“I expect they’ll announce the name of the winner soon. Just think, it might be someone who has walked through these doors and we’ve helped.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” says Heidi. “There’s some Eastern European guy here to see you. I asked him if I could help, but he was pretty insistent he only wants to speak to you.”
I dash out of the staff room, keen to get away from Judy and her speculation. I see Toma, sitting at my desk, with his now-familiar expression of solemnity and determination, and I feel a wave of territorialism and affection sluice through me. It’s not strictly professional, but I tell myself it’s not wrong, that it is manageable. My body goes hot then cold, the feeling my granny would have described as someone walking over my grave. A warning. I am suddenly certain that I can’t share the knowledge I gained on Friday. Even though we have been hunting for it together, even though he is desperate for someone to blame. Because of that, I can’t tell him. The knowledge would overwhelm him. Knowing the landlord’s name, and also the fact he won’t be brought to justice, could cause Toma to do something stupid. He might want to attack the man, kill him. It sounds extreme, but Toma, like me, believes in justice and doesn’t care how unjust he has to be to get it. I have a solution. I can protect Toma. The money I’ve just won can be put to good.
“How are you?” I ask.
Over the past ten weeks, besides investigating Toma’s claims about the slum landlord, I have also helped him find a room in a decent house. He now lodges with an elderly couple who like having him around the place because he acts like a surrogate son—their own lives in the States and calls just once a month. Toma changes lightbulbs, cuts their grass and makes them feel secure.
I can understand that.
Whenever I am with him, I, too, feel safe, assured. Even when we are creeping about grubby properties, meeting people who are unsavory through choice or circumstances. It’s not his huge physical presence, it’s his deep, poignant calm. I guess when the very worst thing that can happen to you has happened, nothing ever scares you again.
“I am good. Thank you.” He’s a man of few words.
“I’m glad you popped in. I think I may have found a lead on a job for you.”
“Yes?” He looks keen. He doesn’t like to be idle. He’s been busy enough whilst we’ve been playing detective, but that has to stop now. A job might distract him, at least temporarily, from his hunt. “It’s in an industrial laundry. It doesn’t pay brilliantly. It’s shift work.”
“Could I take double shifts?”
I smile. “Well, yes, if you want to, I guess.”
“I want. I’ve never been afraid of my own sweat. What else have I to do, besides work?”
“I hope you might find some level of community there. Many of the workers are Eastern Europeans.”
“Good. Sounds good.” Toma nods. “I had hoped you called me in because you tracked down the name of the landlord.”
I shake my head. “Sorry.” My stomach turns. I don’t like lying to him.
“It’s okay. I know you are trying. I know you are doing your best for me.”
I am. I want to reassure Toma that everything will change for him very soon, but I force myself to keep quiet. Sometimes staying silent is the right thing to do. “Let me dig out the application form. It’s a formality, really. They are keen to get labor as soon as possible. You could be at work by the day after tomorrow.”
“Or maybe sooner if I walk my application to them right now. Those at the top of the mountain didn’t fall there,” Toma says, and then he flashes me a rare smile that beams into my core.
CHAPTER 8
Lexi
The people from the lottery company said we could have the initial meeting anywhere we liked. We decided it was easiest and most discreet to have them come to our home to go through the paperwork. I can’t help but feel nervous. Once we accept the check, our lives are changed forever. No going back. But then I ask myself who would want to go back when so much good can be done going forward? Going back is crazy talk.
I pick up a carrot cake from the supermarket on the high street. I also feel the need to purchase some speciality teas. I don’t want to look flash, but I do want to be welcoming. I buy teapigs, a brand I consider a treat, but I’m regretting choosing liquorice and peppermint combined. It might be challenging, could seem pretentious. What was I thinking? Still, I can always brew a regular cup of builder’s tea.
I arrive home to bigger challenges than exotic tea bags. I am surprised to find Emily sunbathing in the front garden and a startling yellow Ferrari parked on the road in front of our house, incongruous against the leylandii hedge that needs trimming and the recycling bins that need emptying. I don’t know much about cars, I have little interest in them beyond getting me from A to B, but even I recognize the black horse on the badge.
I’m unsure which I should ask about first: the surprise presence of my daughter or the car. Jake takes the matter into his own hands and calls out, “I treated myself!” He laughs, delighted. His hands on his hips, his legs wide, manly, triumphant, he doesn’t take his eyes off the car to glance my way but adds, “And I picked up Emily because she texted me to say she was feeling unwell.”
“How did you buy this? We haven’t got the money in our account yet.”
He beams at me now, pleased with himself as though he’s just done something brilliant like got a promotion or
