with the radiance of the sun. As good as Google was, it couldn’t pull off a search that obscure.

Pressing her body back into her seat, Layla scolded herself.

Why was she so bothered that Angus hadn’t been in touch?

She’d never sat waiting for a man to call before.

Truthfully, she wasn’t even sure she wanted him to.

Aside from the obvious fact that nothing could happen between them, given her death date, there was something about Angus that made Layla hesitate.

Perhaps it was because he reminded her of the men at work.

He had the same self-assured, privileged air about him.

He spoke like the boys on Made in Chelsea .

But even with those off-putting attributes, there was something about Angus.

Something… intriguing. Layla didn’t know what it was.

Maybe it was his outlook or his humour. Or maybe it was that for a brief moment, on the darkest day of her life, Layla had felt a glimmer of joy, all because of him.

When the tannoy announced her stop, Layla turned to the man beside her. ‘Excuse me.’

Closing his newspaper in a motion that could only be described as pissy, the man shifted his legs, providing enough room for Layla to pass, but not without touching him.

Layla’s nostrils flared. How often had she been in this situation over the course of her adult life? She’d lost count. The tube was the worst. Men shuffling unnecessarily close, brushing their bodies against hers and blaming overcrowding. It made her shrivel.

As Layla squeezed out of her seat, the man’s stomach grazed the back of her legs. She withered with that all too familiar burn of shame.

But why are you ashamed? her indignation spat. He’s in the wrong, not you.

For once, Layla listened to her fury. After pulling her overnight bag from the overhead storage, she faced the man.

‘Next time someone asks you to let them past, do it in a way that doesn’t result in your crotch touching them.

It’s really not pleasant,’ she stated, before marching to the carriage doors.

God, it feels good to stick two fingers up to the world , Layla’s brain sang as the platform came into view. No more silent compliance. No being nice and polite because it’s expected. If Layla only had two years left to live, why spend it being quiet, small and ashamed?

Hopping from the carriage, Layla made her way to the taxi rank outside the station. After giving the driver her parents’ address, she sat back and looked out at her hometown.

Even though she hadn’t been back for months, Layla could navigate the streets of Hull with her eyes closed.

Around here, things didn’t change much. Despite pre-election promises, there had been no government investment or boost to the city centre.

The place almost felt forgotten, stuck in a time warp of its poorest days.

That’s not to say that everything was the same as when Layla was a child, though.

There were more empty stores than she remembered, and more discount and charity shops on the high street than big brand names.

Things looked dirtier, which was alarming considering they’d never been that clean in the first place.

But underneath the faded facade, it wasn’t all bad.

In fact, there was a charm to life here.

Children played outside, using their imagination to transform their surroundings into something fantastical.

Elderly couples went about their business holding hands.

Groups of mums pushed prams together, talking and laughing in a way Layla never had with anyone in London.

The council had planted flowers along the roadside.

Despite the cold, they bloomed. Their beauty welcomed her back. Welcomed her home.

As the familiar houses of Thorpe Estate came into view, Layla’s palms began to sweat. Whether it was nerves or excitement, she couldn’t tell, but it didn’t matter. This was where she needed to be.

When the taxi slowed to a stop, Layla looked at the redbrick semi-detached house of her childhood.

It was exactly as she remembered it, with patchy grass in the garden and the vase gifted by Layla’s grandma visible from the living room window.

Beautiful in its consistency and comforting in its familiarity. Home.

After paying the taxi fare, Layla slipped out of the car. Pausing to take in the sounds and smells of home, she willed herself to approach the door. Her feet moved slowly at first, but soon picked up their pace like they couldn’t reach their destination fast enough.

When Layla’s knuckles rapped on the door, a shout of ‘Coming!’ rang out from inside. A few seconds later, the door opened and there she was.

‘Mum,’ Layla exhaled.

Joanna’s temples were greyer than ever. The pink and white apron she’d had since Layla was in secondary school was wrapped around her generous waist, a sauce stain splashed across it. She never was the tidiest cook, but that didn’t matter when she was a great one.

Joanna gasped at the unexpected sight of her daughter. ‘Layla! What are you doing here?’

Layla’s answer stuck in her throat, but Joanna didn’t need it. She simply pulled Layla into a fierce hug.

The hug, which Layla had been craving ever since opening that envelope, exceeded every expectation. Layla breathed her mum in, the scent of coconut and that damned floral air freshener she insisted on using tickling her nostrils.

‘Hi, Mum,’ she whispered thickly.

Taking Layla’s head in her hands, Joanna ran her eyes over her eldest daughter. Layla could almost hear her assessment: Beautiful, but sad. So sad.

‘What is it, baby? What’s wrong?’ Joanna asked.

Layla’s mouth opened, but she didn’t know where to begin. So, instead, Layla settled on the simple truth she knew deep in her bones. ‘I missed you,’ she said.

Joanna’s face twisted once more as she pulled her daughter into the house.

Stepping through the front door, Layla’s past and present collided, making her dizzy.

She’d experienced so many memories within these walls, both good and bad.

She had cried on the bottom step of the staircase after schoolyard fallouts with friends.

She had strung a banner across the wall to welcome her dad home after his fourth spinal surgery.

‘Go upstairs, pop your bag in your bedroom and take a bath. I’ll have dinner ready for when you’re done,’ Joanna said, squeezing the top of Layla’s arm.

‘My old bedroom is Jayden’s room,’ Layla croaked, but Joanna shook her head.

‘The room is yours for as long as you need it. Don’t worry about a thing, Jayden will be happy to bunk with his mum for a bit. Just go and get yourself settled.’

With someone else taking control, Layla found it easier to move, even if she did walk upstairs with jerking, zombie-like steps. She paused at the second door on the landing. A faded ‘keep out’ sticker was embedded into the wood. Layla remembered sticking it there when she was thirteen.

Her throat tightened as she pushed open the door, revealing a space that was at once hers and not hers.

The walls were now painted dark green instead of the bright lilac she’d chosen when she was nine, and there were miniature dinosaurs everywhere.

Tiny pyjamas were flung on the floor, clearly discarded earlier that morning.

Swallowing hard, Layla stepped into the space. How wrong it felt to be in this room that was no longer hers.

How right it felt to be back with the people who loved her the most.

Dropping her bag to the floor, Layla let peace wash over her.