Lucky
Page 24
She tapped in the password on the old doc:
ETTAO1!
Cruel, making her the shrieking guardian of their secret lovers’ fund. A violation of her—
The password did not work. Caps lock was off. She tried again, in case she had mis-typed.
Again, no entry.
Etta closed her eyes. He had changed the password since she had copied the document, securing himself against further theft, against her. What the hell was the password? If she got locked out now, it was all over.
Think.
She had thought she knew Ola. But he was someone else altogether. What words would he use, this other Ola? She had no time, no more chances.
A click at the back of her mind. Eyes wide open, with growing horror, she typed:
MEDINAA1!
Click. She was in.
A simple substitution. No time for the grief, the rage, the indignation. No time. She hovered the cursor over the button that would move the cash into her account.
She should not.
Two wrongs did not make a right.
But they could still be very happy together.
TRANSFER
Her FOF. Joyce had been right and she would get on her knees and beg for the chance to thank her, if she survived all this. God only knew if she would see her ever again, or anyone she loved.
It only took another second to then transfer £1,600 from her account; half a moment more to text her former friend:
Rent x 4. Sorry 4Eva Exx
An engine revved hard in the street below. A violent surge of fear.
Them, already? She was as good as trapped.
She opened the top drawer of the desk and rifled for the envelope where she kept her passport. Snatching it out, she ran downstairs to the sitting room. From where she stood, she could see the dim lights on across the street, feel that grim old soul willing her to fail, to lose for good. Perhaps calling the police on her again.
It was no use. What had she been thinking? She had just dug deeper, made it all worse.
She leaned her back against the wall and sank down onto her heels. The shadows danced in the far corner. As she stared at them, she dreamed, seeing the reels rolling; they turned and merged until they became one globe; the whole world spinning, fast and tilted and light.
She would stay, close her eyes at last and let death come for her.
A vibration roused her. Light glowed from her phone; an unknown number was ringing. A landline, official. Her thumb hovered, trembling.
That second another ring: the doorbell. She let out a whimper. Run out the back door, or would they be waiting? The side window was high; what if she turned her ankle again and could not run? But if she did not answer? She could not cower in the dark forever, the police would learn all she had done at any moment.
She had to see.
Phone still ringing, she walked, slow and shaking, to the hallway and looked through the ridged glass of the front door: black clothes, black skin.
Etta killed the call. She reached for the handle, and paused, all her thoughts fluttering up, a flock of startled birds. One thought alighting, at last.
His long scar appeared to brighten; touched by the porchlight through the warped pane: the moment’s puzzle reformed into the complete picture.
‘It’s you.’
His eyes locked with hers, full of light; as bright as his silver badge: B. Motilewa. He was holding a sealed tub; a strong savoury smell came from it.
‘I should have brought you my egusi sooner, I’m sorry, but I have had to work. You will like it!’
A coming down from horror; something good swelling beneath the fear.
Etta said, ‘I thought—’
‘Are you OK?’ Concern creased Bankole’s face. ‘Why are you looking like this?’
Etta blinked hard; no tears should splash this new dark uniform. He made a smart security guard.
‘I need to get out of here, Bankole,’ she said, looking past his shoulder. ‘Fast.’
‘Why,’ he asked. ‘Is someone after you?’
‘Not just now,’ she said. ‘But they will be.’
‘Don’t worry, I am here. Your First Welcome people, they told me about this … place. I have cash job for this week. And I have this for you.’
He put the tub back in his bag, reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a small package wrapped in red paper and held it out to her.
‘Bankole, I can’t—’
‘Please, Etta,’ he said.
With still shaking hands, she ripped the paper. It was a small dark wood carving; a man or god bearing a double-headed axe.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Etta. ‘Thank you so much. But I have to go.’
‘Shango. He will strike down your enemies with thunder. He is also the best lover-god in all Nigeria.’
Etta gave a small laugh, despite herself.
‘It is for good luck,’ Bankole went on. ‘I had to see you.’
‘Just in time,’ she said. ‘I am going to prison, or—’
‘Wha? Non-sense. I will protect you, Etta Oladipo,’ he said.
