On the crowded bus to Dublin, Evie sat low in her seat and hugged herself. It was as if eyes were focused on her back, as if she was constantly being watched. She stared through the window, thinking she could be recognised at any moment, identified and apprehended. The idea came to her: she would buy a hat, one which would update her appearance and cover her hair at the same time: a disguise. Her fingers fiddled in the little bag; they were all there, all of her things. Clutching the bag to her chest, she shuffled to the front as the bus slowed.
In a department store, she tried on the whole range, looking at herself in the mirror wearing floppy hats, wedding hats, fur hats, fascinators. Finally, she decided on a red beret. It had panache; it covered her hair completely and she thought she looked like an intelligent outdoor type who might be independent and take walks with a dog. She bought sunglasses, a huge handbag and a jaunty coat in a lightweight fabric and she saw herself in the mirror: a middle-class lady of leisure, or a stylish Parisian tourist. She paid with her card and headed for the chip shop, her old coat and bag in plastic carriers banging against her legs. Fried food was frowned upon in Sheldon Lodge. Evie bought chippers, battered cod and four pickled eggs and settled down on a bench to enjoy them. The chips were hot, mouth-burning, delicious with the forbidden tastes of fat and too much salt and vinegar. The batter crunched perfectly, releasing a stream of grease onto her tongue. It would all go down well with a nice glass of Prosecco, she thought.
A man sat on the bench next to her. He was middle-aged, hunched over, and wore an old overcoat; his face was a dark rash of stubble. Evie offered him a pickled egg.
‘And I don’t mind if I do,’ he told her, pushing the whole egg into his mouth and swallowing it in a gulp.
She offered him another.
‘Thank you kindly,’ he said and, like an anaconda, opened his mouth into a broad yawn before the egg disappeared.
Evie imagined his neck becoming egg-shaped for a moment before it made the downward plunge. She ate her chips one by one. A pigeon fluttered by her feet, its beak jabbing at scraps, and she almost flicked her foot at it. She thought again; perhaps the pigeon was in need of a chip too. She dropped a couple by her feet and the pigeon pecked, its wings folded behind its back like a dapper little man.
‘You’re in Dublin on holiday, then?’ asked Anaconda Man.
Evie considered her reply. ‘Ah, I am a crime writer. Doing research.’
‘Oh and what are you researching?’
‘Good fortune.’
‘Then I am your guy,’ said Anaconda Man, licking egg from the corner of his mouth.
‘Indeed?’ Evie was intrigued. The pigeon fluttered away.
‘Yes, I like to take a chance myself. I am on my way right now to place a bet on a certain horse. And why not come along for the fun of it? To find good fortune.’
Evie thought for a moment. Sheldon Lodge seemed a long way away. She smiled.
‘I would be delighted,’ she said, throwing her warm chip paper in the bin. ‘I have never seen inside a betting establishment before.’
They passed two betting shops, both with big double-fronted windows with posters offering luminously coloured deals for bets and odds. She expected him to pause, but Anaconda Man plodded past, his eyes focused ahead. Evie was just behind him; she was about to snatch at his arm, but thought better of it. Both betting shops were names she had seen many times advertised on the television.
‘We have missed it …’ she panted. ‘That was a betting shop. Where are we going?’
‘Not far now,’ he grunted. He’d broken into a sweat, which sat in seamy creases that folded across his forehead. He walked on quickly, Evie trotting behind.
‘What was wrong with that betting shop?’
‘Nothing.’ Anaconda Man was determined and focused. ‘Just not the right betting shop, that’s all.’
Evie hesitated for a moment. Perhaps he was a deadly and dangerous character like Sweeney Todd or the Ripper, leading her into a dark alley. He might mug her, or worse.
‘Come on, nearly there,’ he grunted. ‘They’ll be off soon and there is a particular hot horse I need to back. Are you with me?’
Evie wondered if she was being unwise. They turned the corner into a dim street where the brick buildings had started to crumble. They stopped at a little shop with dark windows and a creaking door that had probably once been green and, before that, painted yellow – Evie could see patches of it showing through the faded green.
The betting shop was fluorescent bright inside and smelled of dust and sweat; it was a furtive gamblers’ lair, sheltering little men on stools huddled over newspapers. At the far corner was a counter where two men were whispering and exchanging money. The place was full of people eyeing her suspiciously. She was thinking about walking out again when someone spoke.
‘Ah, Memphis. Good day to you,’ called the man behind the counter.
Evie watched her smiling companion; so then, Anaconda Man was called Memphis.
‘Hello there, brother.’
Memphis looked unlike the man at the counter: she assumed their fraternity was based on the betting.
‘I’d like to introduce my fair companion. She is a crime author. Her name is …’
‘Agatha,’ said Evie, holding out her hand and deciding that lies were the safest way forward.
She pulled the red beret down on one side, and glanced over the top of her sunglasses. She would make an excuse in a minute and leave. Memphis raised his arm, holding out money.
‘I want to place a bet on the one-thirty. Twenty each way on number fifteen, El Niño.’ Memphis shared the newspaper he had just picked up with Evie. ‘There you are – El Niño – he’s a good hot horse for you, and no mistake, if you want to make some fast money.’
She studied the newspaper. A name in print and the number four caught her attention at once. She looked at the door; she could stay for a few minutes more. Evie bit her lip and thought.
