Lucky

by Rachel Edwards

  He smiled wide, better fortune now his.

  ‘It was nothing. Well done.’ Etta moved her palm along the wall, to feel the saving coolness of the next brick.

  ‘I’ve had the first medical. At the hospital, Dr Mishra from Kerala. You know him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Incredible man. Ah-ah! Clever man. Whole family killed in fire when he was a boy. Clothes factory. He tell me this o. Good, good man. Only ever want come to England, become doctor. Fix hearts.’

  Etta dropped her bag at his feet, scooped it up again.

  ‘Listen, sorry, I have to go. Nice to see you.’

  Before he could thank her, or bless her, or praise God again, she was off, sweating up the path.

  The act of walking was beneficial, if precarious; it zipped fresh air over the mint on her tongue so that, after a few yards, she felt less sick. Even so, her stomach lurched at a grey man in the distance; no, not Chris Wise. A runner broke into a sprint and she started as if shot. But there was no trouble. As she walked on, her vision snagged on buildings and bin sheds and large bushes; she did not pause by alleyways and checked each road before turning onto it; she was as calm as she could hope to feel.

  By the time she had reached the office she had adopted the expression of benign competence that would see her through the afternoon.

  ‘All OK?’ asked Winston.

  ‘All good, thanks,’ she replied, shuffling papers.

  There were no other comments as she took her place at her desk, no visible disapproval. One hour and twenty minutes was a credible doctor’s trip, all good. She would spreadsheet and document and diarise until everybody left.

  Three hours later, she sat alone in her corner, bar the mixed blessing of the cleaners. She went to the loo, taking her shopping with her, the now-toxic pork and the deliquescent peas, still chilling the remains of her gin. She sipped slow and breathed deep, keeping the queasiness at bay with juniper fumes. She had endured worse cocktail hours aged seventeen on the Paynton Road.

  A rattling of the handle. Etta jumped, staggered into a crouch, steadied herself.

  ‘Is that the cleaners?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘OK, I’m coming out!’

  She sprayed the can by the loo, choking the air with lemon to obliterate the gin, and walked past a short, bored woman in a tracksuit, back to her desk.

  The cleaner walked into the loo and began to mop.

  now

  She rose and walked across the office, trying to look as purposeful as possible. She stopped at the desk nearest the fire exit, Dana’s desk. Etta sat down in her seat and searched through the pile of ring folders on her desk. Office protocols, forms, nothing. She tried the drawers, the top one was locked. A brief rifle through the unlocked ones revealed nothing Etta did not have in her own desk. She needed the key.

  Etta tried to picture Dana, to recreate the movements of a woman she often tried to ignore. She lifted piles of paper, checked the back corners of the open drawers. Maybe she took the key home with her? No, all Etta could do was work with what she knew of Dana: she was not bright, and indifferent to her job …

  Pen pot.

  She dug her hand into the royal blue container full of biros and pulled out a tiny drawer key. It fitted the lock and in seconds she had pulled everything out. The notebook was the thing: it contained a list of passwords, including those for her PC, email and the work intranet. The folder beneath it held the treasure: the Funshine Club accounts. This voluntary scheme funded outings for the employees who paid into it each month: meals out, spa days and other organised fun to brighten their lives.

  Could she do this?

  Why not? Her cards were marked at FrameTech. Jean had it in for her and she had more power, always would. Nothing to lose.

  She powered up Dana’s PC. Her own breathing sounded unusually loud and nasal; everything weird today. She scrolled and clicked on the correct file, the one with the numbers that matched those in the ring-binder.

  In another window she opened the right online banking page.

  Her vision tightened up, shocked sober as she stared from paper to screen:

  Sort code: 19-55-24

  Account number: 62019607

  The password was right there in the notebook; more pitiful than even she had predicted:

  DanaL0vesFunshine!

