Lucky

by Rachel Edwards

  She was clean, dried off, ready to attack the working week with a fresh attitude. A last glance at the mirror brought comfort; unlike most, she could face the world pre-scarred, stick almost a full V-sign up to the perception of perfection, and life was all the better for it.

  The next day was Monday. Mondays meant meetings and meetings were the worst.

  The clock on the wall said 12.45 p.m., but the meeting showed no sign of ending.

  ‘Excellent point, Jean,’ said John, the lanky white male MD. ‘Robert, could you walk us through how that would work?’

  Robert, Head of Finance, also white and male, but bald and as stocky as the MD was tall, crawled them through each cost-cutting detail until 12.51 p.m. He passed the baton back to his neighbour, Jean, who spoke for three more minutes.

  ‘And so,’ concluded Jean, the white female middle manager, ‘all our departments will benefit in the longer term. Winston, could your team manage it?’

  Winston, the black male team leader, smiled:

  ‘Of course. Etta, we need to prioritise this, yes?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Etta, the black female boss of no one but her own sweet self, noting that it was 12.59 and evidently 1952.

  And with that, authority had once more cascaded down the well-worn FrameTech hierarchy as naturally as water down a hill.

  The minute hand moved: 1 p.m. Even the best-paid people in the room started packing up their notepads and picking up their pens.

  Lunchtime, at last.

  As the afternoon limped to a close, Winston wandered over to her desk; he tended to wander her way at quieter moments. Or busier moments. Or moments when Etta was wearing something new. They both knew, but were both attached – him to the lovely Dawn, her to his homeboy Ola; a sporadic four-way admiration established at the last two FrameTech Christmas dos – so that cancelled out tacit complications, technically. It did not matter that Winston came across as a kind, amusing man and was more built than a team leader needed to be.

  ‘You OK there, Etta?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘All done now.’

  ‘What would I do without you?’ he asked, all teeth and eyes.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe actually get some work done?’

  ‘That’s … pretty damn … cheeky,’ smiled Winston.

  ‘But accurate,’ said Etta. ‘Please God, tell me it’s a sacking offence.’

  ‘Sorry, no,’ said Winston. ‘You’re stuck with me in this place for-ever. What circle of hell did you say this was?’

  ‘Limbo, I believe, the First. But no doubt we’ll sink through them all before the end of the financial year.’

  ‘I’m holding out for the second one, personally.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Lust.’

  Etta laughed. ‘Ah, bless. Been googling Dante on my account, have you? Don’t worry, I haven’t read him either.’

  Winston looked thrown for a moment, then chuckled low.

  ‘You’re quite a handful to manage, you know that?’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Etta.

  Still smiling, Winston backed away, wandered back to his desk. He fancied himself a dormant player, too loyal to Dawn for purposeful chirpsing; he kept his approaches mild and, most days, largely professional. They were just messing with each other.

  Etta’s work was not quite all done, in truth, but she was. She was about to power down her PC and leave the office when she remembered and brought up one last page:

  GOV.UK – Home Office

  Even one day was too long for Cynthia Jackson to have suffered this sword dangling above her head, a head crowned with more wisdom than white hairs. Still no reply. There had been no cut-off date on the original letter. Was her case stuck in some bureaucratic bunker or email traffic jam? Etta dialled the number.

  Voicemail. It was 5.03 p.m. and the department closed at 5 p.m. Making a mental note to try again the next day, she gathered her things and hurried home.

  Ola’s car was not in its usual space, next to hers. He ought to be out for a while yet. She glanced back and saw Jean walking up the street to the house opposite.

  She dashed into her own house and went upstairs without pausing to open the post or pour a drink. The air in the spare room had its own welcome tinge of contamination: the taint of stale perfume, gin and sweat. The blood spots on the carpet had mellowed to a rust brown. No room in this hired and deficient house had felt as much her own.

  At last, her coming-home treat. She turned on the laptop and logged on to the site she had been tempted to check on her phone all day. Cozee. Had she won?

