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  She would conjure up success.

  She would work like an alchemist, in secret and alone.

  At least now they had a bloody chance.

  A minute after she had signed up, an email appeared:

  Welcome to Cozee Bingo! You are now free to enjoy our fantastic range of premium bingo games and slots whenever the mood takes you. To make you feel at home we are giving you a special Newbie Bonus of £50. Excited yet?

  Bingo. Premium. Newbie Bonus. It ought to feel naff, but no, her mind opened wide to the seduction. She was excited yet.

  The chuk of the key in the front door. ‘Hey!’

  Ola was back.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier!’ he called up the stairs. ‘Can I come up? Friend or foe?’

  The balance in the top-right corner read £50.00. The Newbie Bonus was real. Virtual lights danced around the edges of the Cozee world, promising heaven-knew-what treats.

  ‘Friend!’ Etta called, laughter ringing in her voice.

  Before she could partake of the knowledge of angels, she x-d the screen.

  ‘What?’ asked Ola.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘You’re smiling to yourself, Etta.’

  ‘Was I? No.’

  She shook her head and felt her curls quivering from root to tip. Thanks to her, a sweet five-o was chilling upstairs while they ate dinner, ready to be put to use. Cool. The free £50 from Cozee was her cash-hunting trap, a money lasso which would draw down the moon.

  Honeymoon. Maldives! Sorted.

  Ola tapped out a knowing rhythm onto the back of her hand.

  ‘Ah-ah, do not try to play the fool with me. I know you, Etta. That’s the smile that comes when you’re looking forward to an “Olala Special”.’

  Etta tipped back her head and made the expected noises of outrage and delight. Ola would often tease her into a better mood; it was how he won all their arguments. But, tonight, she laughed loud and fast, hoping he might hear the lie in her haste.

  The £50 bonus might expire that evening. Would it? She should have checked; a rookie error.

  She wound down the hilarity and squirmed, a passable impression of pleasure.

  ‘Yes!’ Ola slapped a hand on the table, forked up more rice and the special Easter stew she had prepared. ‘I knew it. I know you.’

  ‘He-he, you got me! My oxytocin’s soaring, babes, my endorphins are going wild.’

  ‘Oxytocin? You do listen to me after all!’

  ‘Now and then. When it suits me.’

  ‘Ha! Troublesome woman. Learn from your husband.’

  She ratcheted up the Riltonness of her accent:

  ‘Would if I had one, babes.’

  ‘Ha! Yes, trouble.’

  They smiled at each other. But Etta could no longer taste the meat; she did not care that Ola had unconsciously started to chivvy up his thighs with frenetic micro-bounces. A £50 bonus was not nothing. It held value, possibility, weight, so much that the ceiling beyond the doorway, the one directly below the spare room, was pressing down upon her peace of mind. She needed to play.

  Etta scraped up her stew and, with a cool eye, watched Ola eat. Fork, rice, stew, plantain, lift, lips, chew. Fork, rice and stew, lips, chew. Fork, chew, taking for-bloody-ever.

  ‘You enjoying that?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. Another spoonful of it, please, my love.’

  She swallowed down her mistake and served him two of the smaller cubes of beef.

  What was her problem? Most days, she thrilled as he ate her food; she would watch his mouth as if together, quite as one, they tasted the smack of stewed tomatoes, the bullish meat, the Maggi seasoning if eating Nigerian, or allspice on more Jamaican nights, or indeed garlic, or wine; his enjoyment flavoured her evening, ordinarily.

  She dredged up a smile, the tingle of pepper playing over her lips and tongue.

  ‘This stew sweet o,’ said Ola. ‘Happy Easter, my love.’

  Etta retreated inside a slow blink as – uh – he helped himself to a third ladleful. He rested one hand on her arm and dug into his food with the other; gave a glutinous sniff.

  ‘Good bite, this one. Good spice.’

  Etta blinked faster. Mischief: the spice of all action. She rubbed one finger on her eye.

  ‘Ah! Oh, shi—’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Ola, fork down.

