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  All too exciting: she and Chris would drink their way into deep friendship and she would ask him, straight out, if he would care to save her. No messing. No reverse psychology or tricks, no making him think he had thought of it. One straight-up, hands-down plea: not to advise, or support, but to save. This careening life of hers could only be pulled back on course by his Cozee winnings. By fifteen thousand pounds of pity or, more likely, a wish to lend her money then lead her to bed.

  Where was this guy? Her cool was starting to melt; she was perspiring and needed air.

  Chill.

  The French doors were open and people were spilling out of the main room into the garden, clutching glasses and soon-to-be-lit cigarettes, as a sixties song lifted them higher and higher. Etta slowed at the buffet table and, picking up a cold sausage roll for company, wandered out to join the smokers.

  In the courtyard garden, balloons and banners did their best to mask any natural charm. A surge of intoxication hit her. There were forty or fifty more guests on the lawn.

  Ridiculous. It was time to message him:

  I’m here, where are you?

  As she awaited his reply, the clenching of her stomach eased. How would they greet each other: a nod, a handshake, a peck on each cheek? Shame about the pork breath.

  She swallowed fast as a man with grey-streaked hair neared her, smiling. She half-smiled back, wary of clinging pastry crumbs; he walked past.

  A yelp of laughter from a corner drew her eye to a huddle of what looked like VIP regulars. A great barrel of a man was holding court:

  ‘… so when I said “No, my name’s Leicester like the city, not Lester” she thought I was taking the piss!’

  Amused roars soared into the smoke-scented air.

  ‘What? Dad was a fan years before they won the League!’

  As if to punctuate the joke, her phone pinged. Chris:

  Sorry, running late. Grab a drink, I’m on my way.

  Etta smiled her relief. Fun was being had all around; no one seemed to be chatting about getting hooked on the reels or excruciating losses. Here in this naff-posh hotel, under all the balloons and the froufrou, she was part of the happiness conspiracy.

  She checked her phone. Nothing. More roars from the corner. Leicester-not-Lester was clearly a Cozee character.

  Etta scanned the courtyard for a quieter spot where she could wait for Chris. She strolled towards a shaded seating area where a woman in bright peach shoes and a platinum bob sat alone on a bench next to her large green handbag, smoking. As Etta got close enough to see the woman’s face, she could see that it had an unusual aspect: both vague and standoffish. Perfect.

  ‘Mind if I sit here?’ Etta asked.

  ‘Not at all.’

  The woman gave a hot burst of a smile, so fiery it startled, in great contrast to her eyes, which had the opposite problem, one of dampness, or distance, or whatever it was that Etta could not quite place.

  Etta shifted in her seat, hoping she had found this party’s Holy Grail: company that was not in the mood for a chat.

  The woman puffed out slow, considered streams of smoke. Etta looked out at the other guests. Halfway through her cigarette, the woman spoke:

  ‘They always put such effort into these things, don’t they?’

  ‘Do they?’ asked Etta. ‘It’s my first time at one of these.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the woman. She spoke like the head teacher of a good school. ‘I’ve lost count. Don’t know why I keep coming …’

  ‘No fun?’

  ‘Hard to say no. Party for nothing.’

  ‘And the drinks are free.’

  The woman lifted her chin and gave a soundless laugh. ‘So it would appear.’

  Despite the cool words, her voice had a warm husk to it. Likeable.

  ‘I’m Etta.’

  ‘Josephine.’

  ‘Hi,’ they said.

  Etta glanced down at the unlikely shoes and noticed that Josephine’s hands were shaking; the fingertips stained yellow; the nails bitten to the quick.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ said Etta. ‘If you don’t like these things, why do you keep coming? It doesn’t look so terrible, but—’

  ‘I come because they invite me. Been a VIP for months. Years.’

  ‘Great! Have you won a lot?’

  Josephine took a deep drag of cigarette. ‘On and off. Big win of £120,000 last year.’

  ‘Oh God, that’s amazing. How?’

  ‘This funny little game, actually. Sapphire Castle.’

  ‘But … £120,000 is amazing. Isn’t that amazing?’

  ‘Ha!’ Josephine gave a tight snort. She was closer to fifty than sixty and dressed for a day at the races, minus the hat and smile. ‘If you say so.’

  Her expression tightened and her mouth worked as Etta watched, waiting.

  ‘The thing they never tell you,’ Josephine began. ‘Is that you never get there.’

  Etta said nothing.

  ‘You’re new to this, aren’t you? You have that excited look.’

  ‘Happy to be here, I suppose,’ said Etta.

  ‘I knew a Barbadian woman, once.’ She was looking straight ahead, not at Etta. ‘Or is it Bajan now? Anyway, she was always happy too. Hair just like yours, curly-wiry.’

  Irritation pricked Etta’s mood. ‘Stick your black friend anecdote’, she wanted to say and thought of rising to go back to the bar. But the unknowable thing in Josephine’s eyes kept her seated. Subject change.

  ‘You must have loved getting a cheque for £120,000. What are you spending it on?’

  Josephine took a few sips of her drink and barked out another short laugh.

  ‘It’s spent.’

