Lucky
Page 8
Chapter Six
WEDNESDAY, 30 MAY 2018
Fuck.
OK.
Fuck.
OK.
Twenty-two thousand … fuck.
OK, OK.
No.
What was this, now? Who even was she? She groped in the half-dark, looking for herself, needing to see. A mirror she had never much considered, fixed to the wall by the door. She stooped to look at herself, the woman who had lost £22,000, and all she saw was scar tissue.
No.
Etta had lost it, but she would not lose it.
Whatever her brain was doing now, whatever was controlling the sad chemicals and consoling the stunned synapses she did not know, nor did she care to think. Her loss – this big-ass catastrophe – needed to be spilled out of her mind and spelled, in a neat black font, onto white screen; the shame shrunk and locked into the boxes of her spreadsheet.
She had squandered the money – all of it – for now, but she still had her smarts; no need to waste energy mourning the loss. So no, she would not throw her laptop across the room, or crawl into the wardrobe and cave in, or sink to the floor and wail. No. Above all else, Etta now needed to prove that she had not lost all power: she still possessed the cognitive wherewithal to rewind, delete, undo.
Before Ola awoke in their room next door, she would have thought of a solution.
Could family help, her mum? No, she had no money to spare and, even if she did, Etta would never, ever tell her what she had done. Family though … the cloud of an idea started to form: a distant relation, a cousin of her paternal grandfather, somewhere north of Lagos. He was hailed within family folklore as a man who carried as many pounds on his body as he held in the bank. Uncle Moneybags barged his way into her thoughts, a fat black saviour, but she forced him out. Total non-starter. Never even met the bloke; plus in genealogical terms he was no form of uncle, nor was he, by all accounts, all that great.
Think on.
She scrolled through the Jamaican side – the cousins, aunties, uncles and maybe-somebodies; she flicked through her whole mental address book, from colleagues to old classmates, but not one offered more promise. As hopeless as it was urgent: she would only have the £380 she had withdrawn to her bank account and that would not clear for two days.
Think on. Think!
Loans. There were these payday loans. They said the rates were high, but that would only matter if you could not repay them. She would win again, win better. She would pay them back.
Payday loans could not be that bad. If you needed £500 and had to pay back £900 after a few weeks, then of course it was not fair, you bet your life it was not reasonable. But when you were broke and needed funds you just did whatever was doable.
And she would do it: an instant solution, no familial complications. Well worth the incalculable interest when you knew you could win everything back and more – £1,000, £2,000, £100,000 – in one single spin. At least you had funds to process.
Here we go:
Kwikee Loans, the PayMaster, Wonky Loans, Moolarge.com, EezeeLuker, CashGod.com …
Etta filled in the form of the one with the highest star review average, 4.6, decent. She assumed her credit score was perfect. The PayMaster agreed and within fifteen minutes £1,000 was in her bank account, ready to Cozee up.
She went through to their bedroom and eyed the still-sleeping Ola. She was at such a remove from his blind ignorance; they had never been so far apart, not since Zagreb. She could only try to repay, and to repair, and to – oh, the irony, the agony, the shame, the goddamn stupidity! – earn serious dollar by hiding away from him on Cozee. It was all she could do. That and phone in sick for work, quick-smart.
Her phone rang almost as soon as she’d hung up on Winston.
‘Joyce! Hi.’
‘Hi Etta, how’s it going?’
‘OK. I’m off work today.’
‘God, wish I was. I’ve got to be quick: listen, I was wondering if you got that second letter? I sent it to you a few days ago.’
‘Yes, Joyce. Sorry, meant to say. I got it.’
‘Great. Are you still OK to write back for us?’
‘Of course, of course. I’m on it, hon.’
‘Aw, thanks so much, you’re brilliant. Gotta go. Laters, yeah?’
‘Bye.’
Etta placed her phone face down on the desk. A pixelated Hansel and Gretel blinked improbable eyes at her from her laptop, waiting for another candy-house bonus round. When that came, pear drops, chocolates, sherbet and nougat would rain down upon their orphaned heads, exploding upon impact into cash amounts, until the witch burst forth from the pantry to call time on the whole sickly bonanza. Etta was all set to gorge again.
But first, Joyce. Joyce had forwarded her the second letter which had arrived only the day before. It was the uglier twin of the first letter: 200-odd words that spelled out an officious lack of concern that the writers – the committee, or cabal – were too arrogant to disguise. Worse, it was designed to shake you up, just as it shakes you up when your life partner tells you, without remorse or regret, that they want to split up, that they’re kicking you out of the house and that oh, by the way, you were never actually married.
Etta would write again to the government. And call them too, if necessary.
The fairytale siblings blinked again.
Maybe she could do it after she hit a bonus round.
She kept spinning. Moments later, as if her laptop could read her thoughts, a tinny trumpet sounded, a gnarled witch threw her door open wide and she was in. £500! £150!
Etta ended her game a tidy £1,000 up. It was a start.
A pink light shone from her Cozee messages. Her face heated: StChristopher75. She had been out of control, touching herself like that. This was trouble.
Ignore it?
She clicked him open.
