Lucky

by Rachel Edwards

  Etta’s breathing was coming fast and shallow. If she stopped to think about it, even for a minute, she would be lost. There was a space to park three houses along. She parallel-parked into it, getting it right first time. She was taut and focused, on a knife-edge. She had to get to him before he opened the parcel which was stuffed with nothing but cut-up printer paper; she had wound it round and round with parcel tape and packed it into bags within bags. When he looked inside, he might come out of his corner swinging. She had more than herself to think of; it could not become a scrap.

  In seconds she was out of the car and at his front door, with her bag open wide, just in case, ringing the bell before she could think. Lights on all over, a kid’s plastic trike by the gate. Wise might not live alone. He might—

  ‘Hello?’

  A slight and wizened Indian man had opened the front door.

  ‘Oh!’ said Etta, pumped up but thrown. Landlord? ‘Hello, Chris Wise lives here, right? I need to talk to him.’

  ‘You’ve got wrong house, sorry.’

  ‘It’s definitely his house.’

  ‘No, this is Choudhury house. Sorry.’ The man started to close the door.

  ‘No! Wait. I saw him come in here, just a minute ago.’

  The old man narrowed rheumy eyes, bright behind his glasses.

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘What? Oh, I dunno … He’s wearing a big old black coat and a blue hoodie. Trainers.’

  The old man scrunched his mouth in displeasure. ‘Hold on.’

  He pushed the door to, but not closed, and started to shout up the stairs calling to someone in what could have been Urdu, or Hindi or something, Etta had no clue. A voice called back, at least two others joined in. Etta could see the old man gesticulating excitedly behind the glass. Now someone was coming fast down the stairs.

  The door opened again: a young woman was standing there, a defiant look in her eye.

  ‘And?’ she said.

  She was still wearing the long black coat and the hoodie, pushed back off her head.

  Athletic build but not healthy, Asian brown. The nose she was sticking up in the air at Etta was pierced. She could not be more than twenty years old.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Etta.

  ‘Who are you?’ said the girl, chewing her lip.

  ‘Why did he send you? Chris Wise. Has he—’

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Chris Wise, sorry.’

  ‘What? Why did you take my money then?’

  The girl looked straight into her eyes.

  ‘You’re not …’

  The girl did not blink, her mouth twisting a touch. As if proud.

  ‘Ah!’ Etta puffed out a breath and leaned sideways in the doorway. ‘You? You’re the one who—’

  ‘Hush up!’ said the girl, glancing over her shoulder. ‘I can explain.’

  ‘You’d better,’ said Etta. ‘Get out here!’

  ‘No.’ The girl looked over her shoulder. ‘You need to go.’

  ‘I want to hear what you’ve got to say for yourself.’

  The old man – her grandad? – came back and started waving his arms around again and berating them in a rapid stream of incomprehensible words. Etta thought she caught him addressing the girl as ‘Nadia’.

  ‘Look, you’re getting me in shit with my people …’

  The man, still spouting angry foreign words, leaned between them and started trying to pull the door to. Now the girl started up her own angry stream of words. The old man was giving in. He was definitely calling her ‘Nadia’ and was so furious that he did not notice the door catching Etta’s arm as he yanked at it again.

  ‘Fucksake,’ said Nadia. ‘Either piss off or just come in.’

  Etta had to call it: neither the grandad nor the girl was intimidating. This was the only chance to a shine light on this havoc. Before she could lose her nerve, Etta had put one foot over the threshold and then the other.

  Nadia immediately leaned in, reached past her shoulder and did something complicated to the door. What, was she locked in? The old man gave another burst of babble then disappeared off. Etta glanced back at the closed door behind her.

  She was inside. In this strange liar’s home. This had not been the plan.

  ‘Come on then,’ said Nadia, who seemed to be standing taller now. She took off her coat, threw it into a corner, slid the hoodie’s cuffs up to her elbows.

  ‘I’m not staying,’ said Etta, the panic rising. ‘You just need to tell me what the fuck.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Nadia. ‘Let’s sit.’

  Etta tried to take the girl in: a sleeve of tats that made her look more fragile, not less, shadows contouring her face. Chewing gum and an attitude worked her bony jaw.

