Just My Luck

by Adele Parks

  “Right. Private-sector landlords are responsible for the safety of the tenants. The Gas Safety Regulations 1998 deal with landlords’ duties to make sure gas appliances, fittings and flues provided for tenants are safe.” It was clear the woman quoted this law frequently. Bad landlords were not confined to the Victorian era. She probably quoted it every day.

  “But he doesn’t do this.”

  She brightened. “We can investigate that. We can issue warnings. Have carbon monoxide alarms fitted by the council if the landlord fails to comply. We can stop this sort of tragedy from happening in another one of his properties. That would be something, wouldn’t it?” Toma listened to her trying to sanitize the matter. Trying to rectify without rocking the boat.

  “He still rents out slums,” Toma insisted, his accent becoming thicker as emotion throttled him. “Since they died, I have suffered the pain, the grief, the loss, but I managed. Not lived, just existed. Never remarried although everyone said I should. Stayed loyal, stayed focused. Stayed here. How could I move back to Moldova to my sister and my cousins? I couldn’t bear to leave my wife and son here alone. I have no choice but to stay. Then I lose my job, move into a hostel. End up on the streets. Then last year someone takes me in. I work on a building site for a place to stay and food.”

  “No wage?”

  “No. I know this is exploitation. I have no choice. I don’t care. I stay in the place they offer me. It’s better than the streets. But I notice the law is broken in this property. I ask who the landlord is. No one has a name but one day I stay off work. I pretend I am ill because I know that this day is rent collection and I see him, and then I recognize him. It is the same man. My old landlord. He was called into court one day during the trial, so I am sure. I would never forget his face. Then I start to wonder. Did he know after all? Is he responsible?”

  “But why would Elaine Winterdale take the fall?”

  “He pay her.” Toma could see that the woman didn’t buy into his theory. She was interested in helping, but there was a limit.

  “Come back to Citizens Advice Bureau with me. We can look into this,” she offered.

  He understood what was happening here. He was a step ahead of her. She thought she was luring him in. She wanted him to trust her so she could introduce him to back-to-work schemes and find him better accommodation. She had enough compassion to want to see Toma on his feet again. Yes, undoubtedly she would issue warning letters about the carbon monoxide alarms to the bastard landlord, if she could track him down. She had a developed sense of responsibility and would want to stop this sort of disaster happening again if she could. She was good at her job. He nodded and stood up. He followed her through the park, back along the high street and into her office, certain that it was not him on the end of the line—it was her.

  He would reel her in, a slippery, reluctant catch, maybe. But he would get her onside, convince her that his theory was a reality, and then he would use her office resources to investigate the bastard that had killed his loves. Toma would have justice. Or revenge.

  CHAPTER 6

  Lexi

  Tuesday, April 23

  I’m looking forward to the appointment with the lottery people. My family think my reserve is odd, but I’m not made of steel—of course I’m excited about this win. Over the moon. It is, as we keep saying to ourselves and each other, amazing, fantastic, spectacular. It is those and all sorts of other overused superlatives. However, I am a realist and I know that this sort of win comes with some complications and responsibilities, too. The timing couldn’t be worse. I try not to think of the Pearsons and the Heathcotes because whenever I do the excited glow inside is extinguished. I feel cold and sour in my heart. I just need to understand the process, have everything locked down and agreed, and then we can really relax and enjoy our ridiculously good fortune.

  Over the weekend, Jake and the kids drew up a list of stuff they wanted to squander the money on. It was very general and included—but was not limited to—cars, property, clothes, parties, holidays. I groaned.

  “Guys, that list is a lazy list.” All three stared at me, uncomprehending. Both my children look a lot like their dad: dark curly hair, dark eyes. They are all beautiful to look at, compelling. They wore the same expression, too—excitement. No, scrub that—jubilation. “At least try and be specific. Don’t just write ‘holidays.’ Write a list of places you’ve always wanted to visit.”

