by Dan Malakin
On the way to the till, she grabbed an on-offer bottle of Shiraz, and imagined herself submerged to the neck in the tub, sipping her wine, her body relaxing in the warm water. She took her basket to the checkout instead of the self-service machine, needing to trade smiles with a human, to make small talk about how shitty it was to work on a Saturday night. We should be at a party, she wanted to say, and they’d both laugh. The young black girl, braids down the back of her maroon Sainsbury’s vest, greeted Rachel with a pleasant smile. ‘You need a bag?’
‘Please,’ Rachel said.
The girl put the items through the till, and filled the orange plastic bag herself. No small talk, but that was fine. The smile was nice enough.
‘Ten twenty-five, please,’ she said. ‘Contactless?’
Rachel nodded and tapped her card onto the machine. It beeped, but no receipt chittered through the metal teeth. She tapped the card again, glancing at the girl, her smile slipping. Acid bubbled in Rachel’s throat.
Oh god, oh no, oh god, oh no, oh god, oh no.
Same as before – a beep, but no receipt.
‘It’s a bit temperamental,’ the girl said. ‘Can you put in your pin, please.’
Rachel slid the card into the machine, pressed the buttons.
When the words appeared on the screen, it was no surprise.
Card Declined.
She squeezed her face. ‘You idiot. You stupid idiot.’ The checkout girl looked nervous. Rachel backed away, mumbling sorry, the girl calling for her to wait, hold on, but she couldn’t wait, she had to get out of there, before she lost it on the shop floor. Someone grabbed her shoulder. She turned her head, saw the security guard, and twisted away from him. Her bag of shopping was still on the counter. ‘I haven’t taken anything,’ she said.
He lunged at her. She jumped back, her heel catching a Walkers crisps display, sending bright red bags tumbling to the floor. She spun around, straight into the checkout girl.
Her expression somewhere between fear and apology, the girl handed back the debit card, then stepped away from the exit, leaving Rachel with nowhere else to go.
Chapter Fifteen
Stash
Rachel checked an ATM. Empty. Her wages were gone. She had no cash, couldn’t book an Uber, couldn’t even use her debit card on the bus. Her only choice was to run home.
She changed in a nearby pub, a rancid place called The Free Man with warped wood panels and a stale beer stench. The locals turned on their stools as she hurried past the bar to the toilets. Shivering in the cold cubicle, she forced on her running vest, still damp from that morning.
She set off at a sprint, only slowing when the burn in her lungs hurt too much. She swerved round the smokers clustered outside the pubs in Kentish Town, running like she was being chased, her thighs and calves close to agony.
On the other side of the Holloway Road, her right leg gave way, spasming into a cramp. She collapsed onto the pavement, rolling onto her side, kicking out, kneading the rigid muscle running down the back of her thigh, letting go a sob so ragged it must have been torn from inside her heart. Stupid, so stupid. She needed to be careful – the scars from her past starves ran deep in her muscles – and to push her body like that, having not eaten all day, was asking for trouble.
It took longer for her to make the final hundred metres than it had the previous few miles. Even when the cramp subsided, her legs felt so shredded, she couldn’t walk. She edged sideways along the pavement, using shrubs and garden walls to stay on her feet, feeling light-headed, disconnected. Down to the second joint, her fingers were numb. She could tell her blood pressure had plummeted.
She fumbled the key at the door, white lights flashing in her eyes, pleading with herself to stay focused. Don’t lose it now. She got it in on the third attempt and dragged herself up to the bathroom. She peeled off her shorts and vest and waited for the water to be scalding before stepping into the shower. You’ll get the money back. They’ll see where it was sent. They’ll see it was stolen. She scrubbed her skin like she was covered in dried mud, then fell back against the tiles and wept. What if they couldn’t find the money?
What if her wages were gone?
Coffee. Laptop on the kitchen table. She called the bank on speakerphone, searching for how to hack bank accounts as she waited for it to connect. She entered her sort code and account number when the automated voice requested them, and got through straight away. Not surprising seeing as it was after nine. So much for her early night.
She spoke to a young man who, despite the late hour, sounded helpful and interested when she explained money had been stolen. He asked for the third and sixth digit of her SecureID.
‘Funny you should mention that,’ she said. Leaning close to the phone, she explained about the text she received saying it had been reset, even though she hadn’t requested it.
‘Can I put you on hold a moment?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ Rachel replied, and instantly regretted it. Justin bloody Timberlake, still rocking his body. Did he ever take a break? How about laying his stupid body down and shutting the hell up. To stay sane, she focused on the laptop. The search returned a page of articles actually called How to Hack a Bank Account. It was that easy? She opened a number of the pages in their own tabs.
He came back. ‘Hi, hello. I can see the SecureID request was made by phone, around midday.’
‘Someone can call and do that?’
‘They’d have to go through security.’
Rachel grabbed her dressing gown at the neck. She glanced at the curtains, making sure they were closed. ‘I had over two thousand pounds. It’s all gone.’
‘A payment was made to… Konrad Nowak, at twenty-five past twelve. The entire balance.’