  ‘Really? On what?’

  ‘What did I buy?’ Again, she looked away into the middle distance, then reached for her handbag and turned to Etta. ‘Nothing except this stupid, ugly, extortionate, fuh … bag. Green doesn’t even suit me.’

  Etta agreed that it was indeed ugly, particularly when set against the statement heels in coral; orange, if you wished to be unkind. Nothing the woman was wearing suited her.

  ‘Why don’t you buy something you like? You have enough money.’

  ‘Had, Etta. Had.’

  The woman raised her eyes to Etta so she could finally see all that was wrong in them: devastation. The dark-bright gleam of someone broken.

  ‘You lost it,’ Etta said.

  Josephine raised her glass:

  ‘Every damn penny.’

  ‘God, really? But you’d made it. You had got there!’ said Etta, before checking herself. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault,’ said Josephine. ‘But you should know that, like I said, you never do. Get there.’

  ‘And still, you came to this, tonight?’

  ‘I don’t like being by myself in the house. My husband left me. Two years and … three months ago.’ Josephine shifted around towards her, a gleam in her expression at last. ‘Are you here alone?’

  ‘Waiting for a friend.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Josephine, shadows flitting across her eyes. ‘Man?’

  ‘Yes. Actually …’ the alcohol was staring to loosen her up. ‘I shouldn’t say, but … sod it. Have you seen StChristopher75 on the site?’

  Josephine straightened. ‘I have.’

  ‘What?’ asked Etta.

  ‘It’s … nothing. We messaged a few times.’ The older woman finished her drink. ‘Enjoy your evening. And now, I am back off to the bar. I just want to let it all … wash away.’

  She walked off through the door leading back to the bar. Etta had a mind to rise and follow her inside, but at that moment, her phone buzzed:

  Something’s come up. Can’t make it now. Sorry.

  The force of it tilted her chin back. He was not coming. Doubt boiled into dismay; it started seething up, up, tensing the sinews of her neck; her head tipped right back; she stared into the still-bright depths of sky. A long inhalation. She brought her chin down and looked abo
ut at the faux-luxe décor of the courtyard. This shitshow of delusion gussied up in latex and foil.

  One rosy balloon broke free from a cluster, drifted to the ground, bounced once, twice, five times and burst on a still-smoking fag.

  Her chance was dead.

  Bar or exit? As she turned, another buzz:

  Actually …

  Chris had hit send and was now Typing …

  Etta waited, one last ember of hope burning in her chest.

  Our last chat changed my mind.

  Typing …

  I thought – BINGO!!!

  Etta smiled and sipped her drink. He was teasing her.

  Typing …

  I should send your man – Ola Abayomi, right? – a FB friend request.

  He knew his full name.

  Typing …

  Or might come straight to you and ask for what u stole from ur boyfriend.

  Etta stared.

  Chris was still Typing …

  Might hop on the phone to Banking Fraud.

  Etta read it again. Poor joke? A bad punchline?

  Typing …

  The phoned buzzed again:

  Might come and collect myself 22k.

  Etta groped the air, feeling for something to hold on to.

  Let’s call it £10,000 and I will keep quiet.

  As the opening bars of ‘Happy’ started up, as the pointless DJ clapped above his head in time, as Leicester-not-Lester congaed onto the dancefloor with three women in tow, Etta bent double, winded, as she got it at last.

  Next thing she knew she was at the bar, her stomach twisting.

  ‘Cozee Calypso, please.’

  The barman made the drink, chinked ice cubes into it. ‘Hot night. Want a splash more pineapple juice in there?’

  ‘No, but I’ll take more rum, if you’ve got it. Please.’

  The barman gave her the brimming cocktail, a knowing smile and complimentary nuts.

  She took the drink back to an unlit corner; no sign of Josephine. Within half an hour, her glass had been drained and she sat in the same spot with two Jackpot Juleps, to save going back to the bar.

  Only when Etta was fully submerged in alcohol did she let her thoughts surface: Chris Wise had had her.

  Scammed.

  He had fooled her. He had plotted to ruin her. He had lied and led her here, alone, to this awful, gloating, venal knees-up just to punch her to the floor with his texts. The cruelty of it took your breath away.

  She rose again. The room swayed left, her stomach swayed right. She halted. Just two more drinks, a Sparkling Spinner maybe, or red wine for greater numbness. But no: all too much and far too late. She straightened and walked, upright and in the manner of one unscathed, out of the bar, out of the lobby. Out.

  Several cabs were waiting outside. She slid into the first, unable to suppress an undulating feeling of escape and defeat.

  ‘Paddington, please.’

  ‘Praed Street entrance?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  She tipped her head back onto cool black leather, let it fall to the side:

  The world was bruised grey, but still shiny, as if someone had filmed it using a tacky filter. One street passed by, then another smaller street passed by faster; here, a peeling parade of shops, juxtaposed surprisingly with a smart square.

  scammed

  screwed over

  The taxi slowed at the lights, then crawled behind a queue of cars onto a bridge. A third of the way along the bridge, her head lolled a degree more. She tried to focus on the view out of the window, tried not to look at her phone.

  Good as dead.