  Travel is edifying, right? Everyone knows that. I could happily sign off on travel. We’d do it together, we’d learn about different cultures, see what a big place the world is, after all.

  “Disney Florida,” yelled Logan. “Staying in, like, the best hotel. We’d fly first class, right?”

  “We certainly would, mate,” confirmed Jake. “I’ve always wanted to turn left when boarding an aircraft.”

  “And the Maldives. Scarlett Scott went to the Maldives last year and her Insta was amazing,” chipped in Emily. “Oh, my God, no, scrub that, New York. Let’s go shopping in New York! Actually, both. Can we do both?”

  A few years ago there was this Irish couple who won an extraordinarily huge amount on the Euro lottery. I don’t recall exactly how much. Over a hundred million. They immediately announced that they were going to be giving the bulk of it away to friends, family and good causes. A wonderful approach, very admirable, very sensible. Jake and I have agreed we’ll pay off his brothers’ mortgages and buy my sister a starter place. She has never managed to get on the property ladder as she is a bit of a nomad and has traveled all over the world for years. We’ll send my parents on a world cruise. Something glorious and indulgent. Although, thinking about it, my dad suffers terribly with seasickness. We once caught a ferry to Calais and it was as nasty as a Tarantino movie, so a cruise probably isn’t ideal for them. Maybe a safari. Or is that a bit too much now they are in their seventies? A couple of weeks in a posh pad in the South of France could work. Regret rips through my body. If only Jake’s parents were alive to be part of this. They’d have been delighted. Thrilled. Well, everyone will be.

  Won’t they?

  My mind is working one hundred to a dozen. Thoughts zap into my head, and I can’t hold on to one of them for more than a moment. There are other people who can benefit from the win. There are endless worthy charities and individuals. Jake has agreed that we don’t need to keep it all. We shouldn’t. No one needs so much money, but lots of people need some money. My line of work starkly highlights that. I work at Citizens Advice Bureau. My job is to deliver easily accessible community advice. I’m a generalist, a sort of gatekeeper, who often simply takes notes and listens to walk-ins. I assess difficulties and point people in the right direction, toward a specialist like a lawyer, a doctor or counsellor. No problem is too big or too small to capture my attention. My average day might involve helping to stop payday lenders ruining lives or helping people fill out job applications. I am never bored at work. I enjoy the fact that I can’t guess who I’m going to meet or help on a day-to-day basis. On the whole, I like how varied my work is and I certainly like the fact I can help, but sometimes it depresses me that people’s vulnerabilities and needs are so far-reaching. Sometimes I come home from work exhausted, aware that no matter how many people I’ve met with and advised, I will never be able to help everyone or solve everything.

  Still, I can try. I do. Day after day. And now I’ll be able to do more.

  I push the kids out the door just in time to catch the school bus, grab my handbag and hurriedly shove my feet into my work shoes. I glance around the kitchen. It’s chaos as usual, but I’m running late and haven’t even got time to stack the dishwasher. It will be waiting for me later. Then I notice Jake sitting at the breakfast bar, still in his pajamas.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?”

  “I’m not going to work today. The meeting with the lottery people is at three o’clock. There’s no point.”

 
“Well, I am.”

  “Apparently. Don’t you feel like playing hooky, even for a day?” He smiles at me. His broad, charming smile that I’ve found irresistible more times than I can count. “We could go into London again, have lunch somewhere ridiculously swanky. Maybe The Shard? Nobu? There’s plenty of time,” he coaxes.

  I have to steel myself against the temptation he’s presenting. I should point out the flaw in his logic. If there isn’t enough time to go to work, how is there enough time to have a long lunch? I don’t. I just say, “I have meetings in my diary. I can’t let people down.” I quickly kiss him on the lips. He pulls me close and draws out the kiss. Being wealthy is obviously making him feel very randy. I giggle and gently move away, walk toward the door. “Hey, I’ve been thinking, when we talk to the advisor today, maybe she could give us some advice on how to choose which charities to donate to. You know, really get an understanding of which ones put money to work and which simply spend a fortune on advertising and their CEOs’ salaries.”

