Lucky Page 10

  I live near London (not near enough).

  I think you look lovely. Just a friend’s opinion.

  I’m definitely bagging a dance with you at the VIP Summer Party.

  I’m definitely not hot.

  Now you may open the attachment.

  Chris

  Etta forced her breathing still, while her stomach clenched, while her hands fumbled, as she opened the image.

  She exhaled in a puff.

  White. Handsome; older good looks. Head turned slightly to the side, he was laughing a touch, eyes on the photographer. An ex-wife? Shirt collar peeking above a navy jumper. Dark hair with strands of grey in, conventional style, groomed, but not too groomed. Hint of lines at the eyes, but hard to tell. Looked kind, and fun but … underpowered? No, sort of mild, gentle. A gentleman.

  But then: Love your photo. Bit too much

  Ur hot

  Stay hot

  As Ola would say ‘Food for thought …’

  Naughty.

  Etta pushed all such thoughts from her mind and adopted a busy expression for the rest of the morning. At 11.30, the Head of Finance, Robert, approached her desk. She tried to smile and exude competence.

  ‘Hello, Etta, could I have a word with you in my office?’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ said Etta, smiling.

  She grabbed a notepad and pen and followed him to the glass-walled corner office. Robert watched her enter, shut the door and then perched on the nearest edge of his desk, arms across his chest, leaving her standing.

  As he started to speak there was a sudden rattling of weather, as if a thousand marbles were being dropped from the sky.

  They both looked at the window. Robert snorted.

  ‘Hail in June? Ha! Who would have thought it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s crazy,’ said Etta.

  They listened for a moment more, then Robert turned back towards her.

  ‘Etta. It has been brought to my attention that you haven’t been quite as … on the ball as we have learned to expect from you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Would you say that’s fair?’

  ‘Um … I’m not sure.’

  ‘The Manchester report came in late. Errors have been found, more than a few times. There have been a number of sick days that some team members have found … unconvincing.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Etta again, not even convincing herself.

  ‘Indeed.’ Robert tipped his bald head forward, a bull about to charge. ‘Are you having problems at home that we need to be aware of?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing that might be having an impact on your work?’

  The hail stopped. Etta hated herself as she said into the new silence:

  ‘A family friend did die.’

  Robert nodded hard and uncrossed his arms.

  ‘I knew there had to be something. I’m sorry. Do you need to take time?’

  Etta shifted her weight from foot to foot. ‘Only an afternoon. There’s a funeral coming up.’

  ‘Uh-huh, uh-huh,’ he was still nodding, as if thinking of HR protocols. ‘You can have that time off on us. It’s clearly been tough.’

  ‘Thank you, Robert, I appreciate that.’ She half-turned, waiting for him to let her go.

  ‘Hold on, Etta.’ He crossed his arms again. ‘Sorry, I meant to add … You need to consider this as a verbal warning, Etta. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  ‘Right. Good. So, that’s all clear. You can go back to work now.’

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  As she walked out of the office, she could see through the glass walls that FrameTech life was carrying on as usual; all heads were down. All but one: in the far corner Jean was staring at her as she left Robert’s corner. Etta was too far away to see the look in her eye, but her mouth seemed to twist in satisfaction as she turned back to her screen.

  She faced an evening without Ola. By 8 p.m., Etta’s £1,000 deposit had been spun down to £380. She reached for her phone.

  Hope it’s going well. Miss you. See you tomorrow xx

  Ola replied within seconds:

  Miss you too. Will try to leave work early tomorrow, just to see you sooner. Night night xx

  The air in the spare room had turned. It was now poisoned with losses. Winner or not, Chris was, of course, a bad idea. The money was tempting, essential, but … no good could come of it. She could not yet think of a way to tell him that, so he was left hanging, his photo unanswered.

  The summer light was fading; not wise to be alone too late. Dead flowers on the doorstep; what other gifts might the dusk bring? Was the spinning to blame in some way; was she inviting darkness in?