  ‘Just … stupidity! My eye, I forgot to scrub off the chilli and now it’s … ow.’

  Weeping, but only at the brilliance of her performance, Etta rose from her seat. ‘You carry on eating, my love, I’m going to sort myself out. Sorry. I might have to take a shower, or something. See you in bed.’

  ‘OK, as long as you’re all right.’ Fork up, lips.

  ‘Take your time.’

  ‘See you, then.’ Rice, stew.

  April Fools back atcha, she thought.

  A hot lie; untruths soaring up the Scoville scale because, upstairs, Cozee was calling. In the spare room, bingo beckoned.

  Etta powered up. First, the games with £1,000 prizes; she bought a modest six tickets out of a possible thirty-six each time. The games started, numbers popped up onscreen and checked themselves off the digital cards; the games played on and petered out. No wins, scarcely enough of a thrill to quicken a newbie pulse. There had to be more to it.

  A game bigging itself up as an ‘Easter Eggstravaganza’ was starting in four minutes. It offered a larger prize, a £2,000 pot. She should ‘max out’, judging by the other players’ chat scrolling fast in the box onscreen:

  Ron1964: You gonna max out? £2k!!!

  dreamcatcher: I’m maxing 4 this one.

  CathLovesBingo: Maaaaax!

  Etta maxed out. This allotted her all thirty-six tickets, six strips of virtual bingo cards that would automatically check off their own numbers as they were called.

  Ten seconds to go … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1. The game began. A moment of watching revealed that the tickets, being the most one could buy, had to rearrange themselves in a mesmerising dance, so that the leading card would always sit highest on the screen. When just one number remained – 27 – until Full House, it would flash and a heartbeat thud would start up loud on the screen.

  27.

  27?

  27! 27! 27! 27!

  42.

  No win this time, but Etta, a girl who had always loved to shake it with a Shaku Shaku or old-school bogle, was thrilled by the jig, the flash, the whole gaudy onscreen jive.

  Again!

  The bingo schedule listed a £5,000 Midnight Eggstra Special, over three hours away. Silly not to. But Ola would soon have forked up the last of his stew and she only had two eyes in her head which she could pretend to wash free of chilli. Best buy and run; the cards would go ahead and dance themselves out unwatched.

  There, his dense tread on the stairs.

  Etta tensed; breaths came heavier. Hurry. A full £5K, the joy of waking up to that! Three clicks. Done, done – hope was born – and done.

  Just in time: the guttural cry sounded from their bedroom.

  ‘Woman! Must you keep me waiting?’

  ‘I’m coming, Ola!’ she called.

  Such sober complaisance seemed suspect, even to her own ears, but as it was too late to make their usual jokes, she went to him without a smile.

  After he had kissed the smarting out of her unharmed eyes with his still-spicy mouth, kissed fire onto her lips, traced the geography of her sides and stomach, and lost himself in the wheaten hills of her body – they switched on News at Ten and stared at their television screen, slipping from satiety into numb dismay. The migrants were back at the top of the bill for the first time in many revolutions of the rolling news. There was a report about bussing migrants to borders, where they were being penned into new improved camps. The incomers were cycling and walking long stretches, storming through and surging over impotent barricades. Coming on, coming here; in ever-closer union as Europe itself was pulled apart.

&n
bsp; There came the obligatory close-up of the death-trap boat, rammed full of exhausted Africans; these people looked stunned, scarred, scared. They showed the same boat shot every single time – how could they not? – and Etta was saddened to note that the image had become near banal in its atrocity; while at some level it destroyed her, she could not deny it was now a touch less shocking, that it battered the heart less forcefully than the first time they had seen just what people would do to get to Europe.

  Desensitisation, thought Etta.

  ‘Poor bloody things,’ muttered Ola as he swung his legs out of the bed, preparing to brush his teeth. ‘They keep on coming.’

  After brushing her own teeth, Etta turned out the bathroom light. She was walking back into their bedroom when the fat bulldog next door started barking, loud and angry. Someone had to be outside.

  ‘Ola?’

  ‘Nnh.’