  For a fraction of a second it all – everything, life itself – hung in the balance. The page was not loading fast enough. She tried to wrong-foot fate. Zilch, going to be nada … No. Yes! £127.45! Her balance showed a £125 win.

  Head rush. Her vision thrilled, her mind gasped, joy rocketed through her. Total and utter head rush.

  Her head was fizzing. She patted a palm to her nostrils, just in case. No blood dripping this time, just a bloody decent win.

  Cozee was the bomb.

  Bang! A clatter from downstairs made Etta leap out of her chair, hitting her knee.

  No, it was OK: the free paper being slammed through their door, that was all. She sat back down, guilt radiating from her like perspiration.

  She was a disgrace. How could she go behind Ola’s back like this, using what was their money, whichever account she drew it from? She knew how: by telling herself she was helping them both, when it was – no messing, now – atrocious behaviour. How could she have lied to him after the restaurant, without a stutter? She could not stop replaying mental footage of her lips letting falsehoods out against her wishes, as if she had starred in a dubbed TV drama.

  The hug in those dense arms once she had ‘confessed’ had hurt in all the wrong places. But was she entirely to blame? Wouldn’t her stories have smelled off to someone who truly loved her? Or, as she was expanding her pool of talents, perhaps she was growing into a more adept liar.

  On the screen, a pink dot blinked. Someone was messaging her.

  Who? She knew no one, had engaged in private with no one on the site. She clicked.

  StChristopher75: Hi there.

  She went to delete but stopped. Foolish to send bad karma out into the Cozee universe.

  EO1984: Hello.

  StChristopher75: Just saying hi as u new yes?

  Etta stalled; she had not joined to make friends or attract attention. Still, manners cost nothing.

  EO1984: Yes ty.

  Nothing.

  Twenty seconds later:

  StChristopher75:

  Then the pink light went off. He was gone.

  She inhaled deep and yawned, stretching up her arms. She needed to chill out, the rules were different here; genuine bonhomie coursed amongst the seasoned Cozeers. Etta was not used to bonhomie, living in Rilton (which sounded like the Hilton, but ought never to be confused with anything approaching leisure or even moderate luxury. It was a town of water-treaders, grafters and dossers, apart from a few roads like Aspen Street, where people lived when they knew good things were meant for them.) Unexpected approaches were doubtless all part of the benign embrace of Cozee, a good omen from that unpredictable and munificent cosmos. Indeed, Etta was blessed with a further sign: a banner flashed up to announce that Midnight Mayhem was running a special £5,000 jackpot. She clicked and clicked. There: maxed out – the tickets would play later. More than enough hope to go to bed on.

  She stepped over the blood spots. Had she been a better housewife, she would have got those stains out with carpet cleaner, or bleach, or whatever it was that better housewives used.

  But she was not a wife and this was not her house.

  She ought to tell Ola everything. She intended to tell Ola.

  But not just yet.

  Until their £30,000 future was banked and they stood, side by side, on an Aspen Street or wherever else Dr and Mrs Ola Abayomi were destined t
o live, she would not say a thing to her man.

  Not one word.

  Chapter Four

  WEDNESDAY, 9 MAY 2018

  Longest drought ever.

  Over three weeks had passed since her ‘anniversary’ ambush at the Indian restaurant. They had indulged in no sex at all – not a squeeze or stroke or crafty lick – in the days since then. No blame had been vocalised, but Etta suspected that she was coming across as uptight, or guilty, or in some other manner guaranteed to quash carnal appetite.

  She tried, but her optimism was flagging; things were slipping. Ola’s work was one problem. He might currently hold a research post that stoked the envy of junior colleagues in the world of neuroscience, but he had been there for two years and funding was never guaranteed. His work was demanding without being permanent; he had been called away once more tonight, this time to a seminar in Birmingham and, as he had wanted a night in front of the football, he had slunk off laden with self-pity, plus a beef, mustard and tomato sandwich for the journey.

