mopped at the duvet cover with a towel.
‘You’ll look after me, won’t you?’ mumbled Phil, his eyes closing. ‘You always looked after me.’
And look where it bloody got me, thought Pru as his head sank back on to the pillow and the can slid to the floor.
Within seconds he was snoring like a walrus, out like a light and oblivious to the tugging going on as Pru yanked his shoes off. She managed, after a struggle, to get the duvet out from under him. Then she smoothed it over his sleeping form, straightened the pillow and put the still unfastened wallet on the bedside table.
Since Phil had commandeered the bed, Pru could either sleep in the chair or on the floor.
But she didn’t sleep. She couldn’t. Her mind was working overtime. Her conscience was having an all-out battle with itself.
After staring at the wallet for an hour, Pru reached over and picked it up. She emptied the fat bundle of twenty-pound notes into her lap and, hands shaking, counted them.
Good grief, there was almost two thousand pounds there. Pru looked at Phil, still snoring so loudly it was a wonder the rest of her neighbours hadn’t called the police.
Two thousand pounds. Won, fair and square.
Now was that fair?
It had been a long and uncomfortable night. At eight o’clock Pru was still hopelessly undecided.
She made herself a cup of tea; maybe that would help.
At nine o’clock, with Phil still dead to the world, sherummaged in her purse and found a couple of twenty-pence pieces. Then she slipped out of the room and made her way downstairs to the phone box in the hall.
The number she wanted was listed in Yellow Pages.
‘Hello,’ said Pru, when the call was answered, ‘I wonder if you can help me. I just need to know how much something costs.’
Minutes later, replacing the receiver, she crept back up the stairs and silently opened the door.
This was it. It was up to fate now. If Phil was awake she wouldn’t be able to do anything. If he was still asleep .. .
‘Oh God, my head. Blanche ... Blanche, where are you? Any chance of sticking the kettle on?’
‘Blanche isn’t here,’ said Pru. ‘Will I do instead?’
Phil rolled over, bleary-eyed and stubble-chinned. Pru was holding out a mug of tea, a plate of buttered toast and a packet of paracetamol.
Confusion reigned in Phil’s brain. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and winced.
‘She wouldn’t let you in last night so you came here,’ said Pm.
‘Christ. Did I ... um, did we ...?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Here, drink this.’ Pru passed him the tea, popped three paracetamol out of their foil wrapper and pressed them into his free hand.
‘I feel terrible,’ said Phil in his penitent, little-boy voice.
‘You’ll feel better after some toast. I’ll nip down to the corner shop, shall I, and get you some tomato soup?’
Twenty minutes later, when Phil had finished the soup, he fumbled in his jacket pocket. Pru, washing up at the tiny sink in the corner of the room that served as a kitchen, heard him locate his house keys and wallet.
‘Bloody hell,’ she heard him exclaim.
Far too flushed and scared to turn round, Pru frantically scrubbed at the pattern on the soup plate.
‘What is it?’
‘Eight hundred quid!’
More rustling as Phil re-counted the notes.
‘Ready for another cup of tea?’ said Pru, her heart going like a giant woodpecker against her ribs.
‘I must have won it at the casino,’ Phil marvelled, and Pru breathed again.
She dared at last to look over her shoulder at him. ‘You did say something about a win at roulette.’
‘Brilliant!’ Phil beamed at her. ‘See? I knew I was due for a bit of luck.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Yeah, more tea’d be great. And a couple of biscuits if you’ve got them.’
While Pru made the tea, he sat on the narrow bed and surveyed his surroundings.
‘This place is a dump.’
‘I’m getting used to it.’
Pru stirred in sugar and handed him the mug.
‘Thanks.’ Phil shook his head. ‘Pru, I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to live in a place like this.’
‘It’s okay.’