  The trick was not to think about it; if she hesitated, she would be finished. She ran her eye down the list of debits that past year: small amounts for this and that. She took the money out in unnoticeable £100s and £50s and £30s, and then blew the bank with one £3,000. Now she could gamble bigger, get lucky faster and pay Chris. Dana wouldn’t notice for weeks; Etta would replace it long before that. It was her colleagues who paid into the Funshine Club, but she was no thief; no one would lose a penny.

  gin, calm

  She finished the bottle in long bitter draughts and set it down. Now the numbers on the screen swam freely. She was not stealing. She was borrowing to save her life. In fact, she should go larger, take £10,000 from this vast corporate-matched pot. Why not? In fact, £20,000 would do it in one go: ten to get rid of Chris and ten as funds to process, to save herself.

  Etta stared at the numbers until they appeared to stare back. Madness. She should have bought more gin.

  fuck it

  She did.

  Then she returned to her own desk, thinking at each step of the security cameras.

  She sat there, stiff with horror, numb with drink, for many minutes.

  Then she tilted forward, slow, slower, until her forehead was touching down on the desk. She closed her eyes and tried to gauge whether she had, in fact, lost her mind.

  She had to get out. She straightened, swept her essentials into her bag, dropped the gin into a colleague’s bin and went to the lifts. The lift doors opened and closed. She checked her phone during the eternal descent. A text from Ola two hours before, alerting her that he would not be home for dinner and was staying over at Christopher and Josie’s so they could iron out a niggle with the research for as long as it took. Luck might be on her side after all … the doors opened onto reception.

  There sat the same security guard who had eyed Joyce up for a beating. Roy? Robin?

  She slowed. ‘Night, Roger.’

  He looked at her as if she were Joyce:

  ‘Working late?’

  ‘Big project.’ He would have seen her, keeled over, on the security cameras. ‘Almost fell asleep!’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Been working like a … a …’

  stop

  Her tongue was growing thick in her mouth but she smiled as he jangled keys, swiped a card. Moments later, she was out. Out in Rilton: a liar, a thief and a fraud. If she walked slowly enough, she might catch her death on the way home.

  Etta survived the walk. As she neared her house, she looked right, across the road. The lights were on and there was Jean, hunched at the windowsill. She was looking out at the road. Some motion as she drew near, the ghost of a nod, but Etta felt no desire to wave. The flag hung limp in the night air, on its pole; a black abdication.

  A mad flurry of movement in the hedge. A spectre lurched out of the bushes, white and wild-eyed. Etta cried out.

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  It was Jean’s mother, barefoot in her nightie.

  ‘Have you?’ the old lady grabbed at Etta’s arm. ‘She killed her, you know. My Ruby. Put her in the bin!’

  Jean was hurrying out of their house, up the path:

  ‘There you are, Mother. Come inside!’

  ‘No!’ The mother looked like she might run.

  ‘Can I help, Jean? Let’s—’

  ‘We’re fine!’ Jean snapped, tugging at her mother’s hand and trying to lead her in as if her parent were the child. Seeing the look on Etta’s face, the words spilled out of her:

  ‘Ruby was her cat. She put it in the bloody recycling one night and I pulled it out just in time. Now the bloody thing’s scarpered
anyway and I can’t blame it – and just come on, come inside, Mother!’

  They shuffled past Etta up their path, the old woman now completely calm. Jean however, was red-faced and turned back once more to shout:

  ‘What are you looking at? This is so … You shouldn’t even be here! Come on, Mother!’

  Etta recoiled and turned away. A binned cat, what the hell? Had that been what she had seen in the middle of that night? Whatever: it was all too much, she also needed to get inside. Reaching the doorstep of her house, she slumped inside, upstairs and turned into bed, holding down a resurgence of nausea.

  She wanted Ola. She wanted to confess everything, to apologise for her incontestable weirdness, to tell him she had turned a corner, to tuck herself inside his shirt and hide from all that she had done. Unreasonable, impossible, sentimental. She had clearly not slept off the gin.

  sort it

  Etta opened her laptop and transferred the £10,000 to Chris Wise: it took ten seconds. She texted him:

  It’s done. £10,000. Now leave me alone.