  Cozee, on the other hand, was always there for her. It remained excellent company. The bingo called her back time and again, punctuating her day with excitement and opportunity, while the odd message from other players made her feel welcome within the fold. StChristopher75 was the friendliest. Active on chat and popular among Cozeers, he tipped her off about bingo specials and had even sent her another private message the day before:

  StChristopher75: How u doing, been lucky? U will be. Look out for Treasure Island Bingo Special!

  She smiled at the unmistakable mark of the pre-Tinder male: that former-boy-scout enthusiasm when chatting to a woman. What would he be, in his mid-forties? No doubt a sad divorcee after a spot of flirtation. Fair enough: divorce had to be rough. Faded tats, lager habit and a greying crew cut, probably. Harmless enough. It would not be the first time she had been chatted up in the corner of a room, even if this was a virtual one. Whatever, he was fast becoming her virtual best mate at the virtual party. And he might just give her a life-changing tip.

  Cozee. Just by tasting the word in her mouth, Etta experienced that old Pavlovian response; her tongue grew slick as she hungered for colour, movement, excitement.

  She went to the spare room. There was time for a little play before bed. If she spent the last of the money in her personal account, all £153.21, on a quick bingo game now, plus pre-buying max tickets for later that evening – Closing Time (£250 jackpot), Midnight Madness! (£1000 jackpot), One O’Clock Rock (£100) and so on – until it all ran out, she would be giving herself a true winning chance.

  Etta clicked onto the main bingo room and started to buy tickets until a buzz shook her phone. Joyce:

  Hi Etta. The government sent another letter. It’s still going on. What do I do?

  Etta typed a quick reply:

  Hi, just send me a copy. Leave it with me, I’ll sort it.

  Like Joyce, Etta had surmised that the problem must have gone away, what with Westminster being called out in the national papers for rubbishing the retirement dreams of a host of old black folk and trashing the trust and good relations long ago established with the Caribbean community. This trashing and rubbishing now even had a name, the Windrush Scandal, and a ‘day of national shame’ had been pronounced some weeks before. That minister had resigned. But now, another letter? Etta sensed she might have over-promised and under-delivered on this one, but it was not her fault the government didn’t give a toss: not like it was their mothers, their granddads. Life had been a bit too lively of late, but she would sort it.

  She looked down at the disarray at her elbows. She also needed to sort their shared office. All this crap, always, across the desk. Ola’s research, everywhere, demanding to be read.

  Instead, she played.

  Bingo was not calling her to any great extent. Her gaze drifted to the left of her screen. She had noticed the trailers for the ‘mini games’ some time before – so-called slot games that did not take you out of the bingo area – but had felt them to be too alien to explore. Now though, with three minutes fifty-four seconds until the next bingo game began, she wanted to get to know the alien.

  She clicked.

  When Lucky the Leprechaun opened up, it was no bigger than Etta’s palm. There were five reels to spin, each revealing a different symbol and ten possible winning lines. You could adjust the amount that you gambled per line, as well as the number of lines. Etta took all this in at a glance, but what she really saw was the rocking four-leaf clovers, the leaping rainbows, fat Lucky dancing himself sick in some Irish meadow, bright jade upon bucolic green, as the oi-tiddly-oi-toi music played over silence where the bingo calls should be. All a silly, merry cartoon. But if you brought up all five clovers, you would win the rolling jackpot which currently stood at … £175,673.

  Etta knew this would not happen. It was highly unlikely, at the very least. But, oh, how much greater was the thrill of that first £2 spin when one, then two, plump clovers rolled into view! She won nothing, of course, but … She deposited the rest of her money to play on the slots.

  After five more spins, she upped the total stake per spin to £5. After another minute she stopped counting the spins.

  One minute thirty-two seconds until her bingo game would start. Her tickets were bought and all but forgotten as Lucky frolicked. She had spun down to £45. Then: one, two, three … pleeease … four! Four clovers!

  Etta leapt; rose clean out of her seat. Before she could calculate or check the paytable, it was there, instantly in her account balance: £1,045.

