Lucky Page 9

  ‘Ola, I’m sick.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I’m not well.’

  ‘Heh? What is wrong? I thought you were better.’

  Her need took the sting out of yet another lie:

  ‘I was, but now I think I’ve got a bug. Maybe a cold.’

  ‘In June?’

  ‘What? I’m black!’

  ‘Heh! I hear you. But you’ll be fine.’

  Under an unequivocal weight of nausea, dampness where she should be dry, and vice versa – and was she imagining the sore eyes, the building catarrh? – the lack of care was too much to bear.

  ‘Yes, I will be fine, and so might you if you’re not late for work. They might still find more funding for you, right? Better keep them happy.’

  Etta spun on Dragon’s Layre, Rocket Fuel and Mystic Millions. An hour on, her spreadsheet total had dropped to £12,970. She still felt lucky. She could win it all back in one spin, that was the beauty of it.

  She was on Treasure Temptation, mining rubies, when the phone went.

  ‘Hi, Joyce!’

  ‘Etta.’ The voice was flat and low.

  Etta nudged her laptop over to Ola’s side of the bed.

  ‘Joyce, what is it?’

  She could feel her friend struggling in the silence.

  ‘It’s Mum.’

  A moth-storm of panic beneath her ribcage. Were the poor lady’s bags packed on government orders; was a taxi waiting?

  ‘What’s happened now?’

  Silence, broken only by fractured gasps. A faint keening. A longer silence.

  ‘Joyce?’

  When Joyce spoke, there was lead in her voice.

  ‘She’s died. Heart attack.’

  ‘Gosh, Joyce—’

  ‘I found her last night, when I went in to check she had taken her medicines. Not breathing, her heart had just stopped and I couldn’t … I couldn’t … I called the ambulance and that, but it was already all over.’

  ‘Joyce, I’m so sorry. That’s terrible, awful.’

  ‘At least she was in her bed, right?’

  ‘Yes. Oh wow, my love. Sorry.’

  ‘I think it was all this government stress, myself. She was waiting to hear back from them after your letter. Why did they keep her waiting? You’d even phoned to chase them, hadn’t you?’

  Now the lead weighed in her own throat. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Exactly. They just don’t bloody care. Still, don’t matter now, does it?’ Her voice cracked.

  ‘Oh, Joyce, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Should I come over now?’

  ‘No, you’re OK.’

  ‘But are you?’

  ‘No. Not really.’ Silence. ‘I think I’ve got to go …’

  ‘OK. Bye, Joyce, lots of love, yeah?’

  ‘Thanks, babes. Love you too.’

  They hung up. Etta leaned back into the pillows and closed her eyes. She pictured everything as it should have been. She saw herself phoning a never-ending series of government departments in the name of Joyce Jackson. She saw herself acting fast and true, precisely as Cynthia’s daughter would have done had she not suffered from a long-standing terror of bureaucracy. She imagined herself as the loyal friend she should have been, a social justice warrior standing up for love and the right thing and community, never taking an engaged tone or voicemail for an answer, just as she had originally planned. (For one unhelpful second, she also saw herself winning £12,000 on her next bonus-laden spin, but she blinked it away.) She pictured herself rising from her real-fake sickbed to make curry chicken and rice which she would take, still steaming, to her bereaved friend. She would ring the doorbell but refuse to come in as a cold – or bizarre bug – was the last thing Joyce needed right now; she would simply hand her the mother-food.

  But open one’s eyes and the truth will flood in, bold as daylight. Etta had not done all these good things. She had not done any of them. She would, at the right time, explain to Joyce that she had not got around to phoning the government; that her guilt weighed upon her, that she wished to stop it from wedging between them, that she would have rung that very day but …

  But all of it was weak and wishful thinking. Except, perhaps, for the £12,000 win.