‘I want to bet on number four – Lucky Jim,’ she announced.
The counter man smiled, his lips a thin U-shape. ‘Rank outsider, lady.’ Two men behind her guffawed.
‘A hundred to one,’ agreed Memphis. ‘But who are we to stop a lady having a little flutter? After all, you’re seeking your fortune.’
‘Be quick,’ grimaced Counterman. ‘Betting closes soon.’
Evie reached into her new bag and pulled out a roll of notes, withdrawn from the bank as contingency earlier. Money just sitting in the bank, doing nothing, which would cover her spending spree with plenty left over. Her hand shook: she remembered selling their home, the place she had lived with Jim and Brendan, then just with Jim, for so many years, and tried to recall her husband’s face.
‘My bet for number four – Lucky Jim.’
Counterman counted silently, Memphis watching every movement.
‘How much do you want to bet, missus?’
Evie nodded her head. She thought of Sheldon Lodge, of Mrs Lofthouse and her pink prawn lips, then she thought of her husband Jim, his flat cap pulled down over serious eyes, a cigarette squeezed between his lips. For a moment, she hesitated, but wasn’t four her lucky number? She’d never proven it to herself properly and this was her big chance. She didn’t understand odds, but this horse had to win. It had Jim’s name and her lucky number. And Jim had been such a good man. Her voice was faint. She crossed the two fingers on each hand. Four fingers. ‘All of it.’
‘Five hundred euros?’ asked Counterman, his eyebrows shooting upwards.
Evie breathed in. ‘Number four. To win.’
Counterman winked at Memphis. ‘Lucky Jim to win – a hundred to one. Here, lady, and best of luck to you.’ And he handed her a slip of paper in exchange for her money.
Evie could see the men’s faces staring in disbelief. She was the centre of their attention, an anomaly, a rank outsider, just like Lucky Jim. She suddenly wished she had left the betting shop when she had the chance.
The tinny voice on the radio announced the start of the race and Evie was aware of the scent of anxious bodies crowding around her. A short man in a cap smirked at her through sparse teeth. Evie tried to move back but she was cornered. A huddle of men gathered around her, all with the same expression, worry mixed with hopefulness as they clutched their betting slips.
‘And they’re off,’ announced the lilting voice on the radio.
Evie breathed in as the mass of bodies came even closer. El Niño was in the lead, closely followed by Steam Packet and Argonaut: no mention of Lucky Jim. As the pace increased, the men around Evie seemed to do an imperceptible jig with their knees. The voice became quicker; the knee jerk turned into a bounce, their backs bobbing, quickening with each furlong. Evie smelled the anxiety of the betting men and she turned her nose as far away as she could, hoping the race would soon end. The five hundred euros had not been a good idea at all. Evie almost wished herself back in Sheldon Lodge. Almost.
‘And it’s number fifteen, El Niño … El Niño followed by Argonaut and they are turning into the home straight, El Niño, he is a neck in front but Argonaut, ridden by Paddy Mills, is giving it everything he has; now it is El Niño …’
Evie thought about dropping her betting slip and running out of the shop but she was hemmed in by the fretting throng who started to cheer. Memphis clenched a fist; he began to pound the air; spittle escaped from the side of his mouth. The voice shifted up a gear, the radio rattling with each consonant. The men’s eyes were glazed with some kind of religious entreaty and she felt that she was the only sane person in the shop. Her own eyes closed in prayer.
‘El Niño has it in the bag but oh, look, now, now on the outside coming up, it’s Lucky Jim, number four, his rider is really urging him forward, with less than a furlong to go; he’s passed Argonaut but it is El Niño, El Niño, El N— no, Lucky Jim has forced a nose in front, and it’s Lucky Jim, Lucky Jim, Lucky Jim. And Lucky Jim wins it by a neck.’
Memphis brought his fist to the counter with a crunch and his fingers splayed, releasing the betting slip. Eyes turned on Evie as if she were an angel. There was no movement, no noise. A strange sensation was seeping into her skin. Lucky Jim had passed the post in first position. She broke the silence. ‘Well …’
The men responded by clapping their hands; Evie was patted, cheered. The little man with a few teeth grasped her arm. ‘Can you tell me a good one for the two-thirty, lady?’
Counterman was calculating her winnings, over fifty thousand euros, as the men watched her, their mouths open. She asked for the cheque to be made out to Mrs E. Gallagher. He handed it to her, shaking his head. She put it carefully in her handbag.
Memphis rubbed moist hands together as he spoke: ‘Would you believe it?’
Evie took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She pushed her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose, held out her hand and took his, her eyes benevolent and gracious.
‘Thank you so much for your help today, Mr Memphis,’ she cooed. ‘You have brought me good luck. Who knows? Perhaps we will meet again. I will certainly mention you in my latest novel.’
She heaved her carrier bags in one hand and swung her handbag in the other. With the men’s eyes on her, she swept out of the betting shop, feeling like Marilyn Monroe.
Evie blinked as she came out into the brightness of the Dublin streets. She paused, adjusted her beret and looked about at the shoppers moving up and down on the pavements.
She thought about how Jim never had any luck in his life.
Purposefully, she dumped the plastic carriers containing her old coat and handbag on the top of a brimming bin.
‘Holy shite,’ she breathed.