  She sat on the 23.28 to Cardiff; she changed at Reading. A black hole of a wait: twenty minutes stretched out to eternity; nineteen of them were spent in the platform loos, vomiting, washing her hands. The bad mirror did not show a wrecked face: it was a bit rough, bit drunk; late-Saturday-night normal. The devastation would not reveal itself to strangers, but she was sure she could detect, in the blacks of her eyes, the horror.

  She closed her eyes.

  They would look, now, like Josephine’s.

  Ruined.

  Minutes of darkness, until they announced the train that would take her home. She forced her eyes open, climbed into the nearest carriage, sat and stared at the filthy floor. The anaesthetic effect of free drinks was wearing off, now wearing her down. She hugged her large bag tight to her.

  Let’s call it £10,000 …

  blackmail

  The jolting train matched her mood: bumpy ride, dark destination.

  Desperate for distraction, Etta scanned her travel companions. The rumpled Sikh opposite was chewing a wifely forethought of a midnight meal, digging it from a plastic carton. Sweet fat and fruit: mango, maybe lamb.

  focus, breathe

  The other woman in the carriage, sitting two seats behind the Sikh, was dressed in a suit that suggested diligence over power. Etta saw a mother, working into the night to support a Marmite-smeared brood: it was the roundness of her posture, the weighed-down shoulders. Did Etta look like a mum: catastrophe at her back? Had Josephine mentioned children?

  You never get there.

  Three rows ahead, a man with a shaven head nodded to the beat of music she could not hear. An edgy movement, too involved. His beat caught in her throat, her heart leapt in sick sympathy. She pushed her bag away from her chest and looked down sharply: he was not wearing headphones. There was no music. His was a dance to some pulsating imperative; a St Vitus dance of anger, a testosterone twitch.

  bloody hell

  She kept staring downwards, studied her feet.

  ‘That stinks!’ he yelled.

  No one looked up at the skinhead shouting at the Indian’s food. Not Etta, not the mum, not the Indian.

  skinhead

  The train stopped, no one got on or off. The Sikh kept eating, so calm she wanted to shake him, dabbing at his curry with a chapati. Or paratha. Or failed naan—

  shut up

  What did bread matter when they would both be murdered?

  The train moved off. Next stop. Both men would be going to Rilton too, she knew it; neither had any business in the villages.

  As the carriage jolted, the skinhead jumped up. He started walking up through the aisle, towards Etta and the Indian man. He got near enough to touch the man’s turban, then turned and stomped back the other way. He turned and repeated his march, turned again. All the time, palpitating with aggression. Was he throbbing to sock someone brown in the eye? What would she do then?

  She looked down, head swimming.

  Etta’s legs would not stop shivering; the cool of the late-night train and the adrenal wash of racing from the shock of blackmail and pure primal fear; the overheated blood and brain; she longed to clamber down into the concrete embrace of Rilton station.

  next stop

  The train slowed. Skinhead stopped his head-bobbing, looked at her naked brown face, at her bag, held by her hands. He coughed, too hard. Fear fired her muscles; her legs strained to rise. If he rose at Rilton she would be finished.

  go

  Her quads spasmed, her shin shuddered; her legs did not want to know.

  The skinhead kept coughing, mouth uncovered, a sound like a starter motor. He looked at her as he barked.

  A fresh adrenaline flood; she was up and walking to the doors.

  Etta tried to appear unremarkable, to look not worth the hassle unless you had a good lawyer, to don a presumed innocence. She tried to look white.

  Open, please God.

  Facing the door, she heard someone rise behind her, felt them draw closer. Mad to turn around, mad not to. Mouth opening, she tried breathing down the breakbeats of her heart.

  The train stopped. The doors opened.

  She stepped off, still cradling her bag. Someone got off. More than one person. Would there be witnesses?

  The train pulled away behind her back. At her back, a cough like a car cranking into life.

  She started
to run.

  PART II

  Risk III

  PLITVIČE – JANUARY 2016

  This will save her or screw her for good.

  She can see him in the mirror, through the dark crack. He is still sleeping, his chest a haired crest of rising-falling peace; hard to see what troubles the night brought, or took away.

  Sentiment; wasted on his barbed-wire soul. She should hurry.

  The wallet is thick with hundreds. No surprise: he liked to wave his wad around the club, show the girls he had money and enough muscle to break heads. Her friends feared him but envied her, his companion, more. Had they not danced better, swung their hips harder, fixed him, all the men, more irresistibly with their stares?

  She looks down at the leather billfold. Will it make her or mess her up? If she takes the cash, even one note, she will have to run, run fast, and never come back.

  Put it back.

  Take it.

  Quick.

  She pushes the bathroom door open one inch more. Still he sleeps, clotted with dreams and the dissipating violence of his day.

  The wallet is her passport.

  England! The only place her life will make sense, now. She will blend in, make money, get by, get on, get better. She will be safe.

  She has friends who have gone before, foreigners like her who set off for places like London and Luton and Rilton and Slough. They had shown courage and their reward had been to disappear.

  Is she brave?

  She is dressed. The wallet is in her left hand, her trainers are in her right. If she takes it, she will have to run.