‘You can’t,’ she said, taking a small step back. ‘The police or the bad men will get me.’
‘Etta. You have man?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘I am a good-good man.’
‘I believe you,’ said Etta, leaning forward again. ‘But right now I am good for no one and I have shedloads more to worry about than dating.’
‘You need to get away,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘We can go to Paris, stay with my cousin,’ he said. ‘She arrived last month and married her businessman. We are a good family; she is always good to me. You must come with me. Then, we shall see. I have been thinking about staying or going, staying or going … My head has been turning and turning. Like the Earth itself. I will go away, for you.’
‘But you told me that if you leave this country you will never get back in.’
‘I know this.’
She felt hurt as she looked at that long crescent scar, running from lip to chin; she also felt pure gratitude. Thankfulness that such a man should exist. Damaged, still he went on, that face looking out at the world, bearing his dignity and his ruin.
Her eyes grew wet. Her foot ached, her chest ached.
‘They’d stop me at the airport, Bankole. There’s no way.’
‘There are lorries, you know …’
‘God …’
Bankole reached his hands towards her, palms out as if hesitating to touch something fragile.
‘A woman like you should not go to prison.’
‘I lied, I stabbed, I stole, Bankole.’
‘Why did you do it? You drink too much. Weh you drunk?’
Another, fuller laugh burst out of her, sending the brimming tears down her cheeks, and he laughed too. Then she started to cry in earnest. ‘The whole … damn time. It was like this … temporary insanity, like this … this …’
‘I will be your friend, Etta. It is my turn to help you. My cousin’s husband has promised me a good job in his office. No puzzles, no security guarding! Come with me.’
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘I no fall your hand, Yoruba woman,’ he said. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘It’s just so—’
‘Etta Oladipo. Please come with me.’
She once more scanned the street for a black car.
‘I’m sorry. It’s impossible.’
He turned and walked away, slowly; she could feel every step of the distance growing between them, her silence pushing at his back.
Etta looked down at the carving. Such an immortal gift to come of a tree hewn three thousand miles away; a straight-up solid little thing, from roots twisted but true. Radiant yet dark; it softened her. An impossible thing.
As he walked away, she pressed her thumb into the wood, so hard that it hurt.
‘Bankole!’ she cried.
He turned.
We are all gamblers.
The dying day grew bright as the words flew from her depths, all-conquering, lightning fast:
‘I’m coming.’
Risk VIII
LONDON – JUNE 2018
She stands on the steps of the registry office.
It feels like a mistake to have arrived first and alone. She had insisted that it would be best to meet him here, fresh from Dee at the salon. It is best, probably, as now she still has time. She can still tell him, give him the chance to walk away.
Medina looks up at the ivy framing the arched door with its variegated green gloss. Certainly more beautiful than the building up the road from their house which she had favoured: it reminds her of her primary school in Bosnia. But Ola had not wanted them to marry in Rilton itself; she had not pushed it, they were close enough.
She looks down the wide street. It is what he calls leafy. The houses are bigger, crouching further back, away from the road and from passing strangers. Maybe, one day … No, that had to be someone else’s dream. She does not need a haven for a family. She just needs to be safe.
A taxi drives up the road; it does not stop. She fiddles with the gleaming cuff on her wrist. London silver, a gift. He will be here soon.
Her man – funny and full-feeling; strong yet nimble of head and heart; extravagantly in love with her – this man is not without his complications. He has told her about the woman he owes, that it requires slow disentanglement, for reasons of money and loyalty and, she suspects, shared roots – you don’t disrespect your own, right?
They do not ask too much of each other, but they give much.
He wants her, which is why neither of them could wait to share a home, already furnished with more memories worth saving than she has ever known. It is the only way to keep her in this country and he needs her. He has already risked everything for her, digging around for information among the associates of friends of his High Desford cousins, asking for contacts who might help them with passports, papers. The woman who called herself Nadia had charged a fortune for her services, but the papers had been flawless, the service end-to-end. He got his cousin to sort out the details, and kept well away from all the goings-on, but even so, he had risked everything to get her to his home country. This is why he will be here soon.
She needs to play it straight with him from now on. He deserves it.