  She spoke as if she were speeding. ‘Knew it, just knew it. Recognised you straight off. Etta, yeah?’

  ‘Hm. What’s your real name, “Chris”?’

  ‘Karen,’ the girl spat back.

  Etta gave a laugh that did not touch the sides, a dead hard sound.

  ‘Sure, Nadia, OK.’

  The girl stopped dead at the foot of a staircase and shot her a steely look.

  ‘I thought you were smarter than that.’

  Etta realised her mistake too late.

  ‘Listen, I don’t care who you are. Not like I’m going to tell anyone. If I was going to involve the police, they would be here by now.’

  The girl raised her chin and looked Etta in the eye.

  ‘You’re chattin’ about police and that with everyone able to hear? Come, we’ll talk in my room.’

  She did not want to move forward, but she could not move back. The front door was locked. Etta felt a sensation like cold lead dropping into her stomach.

  The stairs were wider than expected, the house seemed to go right back.

  Nadia, jaw still working her gum, jerked her head upwards.

  ‘Come, yeah?’ She bounced halfway up the stairs and turned, waiting.

  She looked and spoke like a jittery teen. What could she do, really?

  ‘OK,’ Etta exhaled a touch. ‘Just a few minutes.’

  As she walked upstairs, she noticed scuff marks on the wall, small craters of gouged plaster. Not a cared-for home, not upmarket, but bigger than it appeared to be from the front. A long landing carpeted in dark red stretched ahead and faded into darkness. It looked like a run-down B&B.

  ‘OK …’ said Nadia, seemingly to herself.

  She walked ahead, slowing. As they edged into the dim hallway, it smelled dirty: old grime and stale herbs, a definite tinge of marijuana, plus a weird chemical tang that caught at the back of the throat. No grandparent would want to live here. What was this place?

  ‘Wait,’ said Nadia, pulling something from her pocket. She leaned into the door and it opened.

  Etta glanced up to the dark end of the corridor. Behind the closed door opposite, she could hear a woman enunciating loudly on the phone: No, I said Higgson … (something muffled) … Yes, INSURANCE. We’re calling about the car accident you had recently …

  ‘Come on,’ said Nadia.

  Etta half-turned but the girl’s arm was outstretched. She moved into the room – bed, chair, desk, lamp – after her scrawny host. Only as she stepped inside did she glimpse that it was not an ordinary bedroom door. It had a card reader, like a hotel.

  Nadia pushed the door to and indicated that Etta should sit.

  Etta took a seat on the hard plastic chair by the desk as Nadia flopped back and sat cross-legged on the bed, trainers still on.

  ‘So,’ Etta tried to put flint in her voice. ‘Let’s just get this done. You totally catfished me and—’

  ‘Hush,’ said Nadia. She leaned hard to her left, stretched one arm down, then rocked back up holding Etta’s package.

  She waved it at her visitor. ‘You think I’m an idiot?’

  She flexed her wrist to turn the package, which had a slash across the parcel tape on the back. She had already opened it.

>   Nadia’s dark eyes gleamed. She reached into the package, pulled out a handful of white paper and threw it at Etta, who blinked, went rigid.

  ‘What is this shit?’ said Nadia. ‘Trying to pass off this … rubbish. That’s what you think I am?’

  ‘No, I—’

  The girl dropped another handful of paper onto the bed with slow contempt. Her face was taut and waxy, giving less away than her hands. She looked cold, or unwell. Or like she was hiding something.

  Nadia bowed her head right down to where her legs crossed, letting her long dark hair fall in a thick curtain that hid her whole face.

  ‘Huuuuh,’ she gave a low growl of annoyance, then flicked her hair back. ‘You’ve got me in serious shit, now.’

  ‘I didn’t have much choice. I don’t have that kind of money.’

  Nadia picked up her mobile, dialled and waited.

  Etta was starting to feel clammy, breathy, a bit sick. Her eyes scanned the room. Sparse, crusty carpet, no wardrobe: more dilapidated office than bedroom. Boxes stacked in the corner, the top one full of maroon booklets. Were they passports? As Etta stared harder, Nadia hung up.