  She needed air. She wrapped her coat around her dressing gown, threw a chiffon scarf around her neck to mask the v of naked skin, thrust her feet into flat shoes, picked up her keys and left. She doubled back up the road and made her way to her favourite park, the one nearest her work. No real risk: it was well before lunchtime so only fellow skivers would spot her. Safe enough. Full of green promise, almost symbolic, lying in wait just to tell her life was all swings and roundabouts.

  The generosity of open space struck her from across the road. She hurried on to it, imagining herself running ahead, divesting her body of its off-the-cuff clothing and lying face down, arms outspread in the grass. Instead she walked, clothed, through the park, without aim and without sunglasses; on she walked. The day was warm, but not so hot as to render her coat strange; the air felt light, but not thin.

  Face tilted to the sky, Etta walked across the park. Bird, bench, woman in blue, clouds. She was aware of looking with a certain ferocity to keep all thought at bay. Bin, car in distance, grass, man on the ground. She slowed. To her left, fifty metres ahead, a black man appeared to be sitting on a blanket on the ground. She reached into her pocket for the parking pound it always contained. Nothing. Drawn to the man’s abject strangeness, she wandered off the lawn and onto the path where he sat.

  He was an African man, black-skinned and lean, and he was sitting cross-legged at the edge of the main path at the far side of the park, near the swings and roundabouts; today the play equipment stood unused and none of it looked especially symbolic. In front of him he had spread out a small dustsheet. On the smudged sheet, there appeared to be two stacks of black boxes, the size of Christmas shortbread tins. Fewer than a dozen of them were laid out; Etta wondered whether he was selling out of his mystery wares, or whether that comprised his total stock. Was it jewellery, or some other form of crafty tat? Food seemed unlikely to be served from the ground. What was he doing there?

  As she neared him, she could make out the slimness of his crossed legs, the dust-blown sandals, the alien lack of self-consciousness with which he called out to the world:

  ‘Apostle!’

  A man of God; perhaps they were black Bibles. As she neared him, she saw that he too had a scar, five times more dramatic than her own, running from lip to chin.

  ‘Apostle, apostle.’

  He made an exceptional prophet, sprawled on the tufted dirt of the Rilton rec.

  In her coat, her hidden dressing gown rubbing across her bare skin, she felt drawn to him; he alone was odder than her in that park, on that day. As she neared him, she braced herself for the loud cry – apostle! – or even a cascading spiel of hard sell; few walkers were acknowledging his presence, choosing either to speed up their stride or to veer onto the grass and away. She drew level, casting him a downwards glance; the seller fell silent. A sharp look away from her understanding gaze, as if seeking any other possible punter. She kept on walking, too awkward to stop and examine the boxes.

  He had seen her, but not called out; he had not attempted to engage her. Why? After a good fifty more paces, Etta suspected she had the answer. He saw her, but not as a customer. He saw the Africa in her skin and curls and rounded nose. To him, she was not a passing opportunity: they were both the same.

  She still wished she knew what he sold.

  The moment of recognition lifted her all the way through the park and back along every pavement until she was back home. Though she did feel a lingering need to warn the black man somehow; you could not just sit there muttering on about apostles to strangers in the street. His innocence might get him battered. Rilton wasn’t a place that was waiting to hear the word of God, not unless God was reading out the football scores. He would not succeed here. Didn’t he know? All
those tacky black boxes on that grubby sheet. Why didn’t he know?

  Once inside, she went straight to the spare room.

  The homepage idled, the Wi-Fi taking its time to kick in. Hurry. She was seconds away from the revelation of some can’t-say-no novelty, a box-fresh promotion, or a virgin game promising to flash its cash: Cozee was open and ready for you, 24/7.

  The display of big winners blinked from the home screen:

  … MaeMae21 – £20,000 … RoyRogerz – £34,500 … Fabuloso – £77,000 … StChristopher75 – £55,000 …

  He had won. StChristopher75, her mate, had won £55,000!

  She clicked on messages and found him.