  A thousand pounds, in one spin. Four clovers. Plus one yellow horseshoe where the jackpot should be.

  A win!

  Rewarded.

  Etta clutched her hands into raised fists and shifted in her seat, but she did not shout. She withdrew every last pound: Cozee knowhow had become second nature in the weeks since she had joined the site. You had to stay savvy, had to suss out how it worked. A cursory scan of the slots information told her that each game had its own RTP, or return to player, for example 95 per cent, which meant they were programmed so that over time you were meant to lose and you knew it. It was a reminder that you had to keep on your toes and stay lucky. Big time lucky. Four clovers lucky.

  Etta now believed she was meant for the slots. Just as with bingo, she would pre-empt errors of judgement and wrong-foot the RTP by applying a few rules, the cardinal one being to win and withdraw the difference; win and withdraw. Order came naturally to her: she had been keeping a spreadsheet of her overall winnings and was now, thanks to Lucky the Leprechaun, £1,728 up. If you were smart about it, you could make a fortune.

  Etta was on to a very good thing.

  At around 10 p.m., the neighbour’s bulldog freaked out; he barked when anyone as much as scuffed the driveway. Nonetheless, Etta went around the house to close windows and lock up; Ola’s nightly task. She left a light on in the spare room (he’d never know) and drew back the shower curtain, peered in the man-height wardrobe, stuck a head into the cupboard under the stairs. She checked that the kitchen’s back door was locked and, after a second’s thought, dragged a stool up against it; at the same time, she tried to shove the weight of her experience up against her closeted fears.

  She went to the front door and, as she always did when left alone to secure the house, opened the door to peek outside; an odd tic, but she would not sleep without satisfying the urge. She opened the door.

  A white box stood on the front step, as tall as her knees. It looked heavy. Beyond it was just the depth of purple-black night, broken only by the glow, here and there, of street lights. Nothing else; no one near, no van in the road. This box alone, a late delivery. On the top was a blue sticker: FRAGILE. She bent into a squat to perform a strong lift, heaved and almost toppled backwards: it was light, as if empty; no, as she carried it there was the light shift of something within. Etta double-locked the front door and put on the chain. She carried the box inside and placed it on the kitchen table, tilting it to rea
d the address label. Electronically printed, it was addressed to ‘Etta’ – no title, no surname, but with the correct address. They both received the odd delivery after work, but rarely so late. And why had the courier not knocked?

  The package was sealed up with dun parcel tape. She opened the cutlery drawer and removed the best tool: the large knife with the red handle. She stabbed the tape and sliced the box open, tearing back at the flaps. The scent of something rotten reached her nose too late; she had already thrust her hands deep into the high-sided box and pulled out handfuls of stinking, dead flowers.

  Etta reeled back, droplets of vegetal gunk slopping onto the table. She held up her hands before her. Who? Why, this bouquet of hate?

  She hurried to the sink and washed the slime away under a cold torrent. Turned the water hot, soaped, rinsed with more cold. Shook and dried. Sniffed at her fingertips to see if she could still detect that too-natural stench of dead beauty; that bosky decay clinging to her skin.

  She drew the blinds down on the kitchen window and picked up her phone to call Ola. It went to voicemail.

  She tried to sound normal in a text:

  Ola, did you send me flowers? xx

  A second reading suggested a certain ingratitude; she would explain when they spoke. She poured herself a drink while staring at her phone. Nothing. As she waited, she continued to examine the box.

  No card or note. At the bottom lay a glass vessel holding a stagnant inch of water. Not a proper florist’s vase, more of a jar, a crack near the rim which may have been caused by the lack of packaging around it. She lifted the jar up clear of the box; the phone buzzed; an explosion, a stab of horror. Horror that this should have come to her door caused her hand to spasm and fail and the jar to tumble to the floor and explode into a loud and comprehensive disintegration of her night.

  On the floor, everywhere, shards of glass, putrid water.