  She waited. Five minutes went by, fifteen. She stared at her phone until the rearing nausea threatened to wash her away. She shuffled down the bed, lay her head on the pillow and her phone by her cheek. Was this it? No thanks, no acknowledgement, no receipt. Was this to be her peace?

  Still trying to fathom it out, she fell asleep.

  She woke up to a violent banging on the door. Shrugging on a robe, she stumbled downstairs. On the doorstep stood the puzzle man.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, pulling the cord of her dressing gown tighter.

  ‘I have it!’ he said, the triumph hard to miss.

  ‘Sorry, what?’ asked Etta. She forced herself not to look around; there was no Ola, no one else.

  ‘Your purse!’ he cried, holding out the red leather wallet. ‘You dropped it in the park.’

  ‘Did I?’ Etta rubbed her brow. ‘Gosh, thank you. Sorry.’

  ‘No trouble.’

  Her driving licence card, her address on full show, was facing outwards.

  ‘Thanks for coming to find me,’ said Etta. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Bankole Motilewa.’

  ‘OK, thanks, Bankole. I appreciate it.’

  ‘I am happy to help you, Etta,’ he said. ‘I will always help you, just as you have helped me.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Etta smiled. ‘That’s sweet. Bit early for me, sorry.’

  ‘Do you have to go to work?’

  ‘Yes. And I can’t speak before a coffee. I can barely move.’

  ‘Ha! He-he-he,’ the puzzle man enjoyed the joke, although she had not been joking.

  ‘OK. Well. Thanks for returning this, see you then.’

  ‘It was no problem. I should do more than this for you. Maybe I make you my own egusi soup. I am a man who can cook and do many things besides. I will bring you my egusi one day, show you the real deal o.’

  ‘Is that right?’ She laughed despite herself. ‘In that case, I’ll see you and your soup later.’

  ‘Goodbye, Etta Oladipo.’

  He turned and went up the path.

  She survived the remainder of the working week. The Tuesday walk into the FrameTech reception shimmered and warped like a hallucination, but after the first nod from the guard she felt more grounded, her lies ready ballast in her chest. She kept her head down, stayed sober enough to think, steadfastly refused to tremble, did nothing obviously untoward. She repeated the formula on Wednesday.

  Sobriety had its benefits: on Thursday she woke up, clear-headed if not fully rested, before 6 a.m. She dressed, whispered goodbye to Ola and got into the car. She drove to the 24-hour petrol station, put in a tenner of petrol and drew out £100 from the forecourt cashpoint. She paused, as she went to pay, by the plastic tubs full of cellophaned chrysanthemums. Not for her. She got back in her car and drove out of Rilton, up near-silent A-roads to the flower market in Pitbury. There, she wandered through the hand-slung avenues of lilies, roses, sweetpeas, gerbera, and others the names of which she did not know, strolling among the buckets of flowers, breathing in the scent of them in the morning dusk. Did she have a favourite flower? She did not know. She asked their names, gathered a great armful. She drove, then, back towards Rilton. After three miles, she turned off. It was lighter now and she did not let herself entertain the darkest thoughts as she walked up the well-tended gravel path of the crematorium grounds. She knew where to find Cynthia: Joyce had discussed her resting place with Etta before.

  Etta knelt with her flowers and laid them down in order: iris – alstroemeria – meadowsweet – sweet peas – orchid – stocks – orchid – rose … With a slow hand, she laid them all out until they fanned in a thick bouquet beside the grave, bearing the weight of the words she now always carried with her. She stayed next to her in silence, until it was fully light. Then, she drove to work.

  But, above the ineradicable scent of bitter, burning regret, life lifted with the veil of night, a touch brighter, and sweeter.

  On Friday, at 6.12 p.m., Chris Wise at last confirmed receipt. He messaged her as she was watering the plants in the back garden, the sparse primroses and tough rosemary, the first time she had spent outside in weeks.

  Got the money

  She wanted to feel the weight of her hate lifting, feel the closure people spoke of, but she only felt a fleeting relief from the fear, and a sadness. She was still in debt and in trouble; she still had to fight for her life.

  She was standing wiping her face with her palms when the next message came.