  ‘Not picking up. You’re gonna have to chill your boots here for a bit.’

  ‘Who are you phoning?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  Etta needed to get out. She rose and rushed toward the door, started tugging at the handle before Nadia could unfold her legs. Definitely locked.

  ‘Whoa, listen.’ The girl had not risen from the bed. ‘Chill, yeah? It won’t take long. Sit down.’

  Nadia jabbed at her phone again. Hung up.

  That was when Etta saw what was hiding behind the glassy brown gaze. Not hate, not fear: total indifference to Etta and to whatever might happen next, as long as she made her call.

  This was bad. Maybe she could connect with her, somehow.

  ‘So. What did you do with the first £10,000?’

  Nadia raised her eyebrow, said nothing, and started texting on her phone.

  ‘Come on, please. That was a lot of money.’ She tried to force amusement into her tone. ‘Merlin’s Miracles, seriously?’

  ‘Needed funds, babe.’

  ‘But why?’

  Nadia looked up from her phone, eyes fiery. ‘You think I’m working for fun? Reckon I should just marry myself off to some fat moley bloke? Fuck that.’

  Her mind working overtime, it clicked fast.

  ‘You know that man, Abhinivesh, from …’ she stopped herself.

  ‘No, I don’t, that’s the point. And I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Sorry. Sounds rough.’

  Etta was doing all she could not to look at the door. She had to talk herself out of this place.

  Nadia smirked.

  ‘S’fine. Man’s not a problem. Do I look like the type to get hitched for the fam? Please.’ She started chewing faster again, buzzed with another surge of energy. ‘Still, useful, him being a twat. Loved to shoot his mouth off, chatting on about First Welcome this Rilton that, the lengths he was going to for his fake love and all that bollocks. Helpful lot, aren’t you though? Handy for prospects.’

  ‘You know about First Welcome?’

  ‘Just told you: mutual friends, innit? Good information. Crap security, though.’

  A beat. Etta breathed out in confusion, ‘The break-in?’

  ‘Break-in? Hardly, drama queen, s’no biggie. Paperwork, yeah? They keep their records nice and tidy.’

  ‘Is that why you came after me again, after that Cozee party?’

  ‘Don’t be dumb, you hardly registered. I don’t give a shit about your virtue-signalling, do-gooding bollocks, I just needed to check you out. What, you think I’m weak, or clueless? Good little Indian girl gone bad, right?’

  Etta’s eyes flicked to the door, desperation growing.

  ‘No! No. I’m sorry. It’s just …’ Etta slowed, held her hands up. ‘It was all my money.’

  Nadia gave her a look, exhaled long through her nose, and started texting again. After a moment she said, ‘Well. My girlfriend’s got expensive taste, yeah?’

  At last, a chance. Etta leant forward. ‘Yes? What’s she like?’

  ‘Why do you care?’ said Nadia, with a naked sneer. ‘Fancy some?’

  She was jiggling her phone in her hands. Etta sat back again, biting her lip.

  The phone started buzzing. Nadia picked up.

  ‘Hi. I know, it couldn’t wait. Bad news, yeah … Piss-taker. Mm, that one.’

  Etta had one last shot.

  ‘Honestly, if you just let me out of here, I’ll forget everything. Wipe my mind: the money, the dead flowers you left on my doorstep, and the broken glasses and all—’

  ‘What you on about? That weird shit’s nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Leave it, seriously.’

  The door opened. Nadia jumped up, phone in hand.

  A man stood there and looked at Nadia, then Etta. He was in his early thirties, with a dirty blond crop, wearing an elite streetwear brand on his chest. The tattoo of some woman-faced reptile or oriental succubus snaked up his left bicep and under his sleeve.

  He looked at Nadia again.

  ‘This is where your stupid fucking hobbies get you, yeah?’ He spoke in a punchy London accent.

  Nadia stopped chewing her gum, her jitters stilled by dread. No indifference now.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Going awol to pick up. What’ve I told you? And all this fake-name bollocks. You wanna be a man, is it? Don’t I give you enough proper work, is that it? What, you still have time left to arse about, trawling the internet looking for mugs to rip off?’