She took the phone off speaker. ‘I didn’t do that.’
‘I’m not sure how–’
‘Someone rang pretending to be me.’
‘Please stay calm.’
‘I am calm!’
‘You’re saying it’s fraud?’
Finally, she was getting somewhere. ‘Yes! Yes! It’s fraud.’
‘The problem is… do you know this Konrad Nowak? I can see lots of payments with that person, both to him and from him.’
They were always splitting the cost of things, with one paying the other back online.
‘But not all my money,’ she said.
‘Still. It’s….’
He let the words hang.
She was almost too afraid to ask. ‘It’s what?’
‘Are they all fraudulent payments?’
‘No, of course not.’ She felt like she was clinging to a frayed rope that was one wrong move from snapping. ‘It’s just this… this one…’
His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Listen, Miss Stone. I can put this through for you, if you want, but there’s a good chance the fraud department will reject it. You have made payments to this person in the past, and clearly have an existing and substantial relationship with him. It would have to be dealt with as a theft, a criminal case, and be referred to the police.’ He paused, and then said, his voice sympathetic, ‘Would you like me to proceed with this for you?’
She pictured a police car outside Konrad’s parents’ house, the officers at the front door, him being cuffed and led outside.
What if he was being set up?
She needed to call him first. If he was innocent, the money should still be in his account.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll… I’ll call back later.’
But what if she was wrong? What if Konrad owed money to some bad people and he’d emptied her account to pay them back? That would certainly explain the bruises and burns.
No way. That was ridiculous. It’d mean their whole time together had been a sham. She didn’t believe it. All those times they’d kissed until their lips were sore and their jaws numb, the nights they’d slept in each other’s arms, you couldn’t fake that.
Could you?
Rachel brought up K
onrad’s number and pressed dial. She clutched the phone by her ear, waiting for it to ring, thinking about how best to start – by talking about last night, trying to get the truth, or by launching straight into her missing wages?
Nothing was happening on the phone. She pulled it from her ear and checked the screen, thinking she hadn’t pressed dial.
Still connecting.
That was weird. It either rang or went to his voicemail. Never this delay.
She hung up and tried again. The same thing happened – still connecting. She counted the seconds, hoping it would calm her breath, stop the dread rising through her.
One minute passed, one and a half. It was like the phone was toying with her, seeing how far it could push her before she snap–
An automated voice cut into the silence.
This number is no longer available. Please hang up.
Rachel stared at her phone as though she’d felt it twitch.
She called again.
Same wait, same message.
This was insane. Had Konrad been playing her this entire time? Her whole body was beating faster and faster, the pulse in her neck, the blood in her head. What now? Find him? Until a few weeks ago, he shared a student apartment on Caledonian Road with Pete and another bloke, a skeggy place filled with crusted Pot Noodle tubs, half smoked joints, and wet bath towels left on the floor for so long they’d developed sentient forms of fungal life. Seeing as he was spending most nights at hers, he’d given it up to save money and shifted his stuff back to his parents in High Barnet. Or at least that was what he’d told her.
What if he’d moved out because he was already in debt?
She lurched from the chair, painfully catching her hip on the kitchen table. The police, she had to report it. But how? By phone? Or would she have to go to the station too? She pictured herself in a cold interview room, trying to explain it all to a tired sceptical sergeant pissed off at pulling the night shift for the third week in a row.
What about Konrad’s parents? The tube was still running. She could go there and tell them everything – the injuries, the drinking, the missing money. But High Barnet was right at the end of the Northern Line, plus another ten-minute walk. It was so cold outside, and she was beyond exhausted, that it couldn’t have felt further away if it had been on the moon. She had fifty quid for emergencies in the house, so could get a taxi – but it would cost most of that, and what if she needed money tomorrow? Also, seeing the state of her, his parents might think she’d lost it and not believe a word she said.
No, it was better she stayed here, finally got some sleep, and dealt with it in the morning.
Rachel found herself heading up the stairs, and opening the airing cupboard opposite the bathroom. She unfolded a step stool, climbed on it, and felt around for a hidden shelf above the door.
She shouldn’t be doing this, of course she shouldn’t, but why did she have her stash if not for times like now? She’d resisted so far, but enough was enough. She wanted to sleep with an intensity close to desperation. Would it be so bad to get some rest? It was this, or spend the night spiralling down. Which would be better for her head?
She found the money box and the key tacked to the wall, and brought them both down. Sitting on the edge of the bath, she unlocked the box and sifted through the small clear bags inside, each one neatly labelled: Fentanyl, Tramadol, Xanax, Ambien, Clonazepam. She’d been collecting the pills for years, since she’d found her mum’s war chest of prescription drugs after she’d passed away. Others came from her gran after she was diagnosed with cancer – she refused to take anything once she started chemo, complaining they made her too lethargic. Many had been prescribed to Rachel herself during her stay in hospital.
She tried to stick to some rules when it came to her stash. Never take a sleeping pill when she was alone in the house with Lily. Only take the opioids like OxyContin when her body hurt so bad she couldn’t haul it out of bed, and not because the buzz made her feel happy and relaxed, and as though all the problems in her life had nothing to do with her.