  “Yes, sounds like a plan.” Jake smiles affably.

  “Because I was thinking, we can pay off our mortgage and then put some away for the kids. Let’s say we keep two-point-eight million and then give the rest away.”

  “What?” Jake barks out a fake laugh. “Hilarious.”

  I freeze. “I’m serious.”

  “We’d quickly get through that amount. It would go nowhere.”

  “The kids bought everything they wanted in Topshop yesterday. Some of it didn’t even fit properly, let alone suit them.”

  I was a bit startled with how greedily Emily and Logan had behaved. I understand, of course, they are teens in Topshop, the equivalent to kids in a sweetshop. They were bound to get carried away. Being greedy is the normal reaction to a lottery win. Most people would think I am the one acting strangely by still thinking of purchasing items in terms of what we need. Jake and the kids have quickly swapped to only thinking about what they want. But, regardless, even during their high-octane retail frenzy, they spent less than a thousand pounds each. Admittedly, way more than we’ve ever spent in one go on clothes before, but only a tiny fraction of what we’ve just won. I can’t imagine how we would use it all.

  “Think bigger, Lexi,” Jake urges. “Didn’t you see that hotel in New York cost eighty thousand quid?”

  “How much?” My voice comes out unexpectedly high and squeaky. Jake laughs. He’s been ceaselessly laughing since our numbers came up. I don’t recognize him. I am beginning to think he is technically hysterical. “I thought that was a mistake. It can’t cost that much. I thought there was a decimal point in the wrong place because no one in the world would ever pay eighty grand for a weeklong holiday.”

  “There was no mistake, Lexi. Two superior rooms, one suite in one of the world’s best hotels for a week, that’s what it costs.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It would have been ridiculous last week but now, it’s a drop in the ocean,” says Jake, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “It’s a different world.”

  “Not our world.”

  “Well, it hasn’t been, no, but it can be now. That’s my point, sweetheart. We have an opportunity to live completely differently.”

  “But on Saturday night, we agreed we’d donate to charities.”

  “Yes. Absolutely. We will. But we can’t give fifteen million away. What if the kids want apartments in London when they grow up? They cost a couple of million now.”

  I shrug. “Well, yes, I suppose some flats might, but it depends where you buy and—” Jake kisses me, silencing me. He cups my face in his hands. As he breaks away from the kiss, he holds eye contact. I feel dizzy. Woozy. I didn’t sleep well again last night. I’m light-headed and struggling to think straight.

  “You are going to be late for work if you don’t get going. This is a lot to think about. Take a deep breath.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Lexi

  I’ve missed my usual bus, so have to take the next one and therefore I arrive twenty minutes later than normal, which still isn’t officially late as I’m usually indecently early. I like a few minutes to myself in the mornings. Today, most of my coworkers are already at their desks. I throw out small, friendly waves and general greetings. I’ve made the right call. Being in the office, a place where I come week after week and simply try my best, is somehow reassuring. It is crazy to need reassurance after such news—after what is universally accepted to be the best news in the world—but I do. Everyone here is behaving in a dependable, ordinary way. And I like it. Jake and the children’s frenzied excitement and constant chatter about what they are going to buy next is proving to be exhausting.

  Rob is stirring some hot water into a pot of oats, the breakfast he always has at his desk. He stirs slowly, anticlockwise. Judy is vaping outside in the street. At all times she insists on keeping the door to the office open as she hates to miss out on any of the chatter. It is essential to her to know who watched what on TV on the weekend, even if it means everyone else catches a chill. Heidi still has her earbuds in. She likes to listen to audio books and hates stopping midchapter. Most of my coworkers simply have their heads down. The office opens at 9:30 a.m., and these fifteen minutes represent the calm before the storm. They are generally used to gather thoughts and breath.