  DestinysChild: OMG I just saw

  [DELETE]

  DestinysChild: Congratulations!!! Bloody h

  [DELETE]

  DestinysChild: Can’t believe that you won £55,000 and you didn’t

  [DELETE]

  DestinysChild: Very well done

  [DELETE]

  No words would suffice to praise the brilliance of his good fortune, the genius of having chanced upon the right game at the right time. Lucky sod. Such prowess was unknown to ordinary folk but StChristopher75 was now the Cozee dream made flesh. He was a winner.

  It was a sign. She too had to elevate her own sorry arse above the losers, the depressive chancers, the clichés, and become more. Imitation as flattery, actions versus words; it was time.

  She was decided. He had money, more than enough now, and he could help her. He understood their ever-spinning world and knew that hard cash was the key. She had to get through to him, enough to secure a loan at least. She had to play the game.

  She opened up old files, searching, searching. She found what she was after: a headshot of her, smiling. She was made up, but not too much; inviting, but not too much; fun times in her eyes, attitude knowing, curly afro fully out, chin up.

  She attached the image to an email:

  Dear StChristopher75,

  You wanted a pic. Be careful what you wish for!

  Stay lucky,

  Etta

  She had made her move. Over to him.

  Etta started to spin.

  Risk II

  PLITVIČE – OCTOBER 2015

  The stage looks bigger once you are standing on it, the people below far away and small. The place is filling up with men drifting in from the konobas next door where they will have eaten their fill of crni rižot which has turned many teeth squid-ink black, and savoury boškarin, and rakija-spiked fritule pastries. Still they have appetites. They look at her, wet their lips with thick tongues and drop their gaze to the beer in their hands, or to light their cigarettes. Their looks do not soften now, despite her beauty. They take on a different quality, something dark and electric.

  The stage was not so big on Tuesday, when she had played it all cocky, then awed, then faint with gratitude to get through the audition that had ended in an interrupted grope and a new gig. Now she feels small.

  Still, it is better than waiting tables.

  As they are still shuffling in – these mostly father-age men who do not yet wish to return to their women; men who have hungers that they choose not to sate from the stocky pots waiting for them on their own kitchen table – the music starts up. It is time. She starts to bend and sway, stopping the already scant conversation, drawing hard-working eyes to the stage and – from darkness, with electricity – turning them on.

  A hip out at an angle, then swung across to the opposite corner of the room; waist twisting in time to the bold sweet music; she sinks at the knees for a second’s swoon, then rises high and proud. She has them. The outfit choice was good: a small flared skirt; a bright top, more camisole than corset; a shining belt wrapped tight around her middle. She grows braver and lifts one arm, then the other. Half a twirl and a fancy movement of the torso: balletic showgirl. The tension beyond the spotlight slackens a touch. Too much. She softens her own gaze, lowers her arms, sways with less force and smiles: their daughter’s exotic friend dancing around their living room. There, she has them once more.

  Two new men hunch in, each as tall as the door. She looks straight at them, a level gaze from her podium. They do not turn to face her; they shoot iron looks at each other and talk with urgent hands. An argument, great fists soon to strike? Blood to be shed over territory, property or politics? There is power in them, agency and heft, but none of it to be used for her ends, not tonight.

  Though she works her hips harder, the men settle down and slide into a corner of the room; she catches the eye of neither.

  Still, her luck could be out there, somewhere, pulsing to the beat, out there in the gloom that she has sexed up with all the might of her meticulously coy motion, waiting out there in the smoke.

  Chapter Seven

  MONDAY, 18 JUNE 2018

  The quarterly savings account statement was not due until the following month, but at any moment Ola could check the balance and find the money gone. Etta searched her partner’s face for a sudden cloudburst of anger or confusion at even the least likely moments: not only as he tapped at his phone, but as he drifted off to sleep, as he slumbered. Not a thing.

  On Monday morning, Etta and Ola waltzed around the kitchen table, and each other. Hard-dough toast versus fruit bran. Coffees, black and white. Phone-checking (still no howl of outrage from Ola).

  After breakfast, he grabbed a new suit from where it was hanging in the hallway.