  He rolled onto his side, taking most of the duvet with him. That man could fall asleep in seconds.

  The dog barked again, faster, more furious.

  Etta could not be more awake. She went downstairs to check the door was locked, boldly turning on lights as she went.

  She reached the front door. Through the glass panel she could see that the security light was on.

  Someone was out there.

  She pulled at the front door. Locked. But even rattling the lock herself unnerved her; she glanced back over her shoulder. Could someone see in with all these lights on?

  The dog was still going mad: a warning shout every half-second or so.

  The barking echoed through the night. Etta tried to block out the sound of her own breathing and her thumping heart to listen in the half-second spaces.

  She leaned closer to the door, not daring to look outside, not daring to turn away.

  That was when she heard the padding, pounding noise on the pavement.

  The sound of someone running away.

  Chapter Two

  MONDAY, 2 APRIL 2018

  The next morning, Etta sat at the mirror, smoothing coconut oil balm onto her curls until they shone, a dark aura radiating from the horizon of her forehead. She had been too on edge the day before. Nervy, a bit extra, listening for bumps in the night. Today would go better.

  As soon as the shower pump kicked in and Ola released his exaggerated sigh, she saw her chance to satisfy hope. She rose, wrapped her dressing gown tighter around her and went to log on to her Cozee account. Steady, holding down the slightest swell of anticipation, poker-faced, she typed and clicked. Her account balance flashed up …

  £175.00

  A win! A decent win. More than she made in a whole day at FrameTech, when you took tax, NI and a terrible pension into account.

  She was winning, already. Cozee could work out for her. For them. It could work.

  They were still £8,000 short of a house deposit, but now – at last! – she could see a way through. A fast, fun, money-spinning way through. A chance. If she went in harder, only ever maxing out, and if she stuck at it, ‘processing’ their funds in a controlled fashion so that they came out, mostly, as more money; if she didn’t get too emotional, or carried away, then living their real life – at long bloody last! – would be her reward.

  Etta would win them their future.

  As soon as Ola went out for his Easter Monday newspaper, she went back to the laptop and maxed out on tickets for that day’s One O’Clock Rock, then logged out. She got as far as the door before turning around and logging back in. Buy, click, buy, click, buy. Tickets for all the big bingo games on the hour, every hour, up until 10 p.m. She had to win. She logged back out and went downstairs.

  The whole pre-booking system for bingo games was a brilliant idea. Not only could she play bingo without running a gauntlet of grannies; without the decades-old stench of dead fags; without chips mashed into nasty carpet strewn with neon dabbers. She could, thanks to pre-booking, play bingo while she washed up the glasses, planned that evening’s effort-free dinner – those sausages in the freezer, maybe, or leftover stew – and got dressed. On a normal working day, she could play bingo while at work and she could still be playing bingo when she returned home, ate the effort-free dinner with Ola and washed up the glasses again. She could play bingo while she played bingo. She could play bingo while she was not playing bingo. It was the most brilliant idea.

  Etta felt a deep pull of excitement. She was starting to see why lesser minds might get addicted. No doubt that could be a danger. For those who had nothing else to do – no lover to roll with, no career to speak of, no flights abroad to look forward to, no baby baskets and school runs to dream about – you had to sympathise.

  Nonetheless, she ought to tread carefully. Should Ola find out about her new hobby, after going berserk African stylee, he might, with a lot of effort, be talked down, persuaded that this secret fun constituted an ironic stroll through the cultural slum of bingo alley, but Etta could by no means rely on that. Gambling would never marry with his idea of her. It was sacrilegious, stupid and wrong.

  See me see trouble. Which kind wahala be this? What kind of woman would set herself against both God and common sense?

  You’re better than that! he would say.

  Oneness, united? We are locked, he would say, into our own highly personalised neurophysiological experiences, both the genesis and the expression of our own miraculous universe of brain cells. QED: it’s existentially flawed! he would say.

  Think about what it’s doing to your brain! Food for thought, he would say.

  Bloody waste of our damn money! he would say.

