It feels good to say it out loud. Less terrifying somehow.

He stares at me for a little while, then tilts his head right back and laughs. His face turns red and he holds his chest as though the laughter is causing him too much pain.

“Shh, it’s not funny,” I whisper. But his reaction has made me smile for the first time in days.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I know you play a proper badass on-screen, but anyone who knows you in real life knows that you could never hurt anyone.”

I guess I must be a better actress than I give myself credit for.

“I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding, he’ll turn up tomorrow. I frequently didn’t come home without telling my wife where I was; perhaps that’s why I’m no longer married. Besides, he’s a journalist isn’t he, your chap? He’s probably pissed in a bar somewhere, isn’t that what they do?”

“Yes, maybe you’re right,” I say, knowing he’s wrong.

“Bien sûr, je suis très intelligent!”

“What’s with all the random French?”

“I’m trying to impress a certain little lady I know. Do you think I’m getting any better?” I shake my head. “Merde.”

Jack excuses himself and disappears to the men’s room, leaving me sitting alone with my thoughts and fears. It’s clear to me now that Ben has set me up, to punish me for something I didn’t even do. That’s what this is: revenge. Ben is just smarter than I am. He’s read more and seen more. He understands the world in a way I never will, but I’m a better judge of character. That’s something he always struggled with. I understand people and why they do the things they do. And I understand him. He’s trying to hurt me by damaging the career he says destroyed our marriage.

I’m not going to let that happen.

Jack returns and promptly pours two more glasses of red wine. I notice that he fills mine considerably more than his own.

I take a sip. “Thank you for this. I’m sure you’re right, everything will be okay.”

“Course I’m right,” he says. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Twenty-two

Essex, 1988

I swat the fly on the TV screen with the rolled-up newspaper, just like Maggie taught me, pleased with myself that I got it first time.

I’ve got used to the little back room where I sit when the betting shop is open. I know all the cracks in the walls, and the marks on the desk, and I know to remember to wear a coat every morning, even though I sit inside all day, because the radiator is broken and it is cold. It’s someone else’s coat that I wear; it has her name sewn inside in case I forget. But it’s mine now. My name, my coat.

I spend my time reading, watching TV, or listening to the Story Teller tapes on my Fisher-Price cassette player. When I run out of other people’s stories to read, watch, or listen to, I make up my own about a little girl who lived in Ireland. I tell myself the story of me so that I don’t forget. I whisper it so that nobody else can hear, and enjoy seeing little puffs of my own breath when the words sneak out of my mouth. Sometimes I pretend that I am a baby dragon, and that one day I’ll learn how to fly away home and burn down anyone who was ever mean to me.

The shop is noisy and loud. I hear the sound of the horse races all day long, and the men who watch them shout things like, “Go on!” really loudly at the TV screens out there, as though the horses can hear them, which is silly because they can’t. Sometimes I look through the stripy plastic curtain that hangs between the shop counter and the phone room, and I see them, the customers. They all look sort of the same to me, wearing blue jeans and mean faces, from what I can see through the fog of their cigarette smoke.

I know when the shop has closed because the noise stops and everything is quiet again, except for the sound of John’s adding machine going clickety-click. I think he must like maths because he uses it a lot. He comes into the little back room, pretends to like a picture I have drawn, then opens the back door.

“See you later, alligator,” he says, his gold tooth shining at me.

“In a while, crocodile,” I reply, because he likes it when I say that. I’ve seen pictures of alligators and crocodiles and they look awfully alike. I don’t understand why people are always pretending that things are different when they are the same. A name doesn’t change what a thing is, it’s just a name.

“I think it’s about time you started earning your keep, Baby Girl, come with me,” says Maggie, locking the door behind John and walking back out to the shop. I’m guessing it’s just me and her tonight. John goes out sometimes and doesn’t come home. I’m not sure where he goes, but it makes Maggie sad and cross at the same time. She calls it his “disappearing act,” and for a while I wondered if John might be a secret magician.

The shop is a mess. The big black leather stools are all over the place, and there are betting slips and cigarette butts and chocolate-bar wrappers all over the floor.

There is also a broom.

“I want you to sweep all this up, put the stools back against the walls, then, when you’re done, come and get me,” Maggie says, and walks through the open metal door that leads upstairs to the flat. I hear the television turn on up there, then the sound of the TV show she likes so much where they all speak like John: EastEnders.

I start with the stools; they are taller than me and very heavy. I push them back against the walls where they are supposed to be, and they make a horrid scraping sound against the tiles. When that’s done, I pick up the broom, pretend to fly around the shop on it like a witch, then start to make little piles of rubbish. I don’t know how to make the piles go inside the black bin bag Maggie left behind, so I use my hands. When I am finished, they are dirty and sticky. I stand at the bottom of the big stairs and call her name several times.

“Maggie!” I yell on the third try, but she still doesn’t reply. I’m tired and hungry. I think we’re having spaghetti hoops on toast tonight; we normally have something on toast for dinner. It can be beans or cheese or eggs, but whatever it is, we eat it on toast. Maggie says toast goes with everything. I think of something and try calling her again. “Mum!”

“Yes, Baby Girl?” She appears at the top of the stairs as if by magic.

“I’ve finished sweeping.”

She comes down and looks around at the shop floor, nodding. “You did good. Are you hungry?” I nod. “Would you like McDonald’s?” I nod again, twice as fast. McDonald’s is what she buys me when her face is happy. McDonald’s is way better than anything on toast. It comes in a box with a toy and I like it a lot.

“Well then, just you wait there.” She walks to the back of the shop, through the door that leads behind the glass counter, and out back behind the phone room where I can’t see. I hear the sound of water, then she comes back with a mop and bucket; it’s steaming and has bubbles like a minibath. “I want you to mop this whole floor, including the customer toilet, and I’m going to go and get you a Happy Meal. You just do it like this.” She drops the mop into the bucket, then lifts and twists it, squeezing out almost all of the water, before sliding it backwards and forwards across the floor. She puts the mop in my hand and walks to the front of the shop. Then she takes out the enormous set of keys that she carries everywhere, unlocks the door, and slams it shut behind her. I have never been through that door, I don’t even know what’s out there. I haven’t been outside at all since I first arrived. I wait for a little while after Maggie has left before looking through the letter box. I can see a row of houses, a road, an old man with white hair walking his dog, and a bus stop. I wonder if I caught a bus from there whether it might take me all the way home.