  That Merlin’s a right dodgy bastard, isn’t he?

  It took a moment. And then it rose, this permanent low tide of nausea, into a cresting panic. She texted one word:

  What?

  She stared at her phone, not moving until it buzzed again:

  That beardy old git took my £10,000. Some Miracle!

  Etta closed her eyes. The levity was the worst, that vicious gloating humour. Too much.

  She groped her way inside, and sat at the kitchen table, sipping water. Her phone was on the table. It buzzed at her again.

  Another £10,000 should do it. Thanks!

  PART III

  Chapter Twelve

  SATURDAY, 11 AUGUST 2018

  Etta was winning. What she was playing was not clear, but she was winning enormous sums and explosions of joy and light detonated behind her eyes. The pleasure was intense, but greater than even that was the sense of freedom; she was flying high. Little by little, consciousness seeped back and she grew aware that she was dreaming. By the light she could see in the bedroom as she opened her eyes a crack, she knew that it was morning. She roused herself enough to say:

  ‘Happy birthday, Ola.’

  She raised her head from her pillow and pressed dry lips to her partner’s cheek. She sipped from her bedside water, letting the elation of the night drain away from her. The emotion that replaced it was not despair, however, as she recalled there was no need to jump up and rush downstairs before him. Now that the bank statement had been flushed away, she did not have to wait, coiled and stricken, for the steel smack of the letterbox.

  Not today. The tensions that flooded her from the head down every time she thought of Wise could also chill, for today. Today, the two of them would celebrate big style; it was all in hand. Today was a game-changer. Today, she would tell him.

  She slid out of bed to open the champagne for the Buck’s Fizz brunch. As Ola showered, she saw to the spicy eggs, moin-moin and custard, fruit platter and toast. She forced Wise from her mind every time his face came into focus. But as she cooked, the rogue thought skittered and exploded across her consciousness like water drops over hot fat: every crumb of their feast and every last present – from the noise-cancelling wireless earbuds to his favourite palm wine, all of it – came courtesy of the Funshine Club.

  She put on his favourite music to drown out the searing notion and kept on his preferred lace-elastane robe. He wandered into the kitchen with a clutch of envelo
pes and she greeted him with a smile; for now, she was safe.

  She poured his sparkling cocktail, sat on his knee, laughed low, ha-sha-sha, her mouth’s flesh against his ear.

  ‘I think we should go back to bed for a while, Ola, after we’ve enjoyed all this fine breakfast …’

  He weighed her behind in his one-handed grasp:

  ‘Good, then I can enjoy all this fine you.’

  Throaty laughs; he grabbed at her, playful, as she rose to scramble the eggs and make toast, while Ola settled back and tore open his post.

  ‘Phone bill, knew it. I’ll ignore the bills until tomorrow, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Birthday prerogative.’

  ‘Hnh,’ the rip of another envelope. ‘No, this one is not a birthday card either.’

  More laughter.

  ‘Ignore them, now. Your birthday brunch is ready.’

  ‘Brunch, hey? What is it with all this brunch business, anyway? What’s wrong with breakfast?’

  ‘Eat!’

  ‘I’ll eat, woman, I’ll eat. It smells so good! Where’s your drink?’

  An opportunity to reassure. ‘Bit too early for me, birthday boy.’

  ‘Hnh. Good.’

  Both of them ate as if they had made love all morning: every scrap of the eggs and two rounds of toast, the moin-moin, the custard and fruit. Etta topped him up with champagne until the final splash had disappeared into the flute. As they shared his neat slices of what had been a dripping, indecent peach, Etta felt sleepy rather than aroused; perhaps they could take time out, lie down and rest their eyes for a while before tucking into each other.

  She forced herself to rise and tidy up, transferring plates to the dishwasher as Ola unsheathed the final letter.

  ‘Oh, sorry o. This one is for you.’

  ‘OK, I’ll read it in a—’

  ‘Hold on a minute. What the hell is this?’

  She spun around. A shattering as she knocked her plate to the floor, ceramic shards ricocheting to the farthest corners of the kitchen.