  Etta shuddered away the thoughts, all the while wondering if those thoughts were taking on a fey, unhelpful quality, whether they might be tinged with madness. She could not afford to become unhinged: she had too much to do and, as all action started in thought, her thoughts needed to be fit for purpose.

  Enough.

  She would feel better, very soon. She would win back the £22,000 and gulp down a chance to start again.

  It was gone 1 a.m. Still surfing waves of wins and losses, spirits doused in strong drink, head drowning in all the wrong thoughts, Etta caved.

  She opened up her email:

  Dear Chris,

  Thanks for your photo.

  You look lovely too.

  I will think about going to the VIP Summer Party.

  Etta

  PS – If I dance, I dance hard.

  She hit send and powered down. Unusually when in the middle of a spinning spree, unusually for that time of night, she felt a tiredness sweeping her body that threatened to knock her flat.

  She went to bed and slumped into sleep, her thoughts bobbing on tides of rolling reels, and wizards and wins, and strange, gentle faces.

  The next morning, already itching for intoxicants, she experienced a rare survivalist urge – she had to get out the house, that second. Air, earth, exertion … pulling on leggings and the Choose Life! hoodie from her neglected shelf of exercise gear, she prepared to take a fraudulent jog around the park.

  As she entered the park, she popped in her earbuds and stumbled into a half-skip and then a semi-trot. She skirted the perimeter of the park. De La Soul playing; all cool. She saw him straight away: the out-of-place black man, once more seated on the ground, at the farthest reaches of the park.

  From where she jogged, he appeared to be selling the same number of boxes as the last time. How did he live? She picked up the pace, curiosity launching her into each step. By the time she got to him, he had already raised his brilliant white gaze to her. The chin scar struck her harder today; though it had to be a historic injury it still looked sore, livid in the silvery sunlight. It reminded her of something, maybe a dream. As she neared him, deafened by a song about the magic number and wearing her sunglasses and sports kit, she saw recognition power up inside him as, evidently tossing all thought of their African commonality into the long grass, he mouthed what could only be:

  ‘Apostle!’

  He was looking at her with fire in his eyes. What was that? Pleading, hatred, desire?

  She stopped the music, took out her earbuds.

  ‘Apostle?’ he asked.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘But I need to know—’

  ‘You wan apostle?’ He held up a black box and shook it; it rattled.

  It came to her. ‘Oh, gosh OK. A puzzle!’

  ‘Yes, apostle, would you like one? Buy for your children?’

  Etta bent to take the box.

  ‘What is it a puzzle of? There’s no picture on the front.’

  The man looked at the box without a trace of concern.

  ‘It come like this from Slough,’ he said, as if that town might be the Mecca of puzzle manufacture. ‘It is as you want it.’

  Etta gave a short laugh. ‘Bit revolutionary!’

  The man did not laugh. ‘You wan?’

  Etta felt in her po
ckets where she suspected she had left a note. ‘How much?’

  ‘Two pound.’

  Now Etta, though tempted to laugh, gave the man a level look. ‘That’s not enough, nowhere near. Here.’

  She handed him a fiver. The man started reaching for her change.

  ‘No, no! You keep it.’

  The man tucked the note into his money belt, but displeasure had flashed across his face. He looked at her as if he now saw the African in her anew. She shifted on her feet.

  ‘I didn’t mean …’ she began. ‘Like, it’s not—’

  His eyes had dulled. ‘Nigerian?’

  Etta eased; the usual chat. ‘Yes, half. But I’ve never—’

  ‘Who was your father? What is your tribe?’

  ‘Yoruba.’

  ‘Heh. Yoruba woman. I no need your money, I get food for eat.’

  Did he sound angry?

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. I just—’

  ‘No sorry sorry o!’ He was shifting his lean legs, as if preparing to rise. She could get halfway across the park before he could strike her.

  ‘All right, whatever …’

  ‘I am not a beggar, heh!’

  ‘OK, jeez!’