StChristopher75: How r u?
DestinysChild: Not bad. Winning. You?
StChristopher75: Not bad. Winning. Do you gamble IRL?
DestinysChild: Not so far. Rilton’s not really a casino sort of place!
StChristopher75: I know Rilton, not far away. I know people there. Great ice rink too.
DestinysChild: Yes, I live just between that and the massive church.
StChristopher75: What, near that brilliant all-day breakfast place?
DestinysChild: Yes, Teddy’s – that’s just up the road.
StChristopher75: Cool. U got work there?
DestinysChild: Nothing to write home about. Love my volunteering though.
StChristopher75: Charity shop?
DestinysChild: No, First Welcome. We advise people who need it: homeless, migrants, benefits etc.
StChristopher75: My kind of place. Wd
DestinysChild: Thanks, I do love it.
StChristopher75: Still, u must need a break. R u going to the Summer Party?
DestinysChild: ???
StChristopher75: Cozee VIP Summer Party, big one cos Cozee’s 10. U a VIP?
DestinysChild: No, not yet. Are you then?
StChristopher75: Too right! Keep going, u will be. Glglgl
Off went the pink light once more.
For the first time in hours, Etta smiled. She hit withdraw on £900 of her winnings. The £100 would form the seed money for the next session’s investment. This was now her job. She was a money farmer, working the glittering Cozee landscape; reap, sow, reap, sow; this was post-truth era agriculture with a cash crop. Retain a cool head, and a bit of luck, and the £22,000 would be replaced before she knew it.
And now, while the luck was on her, she would do the right thing. She had to: Joyce was too important to her, always had been, ever since they used to bounce around the place with bobbles in their bunches, wearing the matching Friends 4 Eva T-shirts they had pestered their parents for; Joyce always faster, funnier, Etta shy but bright. They had grown up but never grown out of their friendship, even after boys came along; they had only needed each other more.
Forty minutes later, it was done.
Wednesday, 30 May 2018
To Her Majesty’s Government,
I am writing to you with regard to the case of one Mrs Cynthia May Jackson. When you read my letter, I am sure that you will agree that resolution of this matter is of the utmost urgency.
Mrs Jackson has been recently threatened with deportation to Jamaica, the country in which she was born in 1942. While the reasons behind these threats are not entirely clear, it would appear that they pertain to missing or incorrect paperwork.
Bearing in mind that Mrs Jackson came to England in 1966 and that half a century is a hell of a long time in which to expect even the most diligent record-keeper to hold on to paperwork, could you please clarify precisely which documents are required to prove she is entitled to live in this country?
I have some suggestions for you. Could it be the certificate she received a few years back to congratulate her on her 40 years of service to the NHS? Or the cutting from the local newspaper that shows her, proud in her pressed midwife’s uniform, surrounded by dozens of the British children she brought safely into the world? No? Could it be her marriage certificate, or children’s birth certificates, the church and hospital each only two miles from where she still lives? If it’s still her house: could it be the title deeds to her home? How about the four decades of PAYE slips?
(If it is her benefits paperwork you need, please go ahead and book a seat on the plane now: Mrs Jackson has accepted nothing, ever, except the child benefit and NHS pension to which she was honoured to feel entitled.)
I suspect it may be her passport you are after. On this front, we will sadly be unable to satisfy your request, as Mrs Jackson, having experienced severe turbulence during both her childhood and her flight to Heathrow, decided that she would never leave the country again and neglected to apply for one.
Whatever the paperwork you need, I sincerely doubt that there is one single document that can convey just how much Mrs Cynthia May Jackson believes she is British and how much she has given back to the country she calls home.
Yours sincerely,
Joyce Jackson
(On behalf of Mrs Cynthia May Jackson)
She emailed it to Joyce. Then she picked up the phone.
‘OK Joyce, I’ve written another letter. You listening?’
She read it to her, the reading punctuated by the odd ‘Yes!’ from her friend. She finished.
‘That is beautiful, Etta. Thank you so much. Should I email it or post it?’
Etta replied, ‘Both.’
She shut down the email account and looked out of the window. The gables of the nearest house seemed to inch closer by the day: they were bearing down on her. For now, though, this was a minor annoyance. She was doing good deeds, setting records straight. Winning back £22,000, a sum she would consider gobsmacking, had it not already smacked her so hard on the arse.
£21,000 to go and counting.
She powered up the Cozee site.
The next day, Thursday, she called in sick again. Friday, spent once more ‘off sick’, at least brought with it respite from residual guilt: it was practically the weekend. On Saturday, Etta won, on Sunday, she lost. On Monday, she returned to work; that evening, she won again. She advanced over uneven fortunes, gathering the odd bump or bruise, but in all she was climbing the mountain: there was now £8,335 in the pot.
£13.7K to go and counting.
According to Joyce, there had been no acknowledgement from the government of Cynthia’s second reply although, in the light of its exemplary logic, righteous ire and all-round badassness, Etta felt sure someone would get back to them soon. She could phone, make sure it had landed in the right inbox or on the correct desk. However, it was bound to take forever to negotiate all of Whitehall’s extensions of condescension in order to locate the correct Department of Indifference, and Ola would be back soon. Every spare second had to be employed to get their money back. Etta went to the window, opened it and breathed in the back-garden air, lest she suffocate from the stench of her decaying good intentions.