  ‘Hm-mm, do-di-do.’ He was in a good mood.

  ‘Nice garms,’ she said. ‘Is that new?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Lovely blue.’

  ‘It’s called peacock teal, the man said,’ he replied.

  ‘Bit snazzy for work, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s for the event afterwards. Remember? I’m staying over in the cheapo rooms above the conference hall tonight.’

  ‘Oh yes. In that suit, they might even upgrade you!’

  ‘Yes, who knows?’ he said. ‘We’re trying to seduce businesses into extending this phase of the trial. I’m trying to look like I live in the real world, and not in a lab.’

  ‘You’ll certainly fool them.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘Seriously, it’s sharp. The professors will weep with pride.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. Thank you, Etta.’

  ‘It’s OK, I know you never want to do these dull mingling things.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not ever.’

  ‘Ah, sorry, now you look all serious again. You’re doing well at work, Ola, giving it everything. It’ll pay off.’

  ‘Hnh. Thank you. I mean that. It’s been a tough time.’

  ‘I know. Try to enjoy this one, though. We’ll speak later.’

  ‘OK. Bye.’

  He left the house looking a little lost. Poor Ola, trying to dazzle his way out of trouble.

  The increasing demands of his work were making him vaguer than ever. He moped and mumbled and turned away from the truth: could he really have no idea of the efforts she was making to set them straight?

  On the way to work, she received a call from an unknown number:

  ‘Hi, this is Stephan of Forthouse Insurance.’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘We’re calling about the car accident you had recently …’

  Etta smiled. ‘Don’t think so, Stephan. I haven’t had any accidents. Wrong number? Got to go, bye.’

  Etta walked on, shaking her head. The phone went again a second later. A London number.

  ‘Hello! We’re calling from Cozee.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Etta, thinking of promotions and draws she may have entered.

  ‘We just wanted to say hello.’ As they had already said hello, this implied the caller was speaking from a script, a flawed one, but Etta did not mind in the least. ‘And we just wanted to let you know that we’ve got some great news for you.’

  ‘Oh?’ asked Etta, stopping her stride.

  ‘Yes. As one of our most valued members, we woul
d now like to make you a Cozee VIP.’

  ‘Great!’ replied Etta. The secret club, at last. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, as a valued member, you’ll get lots of extras to make your play more fun. We’ll give you a monthly bonus, based on your percentage of play. There’ll be competitions, free gifts, prizes, surprises …’

  Etta was sort of listening, but she had already heard. A monthly bonus, every month, plus free prize-surprises. Whatever else she had lost – her caution, her dignity, her honesty, Ola’s money – and even as her smouldering peace of mind threatened to go up in smoke, she was now a Cozee VIP.

  It meant something else too.

  As soon as she reached FrameTech, she rushed to her desk and opened up her private email. Something had just landed in her inbox: stchristopher75@me.com.

  Hi Etta,

  Love your photo. Love it a bit too much, if I’m honest! Just so now we both know (can’t believe no one’s told you) you are definitely hot. You deserve to know that.

  Better still, you deserve to party with me as a VIP. Any joy?

  Would love to meet soon.

  Stay hot, Chris

  She replied straight away, before she could change her mind.

  Hi Chris,

  Great to hear from you.

  I’m now a VIP and eligible to come to the

  [DELETE]

  Too starchy, crap.

  Besides, he had loved her photo ‘too much’? You could read that a number of ways. He could admire her. Or, he could love her sticky-tissues too much; she should know. He could be a weirdo, or freak, or ex-con. You could not tell everything from a photo but …

  Hi Chris,

  Why thank you!

  Now you show me yours.

  Etta

  The emails and the phone call from Cozee continued to course through her working hours like adrenaline through veins. Checking her phone at around 10.30 a.m., her heart leapt and shimmied; an email from Chris.

  Dear Etta,

  Please find attached a photo. But first here’s what you need to know about me:

  I’m old enough to know better (you do the maths).