  Etta pushed her earbuds back in to disguise her hurt as petulance, and started to jog away, then run – quite fast – through the park. The air rushed past, the earth yielded in millimetres at each pounding step, the effort enlivened her lungs and blood and skin. She held on to the angry man’s puzzle all the way home.

  She had to shower, now. Ola was still out, so she stripped off in the hallway and left her clothes in a pile on the floor. She thrust the shower full on and urged herself into the cool streams. As soon as she was clean and numb, she stepped out again, half-dried and wrapped a towel around her, then went back to the hallway for the puzzle. She took the black box into the sitting room, yanked the lid open and poured the contents onto the carpet, hoping that a guide picture would tumble out along with the 100 well-machined pieces, but no. It looked as if the jigsaw might depict a countryside scene: a piece of thatch, a piece of royal blue sky, a piece showing a donkey’s head. She sifted through the pieces for a moment more until it clicked. Part of a recumbent baby.

  Her towel slumped to the floor in shock.

  The poor bastard.

  He was trying to flog Nativity jigsaw puzzles in the middle of June, here in this secular corner of the Western world. The misguided logic sat heavy on her heart. She could see him, alone and friendless in Slough, weighing up how to spend his meagre investment funds: what scene could bring more joy to the heart of the local people, his fellow God-lovers within this Christian country? Etta, naked and cooling fast, took the piece showing the two-thirds of baby and cleared a space around it. She was not sure why she cared, she only knew that she did.

  Finally, she stood up and towelled the last of the dampness from her skin. For as long as she scrubbed and scoured with cotton, she thought of the puzzle of the decontextualised black man on the dustsheet, and she wondered.

  The next day was Wednesday, the morning of Cynthia’s funeral. The fiery sky was an incitement from above.

  Shepherd’s warning. The Lord is my Shepherd.

  The shower was going, with Ola in it. Curtain up at any minute. Were it but an interval in the play of life; would that she could blast her nerves with a cold shock of gin & tonic, ice cube, lemon. Maybe an extra ice cube. Maybe an extra gin.

  It was 7.30 a.m.

  Normalise.

  Etta pulled her mind from getting high to getting up. What might she do today?

  Maybe take his wallet from the breakfast bar while he showered and filch the untouchable credit card, the one with the biggest limit. She would take no more than £2,000, surely the minimum that could now make a difference. Life was short and … ah. Of course, she would then shroud every limb of her body in black; Cynthia May Jackson deserved no less.

  By the time Ola emerged downstairs, she had decided. She would only get to do this once, so should take out the maximum daily amount. The credit card was already in her handbag, she was wearing the black dress, breakfast was ready and her story was straight:

  ‘I need to get into work early as I’ll be off to this funeral later. You OK if I shoot off now?’

  ‘Yes, of course. God willing, it goes OK. For the family.’

  Leaning in to kiss his cheek, she left Ola eating his favourite scramble of eggs, tomatoes, onions and hot peppers. He was fine.

  It took minutes to get to the cashpoint, seconds to panic as she hit buttons and learned that she could only take out a maximum of £650. She took it out. The regret was instant. She tried to get over it, fast as she could: hot-sweated it out as she walked to the FrameTech offices, swapping guilt for fear with every step. The sky, its blush now fading into the beige that coloured her working hours, appeared to thicken with weather – rain? – or take on weight from the aired problems of Rilton below, or grow gravid with warnings.

  She walked on, not daring to slow her pace until she had reached her desk. Robert might have given her some time off, but she could not be late.

  ‘All right, Etta?’ It was Dana, with a laugh of delight. ‘Wow, you look completely bloody awful! You OK?’

  ‘Funeral.’ She sank into her seat, drained.

  £650. Too little. Too much. Worse.

  She should not have done it. She should never have touched it. Bad things might now happen, such terrible things … She took the untouchable card from her handbag, turned it over and over until she stopped and rang the number on the back.

  ‘Yes, hello, it’s Etta Oladipo …’

  She jumped through the security hoops and waited to explain.

  ‘It’s been stolen, my card. Our joint credit card; been nicked, I think. At least I can’t find it. I need to report it stolen.’

