Just My Luck(59)

And then it is gone. The shadow. The person. Did I imagine something? Conjure someone? I rush to the kitchen window, instinctually wanting to drop the blinds, block out whatever is there in the blackness and cocoon me in the warmth of my home. I scream as I see three faces at the window. Two men and a woman. They smile and wave. The woman is in her late forties, she has a gap where a bottom tooth is missing; I think I recognise her face. Maybe I’ve seen her at the CAB. The two men are big and brawly. They have no hair or necks. The younger one is covered in pock marks that advertise he once suffered badly with acne. They continue to smile and wave, one of them puts up both his thumbs, in an old-fashioned gesture that I only ever see on emojis now. His hands look huge, and despite the gesture I think they are threatening. Did those hands turn the handle on my front door?

‘All right, love, can we come in?’ the older guy shouts through the window, over the sound of the rain. I shake my head. My heart is pounding, I can feel it in my mouth, my chest is going to explode. ‘Come on, love. We’re getting drenched out here.’

‘I don’t know you,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t know you,’ and then I drop the blind.

I hear them grumble amongst themselves. I’m shaking, ashamed to have literally drawn a blind down on a fellow human being but also terrified. They might be perfectly lovely people, but I don’t know. I can’t judge. One of them bangs hard on the window. I grab my phone but then wonder who to call. Jake? The police? No crime has been committed. They are not really trespassing, just calling round. I wait and nearly collapse with relief when I hear the footsteps move away from the window but the next moment my back door swings open. Jake and the kids must have forgotten to lock it. I should have checked it.

‘Come in, can we?’ asks the woman but they are already stood in the middle of my kitchen and we all know I didn’t invite them. She shakes herself, like a dog does when it comes out of the rain. She isn’t wearing a coat and she looks blue with cold. Her thin, worn leggings and scruffy hoodie not offering much protection against the elements. She’s wearing flipflops. They are muddy. Her feet are misshapen, no doubt from years of wearing poorly fitting, cheap shoes. The men are bigger, fatter and seem insulated, yet they still wear an air about them that suggests a lack. A need. I’ve seen this exact demeanour many times at work. Neediness edging into desperation and anger. It shouldn’t feel shocking but it does because it is in my kitchen. My home. My body is stiff with dread. I wait to see what they will ask for.

‘Have you got a towel? To dry off my hair?’ asks the woman. I open the drawer where we keep the tea towels, it sticks a little, I wobble it aggressively, and then hand her a bundle. She starts to squeeze the water out of her long hair. I hand towels to the men too; they use them to rub their bald heads and make jokes about buffing boiled eggs.

‘What do you want?’ I ask. My voice comes out challenging, awkward. I wanted to sound confident or polite. Either strategy would be better than appearing difficult. I do need a strategy. These people are not my friends – what are they doing here? Are they going to rob me? Threaten me? Hurt me?

‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ says the slightly younger guy. He holds himself up tall. He’s at least six feet two, maybe sixteen stone. I slowly move towards the kettle, fill it with water and then set it to boil.

‘Why are you in my home?’

‘You’re the lottery winner, ain’t ya?’ I consider denying it, but what’s the point? My face and those of my family have been all over the local press and news. Around here we are celebrities. At least the children aren’t at home. At least they are safe.

‘Seventeen point eight million pounds, weren’t it?’ asks the other guy. I don’t reply. I see the rain that has run from their clothes and bodies puddling on my kitchen floor. ‘That must take some spending.’ He stares at me. I find myself nodding in agreement. ‘Them are letters asking for a cut, are they?’

‘Some.’ My voice cracks in my throat, I cough to clear it. We all listen to the sound of the water heating up in the kettle. Could I use that as a weapon, if I had to? Do I have that in me? It’s a crazy drastic thought. I glance at the kitchen knives displayed in a wooden block on the surface. I quickly pull my eyes away, not wanting to draw attention to them. I’m not in a TV show, I know any weapon I try to use is most likely to be used against me.

‘The thing is,’ says the woman, ‘I came by to see you at work. I was queuing with a lot of other people actually. You ran off. You said you’d be back, but you weren’t.’ She stares at me, reproachfully. And even though I was told to leave, effectively sacked, certainly without choice, I feel accused, condemned and guilty.

‘What did you want help with?’ I ask.

‘I owe money.’ She glances at the floor, suggesting a sense of shame or maybe it’s just exhaustion. ‘I only borrowed one hundred and fifteen quid but now they are saying I owe nearly two thousand pounds.’ I notice that she’s shaking too. ‘They’ll hurt me if I don’t pay.’ My heart lurches in sympathy. This woman is slight, defenceless physically and most likely mentally too. I don’t even waste my breath suggesting she tries the official channels to fight back against this loan shark. That sort of justice and recourse is simply not available to some, it’s an impossible dream like a unicorn jumping over a rainbow. The chances are the loan shark is part of her community. There would be repercussions.