  He was fixing her with a stare so hard that Etta could feel the fear coming off Nadia in waves.

  ‘I’ve said: my bad.’

  He said nothing for a long moment.

  Nadia shifted on the bed, tugged a lock of hair.

  ‘I’ll go sort the other things, yeah? I’ve got this, honest.’

  More silence. Etta felt like her heart was battering her lungs from the inside.

  ‘OK, go.’

  Nadia slipped past him and out of the door without a backwards glance. The door was pulled to a click behind.

  Etta was alone with him.

  Her mind went blank. ‘I need to go.’

  ‘Etta, right?’ he asked. ‘Are you mad? What you doing here?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Etta. ‘I just want to go.’

  ‘Bit late for that.’

  ‘Please. I need to go.’ Etta did not run but her mind raced, clutching at anything at all. ‘I’ve got a kid at home alone.’

  He barked a short laugh. ‘No you fucking don’t. I know exactly what you have and have not got. Don’t try it on.’

  Etta shrank back into the hard chair.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Reckoned you could get one over on us? Do we look like fucking jokers?’

  Etta shook her head.

  He crossed thick arms over his chest, cracked a thin unamused smile.

  ‘I won’t say anything,’ said Etta. ‘About this.’

  He stepped nearer, until his shins pressed into her knees; she tilted the chair back until it hit the desk. Trapped.

  Etta pushed back hard as she could into the seat.

  ‘Nice skin. I like my coffee milky.’

  He leaned harder into her.

  ‘What you gonna do?’ he said low.

  She writhed, kicked out a leg; he shifted back, unharmed; she lifted herself up from the chair, leaning back away from him. ‘Let me out of here.’

  He lunged onto her and clamped a hand onto her nape. She was forced right back, hips forward, head nearing the desk.

  ‘Filthy bitch.’

  He grabbed her head, trapping hair. A hard yank, twisting her neck.

  Shit.

  An explosion of motion. She jerked hard away from the desk, her hands flew out to stop his clawing. He barged her hard, bending her sideways. She thrust back, bo
dy contorting, but he was pulling; they lurched towards the centre of the room, in a close dance of violence. She could not think, could not see. Carpet. Bed. Window. A smash of something as she was pushed onto her back on the desk. His mean-fleshed mouth on hers. Lights in her face.

  ‘Nadia!’

  The scream was weak, stupid; no voice. The force of him was overwhelming: his bristling skin, his saliva, sweat, hands.

  She struggled, twisting sideways and then she was on her stomach being shoved up the desk, head dangling; his hands were pushing, searching, pulling; he was pulling up her skirt. Below her face was a bin, scrunched paper and tangerine peel. Next to it was her open bag. Her hands were trapped beneath her stomach; she worked one free and thrust it into the bag. She clutched. In one great surge she twisted again, halfway onto her back, rearing up and sticking her fist to his chest, pushing pushing …

  Only when he fell down to the ground did she feel the true weight of the knife in her hand.

  She was on the windowsill, with her hand bleeding, and the dark alleyway below her and no trees to break her fall.

  She jumped.

  Her right foot hurt as she landed, but still she ran to the car and somehow got it started and drove off, back towards home. Roads and houses and gardens and people raced past, unseen, not mattering.

  Ishedead?

  She had probably killed a man. That bad man, knifed, by her.

  Ishedead?

  Nadia would not be hurrying back to that. She might have done a runner. Him bleeding out on that dirty carpet …

  He would have killed her. Who even was he? Who was anyone: Chris was Nadia? Nadia was a girl. Nadia, not the leaver of dead flowers, or broken specs. Nadia who was a cheat, a proper criminal. Who had left Etta for dead, locked into that room with that psycho rapist.

  She refused to feel anything, in her head, in her foot. She just drove.

  The worst thing of all was that when she arrived home, Ola would not be there to pull her out of this nightmare.

  Chapter Fourteen

  MONDAY, 13 AUGUST 2018

  Bang!

  Etta rocketed upright, a scream caught in her throat. Her heartbeat was machine-gunning her ribs.

  She swung shaking legs out of bed and listened at the locked bedroom door. What was that? Was it them, breaking in?