Clonazepam, that’s what she needed. Something mild to help her sleep, then work out what to do in the morning with a clear head. She took a blister strip from the bag and pressed one of the pills into her hand. It was fine for her to do this. It was only a problem if she let it become a problem.
She pushed a second pill into her palm.
Fresh start tomorrow.
Chapter Sixteen
Love
There’s this story, or parable, or whatever.
A wise old man is strolling through a forest. Think hazy sunlight, birds flitting between branches, a peaceful trickle coming from a nearby stream. It’s afternoon, the air fresh but warm. He comes to a clearing where a traveller is hunkered by a fire, devouring a freshly cooked chicken.
‘You enjoying that chicken?’ the old man asks.
‘I love chicken!’ the traveller replies, and wipes the grease from his chin.
The wise old man ponders this. ‘You say you love chicken?’
‘I sure do.’
‘You love chicken so much,’ said the old man, ‘that you took this one, murdered it, burnt its remains, and now you’re eating its corpse. No, my friend – you love yourself. You knew the chicken would taste good, so you took it. You took it because it made you happy.’
The traveller glanced at the chicken leg cooling in his hand, and his mouth tightened.
‘You took it,’ the wise old man said, ‘because you could.’
Part Two
Chapter Seventeen
Regret
The first time Alan Griffin ruined Rachel’s life, her weight dropped to under six stone. Two weeks after her eighteenth birthday – which she spent in bed, pretending to have the flu – she collapsed in the kitchen while making a celery dip. She came round to a headache, blood in her hair, and her grandmother on her knees, wailing. Rachel must have passed out and hit her head on the corner of the table.
‘If it happens on the stairs…’ her gran had said. She too had lost weight. A big woman, wide as well as tall, her cable knit jumper was as shapeless as a blanket. She moved through the house forever looking up and around, as though expecting someone to smash through the ceiling and drop on a rope. What did this man want? Why wouldn’t he stop?
They agreed Rachel should go to hospital. The same day they transferred her to the eating disorder clinic, which refused to let her out. She didn’t mind so much – the specialists, the therapists, the nutritionists, they were like her personal guards, protecting her from Griffin. He’d never be able to get to her in there.
Life narrowed down to food. She looked less like a human and more like a ladder, tall and jutting. The days passed in a constant state of choice – Should I eat? Or should I not? Most of the time, she chose the latter. It was hard to focus on anything else when you were starving. Anxiety, depression, self-loathing, they were nothing compared to it. Once you were so hungry you could feel your stomach digesting itself, it was hard to be crushed by the knowledge that this was your life, and you’d wasted it.
When she stopped eating completely, they transferred her to the psychiatric ward at Edmonton. There they pushed a tube so far up her nose that it scratched her throat, and slid grey grainy frog-spawn-smelling slush direct to her stomach. Enough to keep her alive. The few friends that still visited, pleaded with her to “come out of it”, like she’d belligerently locked herself in a cupboard. They didn’t realise she didn’t mind being there. She’d seen the truth of the world, how it was relentless and cruel, and wanted nothing more to do with it. This must have been how my mother felt, she thought, lying in bed, dosed on OxyContin for the pain in her muscles, and longingly watching a tray of lasagne being slid from the oven on television, the meat sauce bubbling through the cheese crust. No wonder she wanted out.
Rachel’s brain began to feel rubbery and unreal. She shifted into a different state of being, a fasting high, like those religious nuts in India squatting on m
ountaintops and surviving on wild berries. She became ethereal, pure spirit, disconnected from her body, floating above the mortals slaving below, always succumbing to their weaknesses. No self-control, any of them. Their petty fears, their petty dreams, their petty, petty lives. The world was all shimmers and illusions, but she was outside of it.
It couldn’t hurt her anymore.
The flesh ebbed from her bones. Her weight dropped to five stone, terminally low. She hated the feeding tube in her nose and kept pulling it out, so they fitted a PEG tube into her stomach. Doctors warned of cardiovascular problems, kidney damage, osteoporosis, and, eventually, death.
Rachel didn’t know what exactly switched in her head to make her fight back. Maybe it was group therapy with the other drastic cases in psych, the older women who’d starved themselves for twenty years. They’d been destroyed by the disease. Toothless, shrivelled, arthritic. A world from the glamorous #thinspro girls Rachel followed on Tumblr, the ones in crop tops and high-waisted shorts, over-sized shades propped on their fragile faces, making them look like a strange but beautiful race of human insects. That wasn’t reality. This was reality: Rita from Enfield, one of the women from group, single, jobless, childless, and worn to the bone.
Or maybe it was the soft-touch psychological support finally having an effect. It wasn’t like when her mother was young, and anorexia was barely known, let alone understood. They no longer strapped you down and sent a few hundred volts through your skull, hoping, perhaps, to zap you into wanting an extra plate of spaghetti at dinner. If that were the case, she’d have stuck her finger in a plug socket years ago. She didn’t want to be like this. She just didn’t know any other way to cope.