As the must was clearing from her mind, her phone buzzed. Ola:
Sorry, need to stay and talk to Rob about this funding gap. Important. Eat dinner without me. x
Now she felt trapped by an hour or two of freedom. How could she do anything but go onto Cozee? Ola had no idea what she was putting herself through; it was a lonely task, and taxing on the soul, to be a secret saviour.
She ran downstairs and ransacked the cupboard and fridge.
‘Yup! Need me a big one today …’
She returned to the spare room bearing an inordinate gin and tonic, sat and took some gulps, and clicked on her messages. Should she? She did:
DestinysChild: How’s it going with you?
A minute passed. Etta spun away a few promiscuous fivers but won nothing. The pink light broke into grey thoughts:
StChristopher75: All sweet. U?
DestinysChild: Meh. Not winning enough.
StChristopher75: Try Mermaid’s Gold. Paying big earlier.
DestinysChild: Thanks. Your tips are great.
StChristopher75: I try. For people I like.
DestinysChild: You like me? You haven’t met me.
StChristopher75: U can tell a lot from chat.
DestinysChild: Like what.
StChristopher75: Ur smart, ur adventurous. Ur hot.
DestinysChild: Hot?
StChristopher75: Can just tell.
DestinysChild: No one has ever called me hot.
StChristopher75: Not to your face. But I can tell.
DestinysChild: Yeah right.
StChristopher75: Send me a photo.
DestinysChild: No!
StChristopher75: Please. Just your face, nothing dodge. They don’t let you on Cozee. It’s stchristopher75@me.com
DestinysChild:
StChristopher75: I’ll show u mine if …
DestinysChild: So you ARE naughty
StChristopher75: Ask me no questions … Off to check my email and play Mermaid’s Gold. Remember: paying big.
Paying big. Playing big. Going for broke. Going bust. All these terms to describe the madly intoxicating interplay between hope and fortune that was now the backdrop to her every waking moment. But where had that got her? DestinysChild needed to share; she hovered her fingers above the keyboard. He was a playmate, a laugh, but she needed a confidant more. She typed.
DestinysChild: Before you go, want to know a secret?
StChristopher75: Yes!
DestinysChild: I took [DELETE]
I borrowed [DELETE]
I need to win £14,000 as soon as possible.
Seconds passed. Had he left the room?
StChristopher75: Don’t we all. £100,000 wud be better!
DestinysChild: I mean it. I borrowed it from my boyfriend and need to put it back before he finds out.
StChristopher75: Oooooh, who’s a naughty girl, then?
Etta drank her gin. She had no intention of stopping.
DestinysChild: Yes, guess I am! Would rather be good and rich.
StChristopher75: Naughty and rich is best.
DestinysChild:
A few more seconds passed.
StChristopher75: See chat – Mermaid’s Gold just paid another £10k. Gtg glgl
Before she could say goodbye, the pink light had blinked off.
Etta raised the thick-rimmed gin balloon to her smile. She had a Cozee friend. She also had a good tip and enough funds to spin until Ola got in from a late night at the lab. There was no reason on earth why she should not drink to that.
The front door clunked open at 10.35 p.m. She was drunk and needed to go to bed.
‘I was waiting up for you!’ she called.
‘Coming!’ said Ola.
Moving next door, she slipped into bed. Seconds later, Ola slipped into her. Oddly for a man of no few loud opinions Ola was inclined to make love in near silence. Not even the slightest groan. He didn’t command it, they had never spoken about it, but if she cried out he opened up the gap somehow, slowed and stiffened in the wrong places, so she was left echoing into a void.
When it was over, Etta lay back and they turned off the lights. Good, nonetheless, to have returned from the spare room and caught him awake, caught that deep musk of his skin on her body, caught the mood. But the shower had been faulty for months and that was the first time she could ever recall its song sharing their bed. Drip drip, bang bang, a metronome for his building desire. Was it louder or had even her ears grown distracted and disloyal?
Within the hour, she had slipped sideways out of bed, once again, to seek their fortune along the landing.
Come Tuesday morning, Etta felt mortified in every sense: ashamed, rendered lifeless, on a par with death.
Under the strain of trying to push her winning total up and up, and faster, she had stayed at her laptop until 4.25 a.m. At around 2 a.m., she had added a bottle of red to her nocturnal gin. She would dump the empty bottles in the FrameTech car park bin that morning, an idea that had occurred to her at 4.30 a.m., as she slipped back into bed, semi-conscious, next to her unconscious partner.
It was now 7.37 a.m. Until this minute, the more she had deceived Ola, the more elaborate the justifications and the prettier the lies, the better she had felt about her deceit. Up until now, precisely 7.37 a.m., the better she had felt, the luckier she had been. But this was not lucky, or better, this was early and sad and broken and hungover: too many illicit bottles of red wine in too few days had caught up with her. She could not raise her head from the pillow.