  I plunk down in front of my screen, flick open my diary and run through today’s to-do list. This morning is drop-in clinic. I desperately hope Toma will come in today. Over the past few months I have been investigating his claim that the property owner was ultimately responsible for the appalling conditions in the bedsit he shared with his wife and child. Ultimately responsible for their deaths. Together, we have researched his hunch that Elaine Winterdale took the fall for her dodgy boss or bosses. It quickly became apparent that his hunch was likely to be correct. As soon as the trial was over, she moved into a brand-new, high-end apartment. We discovered that she didn’t own it and that the registered owner was the same company as that of the property the Albu family had lived in. It looks a lot like a sweetener to me. More digging around led to the discovery that the same property company is responsible for a number of slum residencies, just as Toma claimed, including the one Toma lived in for a while when he was working for nothing other than food and a place to stay. So not only a slum landlord then, although that would be bad enough, but a modern-day slaver. This landlord had not learned a lesson. Far from it.

  Through not entirely legal means, we’ve managed to find our way into three of these slum properties. I’m not proud of this. I do try to follow rules, and of course I respect laws, but sometimes the end justifies the means. It’s not as though we were breaking and entering. I just flashed my business cards and said I had been asked to inspect the properties. I should have been prepared. After all, Toma had told me he’d had no heating in his property for two-and-a-half years—other than one small electric fire that they only dared use spasmodically because of the expense—but nothing prepared me.

  These places horrified me.

  One of the properties had no carpets, just bare floorboards. None of them had curtains to offer privacy or even hide the cracked or missing windowpanes. In two of the properties there were no doors on any of the kitchen cupboards. I suspected that most likely someone, in desperation, had broken them off and burned them for fuel. There was damp on the walls in all three places and the shared bathroom facilities turned my stomach. It’s disgusting expecting people to live this way. It’s cruel, debasing.

  None of the properties had carbon monoxide alarms, and one of them had a boiler that needed to be condemned immediately. I called the gas board. I’ve written to the registered owner and to the councils where the properties are located, stating the need for alarms and other vital improvement measures. I’m taking appropriate action where I can, but I am not getting very far. Until Friday I couldn’t even attach a name to the property company. Corru
pt landlords don’t readily expose their identities. It’s taken a lot of digging to finally find the name of the individual who is responsible.

  I had planned to share that information with Toma straight away. I was desperate to, but now I’m not so certain. Would he be able to cope with the knowledge I have? What would he do with it? The sad truth is, I think it’s unlikely that the landlord will ever be put away for a crime that Elaine Winterdale has already pleaded guilty to.

  It isn’t fair. Writing letters isn’t enough. And I know Toma will think so, too. They are not going to get away with it. I can’t—I won’t—let that happen.

  We have to be more creative in seeking justice.

  Usually, I try not to get personally involved in the cases I work on. It doesn’t help, not in the end. I’m compassionate—that’s a given or I wouldn’t do this line of work—but it’s best to stay objective, efficient, clear-sighted. I do my best work that way. The past couple of months, since Toma Albu came into my life, that has been increasingly difficult. I can’t help but admire his particular strength and dignity, his fierce loyalty and determination. I understand him. I realize I have become more involved than I should. It was hard not to.

  And now it’s impossible.

  I pop my head around my boss’s office door, knock as I walk in. The knocking is a courtesy. Ellie operates an open-door policy, and all the staff here think of her office as an extension of our open-plan space. Sometimes if the meeting rooms are full, Ellie vacates to give us and our clients some privacy. That’s about the only time the door is ever closed.

  “Hiya, Lexi, how was your weekend?” Ellie asks.

  Where do I start answering that one? “Hot,” I say lamely. Thank goodness I’m British and always have the weather to fall back on for conversational fodder.