  ‘We’ll take care of it for you. Can I call you Etta?’

  Once the card was cancelled, Etta slumped afresh. Before her head had hit the back of her chair, the shakes had set in. It was one thing to deceive your boyfriend, another thing altogether to defraud a bank.

  She tried to tap at her keyboard and stare intently at the screen, ever keen to exude diligence. Always, eyes were on her. But as the minutes passed, she grew lost in anxiety. Irate financial institution. Police. Prison: time and time and time again – endless, relentless seconds – trapped in hard locked rooms, hemmed in by inconceivable people. Evil food and screaming nights. The drugs and attacks and gangs and guards. Screws. The fear, the violence.

  Muddle, it was all a muddle: but she knew she was afraid. What was she then, child or madwoman?

  Etta rose and walked into the ladies’ loos. Her feet failing, she shut herself into the unisex/disabled cubicle. She was afraid to lock the door and afraid not to. She left the light off, afraid all over.

  Fraud! Thief.

  She swallowed hard, grimaced, then gulped for air. She could not make her face comfortable. Pressure was building in her chest. She sank into a crouch. Her heart’s hard thump would not stop; it was raging. This was it. All pounding and no breath. Just like Cynthia Jackson. She deserved it, end of.

  ‘You liar, Etta. Liar. Lies.’

  She chanted the words over and again in a whisper until the thoughts and feelings stopped lobbying her heart, slowed their loud demands. She mouthed the words, hoping. Somewhere within the fear, she knew this to be meditation.

  ‘You liar. Liar. Lies.’

  Guilt, peace and the tang of piss. The tiles and the half-light absorbed her whispers.

  Until: a rush of air, the cheap glare of ceiling LEDs.

  ‘God, sorry! Oh, s’you. Are you OK?’

  Winston was peering down at her, his swagger softened to concern. The light from the corridor felt like redemption. She could not speak.

  ‘Here …’ His arm was outstretched. She could not move.

  Fear, though, was beating at her skull; a thought bloomed like a bruise.

  ‘Time.’

  �
��Uh?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  He checked his phone. ‘Ten past eleven.

  ‘Shit!’

  Etta scrambled onto her knees wondering whether anything in her life remained unfucked.

  ‘It’s too late.’

  The funeral. Impossible to make it in time. Unthinkable to rock up late. She would have to lie to Joyce, say her car/taxi/bus/legs had broken down. Lies were now her stock-in-trade.

  ‘You what?’

  She took Winston’s hand and hauled herself upright.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  Jean appeared from a nearby doorway, clutching papers. She wrinkled her nose as she watched Winston and Etta emerge from the loo holding hands.

  Jean turned violent pink and her eyes went dark.

  ‘You people!’ she said, and hurried past them, head down.

  Winston and Etta both heard it. They gave each other the look.

  ‘Damn,’ said Winston. ‘Can I get you some water, Etta?’

  ‘Whoa. Yeah, yes please. Thanks.’

  He led her to the water cooler. She stared into the banal vista of their office, took a plastic cup in disgust – why still plastic? Did no one care about anything? – and sat back down at her desk. Her senior colleague hovered above her, awaiting further instruction.

  ‘I’ll be fine now, Winston. Thanks very much.’

  Phone. She had to phone the credit card company back, no messing, or the future she had chanted to block out, crouching in scraps of no-frills bog roll and misfired wee, would crash into her present. Sipping the water, she dialled.

  ‘Hello, could I speak to the Fraud te—?’

  She hung up. The word ‘Fraud’ – it was too much. Fraud was what she had done. They would know that Fraud was what she had done. It was too late. She needed to take more time to think it all through. Right now, though, she could not think to any great degree, she could only see Joyce, forlorn, looking towards the door as the last guests filed in. An icy disappointment melting into hot grief as the coffin, dressed in flowers, was walked to the front of the room.

  She had let her best friend down at the worst time. No way to dress that up.

  Etta’s betrayal was deep as the grave.