She will tell him, one day soon: no children.
She will tell him, once again, that England has healed her and that marriage to him would heal her further.
They will live past the lies and then truly give everything, the full works, to each other. She believes this, here and now, waiting on these white steps.
A whisper of breeze where the edge of her cream shift meets her nape makes her shiver. Turning to look back up the avenue, she sees a black man in a blue suit, peacock teal, he had called it, the colour of the eye on that fine bird’s feather. The shine on his shoes is visible from where she stands; the expression on his face, she cannot see.
Out of nowhere, an almighty rattling as a million ice stones start bouncing off the pavements.
He ducks into a shop doorway; she edges under the portico. They wait, looking at each other.
Hail in June? A miracle or a curse?
Moments later the frozen downpour stops as abruptly as it began.
He walks back out onto the pavement, suit saved.
Here he comes.
Acknowledgements
To my editor, the brilliant Anna Kelly: your belief spurs me on, your standards raise me up, you are beyond wonderful. Thank you.
Joanna, my dear agent and friend, you have shown faith in this novel as it has evolved from ever-burgeoning ideas to the printed page. I am grateful every day for you, Thérèse, and the whole Hardman & Swainson team, and I look forward to enjoying many more literary adventures together.
Michelle Kane, you suggested that the days after my debut, Darling, might be a rollercoaster experience – sure enough, it has been quite a ride! Looking forward to our Lucky trip. Very many thanks and let’s book in those post-Covid cocktails, as soon as.
Most sincere thanks to David Roth-Ey, Matt Clacher, Liv Marsden, Paul Erdpresser, Malissa Mistry, Bethan Moore, Tara Hiatt and Lucy Vanderbilt. Your support means the world.
I adore the cover, Jo Thomson, thank you for wholly capturing the Lucky spirit.
Many thanks also to Essie Cousins, Eve Hutchings and Katy Archer; thank you to Anne O’Brien for copy-editing; thank you to Martin Bryant for proofreading. My deepest gratitude to the rest of the 4th Estate team and HarperCollins – with a special shout-out to Elevate! You have all been fantastic.
To Robert Peett, thank you for your reassurance that my early attempts to write my ‘gambling novel’ mattered.
The Private Life of the Brain, by Baroness Professor Susan Greenfield, particularly the passages about addiction, made for fascinating and fruitful holiday reading circa 2011, and is as brilliant a neuroscientific page-turner as I am ever likely to come across.
Thanks to the College of Policing for the help on being arrested and other aspects of detention I hope never to experience.
To Professor Chris Jones of The Institute of Cancer Research. The tour of the lab where you do your work inspired well beyond research; what I learned lingered more in my mind than on the page. Your scientific endeavour is a force for good, and profoundly humbling.
To the exceptional authors, too many to mention, who I have met since publishing Darling. I appreciate the huge support and thank you for welcoming this relative newcomer into the fold. Special thanks to the Ant to my erstwhile BBC Berkshire Book Club Dec (or vice versa), Jenny Quintana, and to the wonderful #Ladykillers.
To all my closest friends: thank you for your continued support and enthusiasm for me and for my writing; for telling the world about my novels; for your love, laughter, wit and wisdom, and for giving me the most memorable souvenirs from this mad journey that is life – you know who you are.
To Emma and Charlie, thanks for your ongoing patience and love for this stepmother who has always preferred writing to almost any useful endeavour (at least until lockdown lured her into baking bread). She loves you to distraction.
To my husband, Peter, thank you for everything, forever. That does not quite cover it, but I hope my love always will.
To my mother and my late father. Mum and Dad: you rolled the die and landed here in England, a doctor from Nigeria and a nurse from Negril, a beauty of the Windrush Generation. A lot happened. I happened. At the end of it all, this book, which goes back to the beginning.
Here’s to the best and bravest gambles that we take.
About the Author
Rachel Edwards worked as a freelance writer for over twelve years before publishing her debut novel, Darling. Her articles feature in the national press, including the Guardian and the Sunday Times, and she is a regular guest at literary festivals and on BBC radio. She lives in Somerset.
Also by the author
Darling
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