  How he would detest her online world and all who inhabited it, each of them sitting around in their unowned accommodation, gawking at two fat ladies flashing pink …

  It was pointless, however, to over-think her boyfriend’s prejudices. He was a man who housed enough of his own contradictions, not least his strange ability to nibble at sustaining crumbs of faith while in pursuit of scientific truths.

  Time to get real. Time to change their luck.

  On Tuesday morning, Etta went into work. She hurried through the anodyne business park; head down, she made her way into the grey monolith that housed a number of insipid ventures. The FrameTech office, on the second floor, welcomed her with its proprietary blend of familiarity, uptightness and lack of interest.

  ‘Hi Etta. Y’alright today?’ Winston, her manager and the only other black employee, was eyeing her with amusement that stopped just short of a wink.

  ‘Fine, thank you. Sorry.’

  Jean, senior to both of them, sallow overseer of Accounts, cast a glance in Etta’s direction that felt anything but neighbourly, even though she lived right opposite her and Ola. Dana bared pointy teeth, already bored, primed to hunt down weaker colleagues and suck the gossip from them. John, the MD, sat in his large glass-fronted office, and did not look away from his screen. In the slightly smaller glass-fronted office next to him was Robert, Head of Finance, and her departmental manager. He looked up at the clock on the wall.

  Etta was twelve minutes late into her seat and the whiff of employee inadequacy clung to her like body odour all morning.

  At lunchtime, she was refreshed by seeing Joyce’s name flash up on her phone.

  Government has got it in for Mum big time, can’t believe it. Seriously? Been calming her down all over Easter. Need your help! xx

  Etta replied straight away:

  Of course I’ll help. At work, speak later xx

  She would ring Joyce that evening when she got back from the office, away from unsympathetic ears. Friends mattered, Joyce more than most. Government harassment? Etta would get up stand up for the Jacksons’ rights the minute she had got through eight hours of corporate servitude at Frame-Tech.

  Twenty minutes before the end of her working day (four hours highlighting spreadsheets that no one would read; lunch in the park; three hours and ten minutes reading a spreadsheet she did not understand), her extension rang.

  ‘Hello, it’
s Reception. I’ve got a Joyce Jackson here to see you.’

  Etta made her surprise chime like delight.

  ‘Ah yes! Thanks, Angeline. I’ll be down in a tick.’

  Joyce was standing in reception, or rather she was pacing erratically – four steps, turn, three steps, turn. In her DMs and slim-fit jeans, and with her multi-directional twists of hair, she was a Jamaican Nemesis stomping all over the glass-fronted heart of suburban commerce. The security guard, white, broad-chested and hairless beneath his cap, looked itchy. Etta made a show of opening her arms wide and smiling.

  ‘Joyce!’ she contained her in a hug and steered her into yet more glass, the visitors’ room off the main reception. ‘What’s up?’

  Joyce was shaking her head, as if to dislodge a painful idea trapped beneath the hair twists.

  ‘Please, Etta, you’ve got to help me. They want to deport her.’

  ‘I will help, Joyce, I promise. Calm down.’

  ‘Can you believe they could do this to her? What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘No, I can’t. There must be some sort of mistake.’

  Joyce wasn’t listening. ‘How can they threaten a woman who’s going to be seventy-six next month?’

  ‘It’s terrible—’

  ‘It’s outrageous! She’s scared to go to sleep because she’s worried they might come knocking in the night and cart her off to Yarl’s Wood.’

  ‘God, that is beyond out of order.’

  ‘It’s beyond beyond, the outest of order, right? Deport her, why? Where to exactly in Jamaica, tell me that? Her corner of Negril must be one massive hotel resort by now. She’s been here for fifty years.’

  ‘I know, Joyce, it’s madness.’

  ‘All my aunts and uncles are dead or over here, anyway.’ She raised her voice. ‘What the hell’s she supposed to do on her Jack Jones in Jamaica?’

  The security guard looked over.

  ‘Shhh!’ said Etta.

  ‘Shit, sorry.’

  The guard walked closer to the transparent walls, putting extra effort into the evenness and efficiency of his own pacing.