Don't Call Me Beth

By Simon Jenner

Karen Harper is a politically incorrect, misanthropic, unforgiving bitch ... and that’s just the opinion of her best friend, Nat. Under regular psychiatric care since witnessing her twin sister’s murder ten years earlier, Karen is barging her way through life with a giant chip on her shoulder. Now twenty-four, her only goals are to remove herself from society and give up dangerous one-night stands, the one activity that guarantees her a few hours of peaceful sleep.

The morning after a weekly ‘buddy night’ excursion with Nat, everything changes, and a mystery that began with her mother’s disappearance twelve years ago, threatens to destroy everything she’s worked so hard to achieve.

Toughened by the loss of her family and an abusive care home upbringing, Karen meets mounting adversity head on. But when the odds are stacked against you, even the super-smart need help, and when an ex-gangster’s solicitor saves her from a knife attack, she begins to believe that the worst is over.

But her struggle is only just beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Jenner
• Release date: Dec 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005367350

Simon Jenner

Simon Jenner is best known for the bestselling ETHAN JUSTICE series, dark-humoured action thrillers with unforgettable main characters. He also wrote the critically acclaimed THE EVOLVED, the first in a young adult sci-fi trilogy, with the second book still in development. His latest book, DON’T CALL ME BETH, is an epic psychological thriller which is receiving much early praise.Simon lives in Beverley, East Riding of Yorkshire, with his wife, Julia.https://www.facebook.com/SimonJennerAuthorhttp://SimonJenner.com/

Book preview

Part One

All Things Start Somewhere

CHAPTER ONE

Fourteen Years Earlier

MELINDA HARPER FLOPPED into the soft-skinned leather armchair to watch her twin daughters at play. Air escaped the worn cushions with a jealousy-inducing wheeze. What she’d give to depressurise her inner turmoil so easily. The sight of her beautiful girls, so often a source of bliss, only served as a reminder of tonight’s high stakes. Amid the squeals of raucous joy, three questions looped in her mind, each with a vicious barbed tail: Would she live to see tomorrow? If not, would her girls survive? If so, who would care for them?

One after the other the twins hurtled into the air from their king-size bed, a bed they had shared since bouncing their double cot into submission. Who’d have believed two-year-olds capable of such a feat? Every few months since the cot’s destruction, she had offered the girls their own rooms - the huge house had plenty, after all. Their joint response of What for? had become a family joke. As Beth now dented the mattress on landing, Karen shot up, screeching in excitement as a frantic swipe of her outstretched hand fell an inch short of its white-painted target. Their mission to touch the high ceiling began in earnest two years and two sets of bedsprings ago. Now at ten years old, and tall for their age, their fingertips were closing in for the kill. A month, maybe. Soon, for sure.

If soon extends beyond tonight.

Melinda craved a drink, something that offered a mule-like kick to the brain. Not a chance. This wasn’t a night for sloppy thinking. In less than fifteen minutes, just before 8:00 p.m., the firm’s solicitor would arrive, a man known more for his punctuality than his lack of height. Charles Winslow wasn’t absurdly short by any means, but at five feet seven inches, his stature was a continuous source of amusement to their employers.

The firm was a family-run business with the infamous Falconers, a quintet of six-foot-plus brutes, at its helm. With a mission statement that revolved around violence and intimidation, it paid to look the part. As top tiers of crime families stacked up, she imagined few did this better. Reason enough to have first approached colleague and confident Charles with her intention to resign from the crime business. In the past, the solicitor had proved himself to be a friendly ear. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Since speaking of cutting ties five days ago, he’d been acting uncharacteristically cagey. This had messed with her head, turning the envisaged bartering over how much her safe exit was going to cost her into a plethora of grisly alternatives. When pushed during their phone call this morning, he had finally agreed to tonight’s meeting. A definitive answer was promised.

One way or another, he had said. A phrase that only added to her anxiety.

Alone? she asked. I don’t want any of the Five coming near my girls.

I’ll see what I can do, he replied. You worry too much.

She had doubted that, more so as the day passed.

You should’ve told no one, rented a transit van, bundled the girls, computer systems and valuables inside, and escaped when darkness fell.

But it was too late for that. She had minutes until she discovered her one way or another fate. A mighty shriek shattered her thoughts.

Mum, Mum, look at us! Tell us who’s jumping the highest.

Melinda didn’t need to look up from her lap to know it was Karen doing the asking. Despite the slender twins enjoying perfectly matching tonal qualities, Karen - the older by four minutes - was the fiercest competitor, the protector, the show-off.

It’s me Mum, right? Right? Beth said ‘right’ often, a habit she accentuated after their exclusive school insisted that she stop, labelling the mannerism as ‘pushy and unladylike’. Beth didn’t accept orders that made no sense. Mum backed her all the way.

I want to see your best jumps, she said, looking up. One each and then I’ll decide on the winner. Points will be deducted for taking off or landing too close to the edges. So, safety first, okay?

Okay, the girls chorused.

Her daughters, Beth first, took their turns, screeches exchanged for silent concentration. Their warm-ups plus official jumps tested the very limits of the bed and mattress, but the truth was easy to share.

Nothing between you, Melinda said. Both Olympic standard. A gold medal each.

Muum, you always say that, Karen moaned.

I think you just pipped me. Beth offering up the win to make her sister happy was not unusual. The pair’s minor character differences only strengthened their bond. When opinion’s clashed, one invariably backed off to maintain the peace. It wasn’t a turn-based system. Uncannily - and without being voiced - each knew the relative importance of every single matter to the other, big or small. An identical twin thing, if ever there was one.

The girls embraced, immediately losing their footing and collapsing limbs entwined onto the mattress in a fit of giggles. Melinda smiled. Her twins were a tonic for just about anything that ailed her. But her positivity was short lived, her mind inexorably tugged back to how her involvement with the Falconers began.

Self-propelled out of local authority care at sixteen years old, Melinda had aspired to set the world on fire. It took less than a week to discover that the world was a damp place, and setting even a tiny part of it on fire was a pipe dream. The orphan tag was like lugging around an overflowing bag of shit wherever you went. Once people sniffed out your upbringing, noses turned up, claws came out and doors slammed in your face. In a fiercely competitive job market, interviews came and went with weeks in between. Money was tight. Short of the sex trade, stacking supermarket shelves or cleaning were her only obvious choices.

An old school chum, Amy, was apparently ‘raking it in’, providing a sex chat service pandering to men over 80 with a smoking fetish. Go old and niche, Amy had recommended. Wrinklies’ wives are either dead or just wanna watch TV. Sure as hell ain’t many wanna grab hold of a geriatric’s festering old fella and take it for a spin. It’s money for old rope. Most of the randy buggers just pant until they pop one out or fall unconscious. I can clear 300 quid in a good day. Not bad while watching TV and smoking a few fags. Melinda had mulled over the profitable prospect for a good ten minutes before concluding her moral compass couldn’t hack the ride.

So, she stacked and she scrubbed. Twelve hours a day, six days a week. The meagre income paid for a poky Hammersmith bedsit, where a fifty-pence coin fed into the electricity meter of the communal shower returned a two-minute dribble of lukewarm water. It wasn’t the life she had daydreamed of from the back corners of dusty school classrooms, where double history crammed decades into an hour that lingered like a week.

Not deterred, she signed up for evening classes at the local technical college to study finance. It turned out, contrary to the derogatory comments of her school teachers, she wasn’t just gifted with numbers and logic, she was a real-life, one-of-a-kind, goddamn genius. They did get one thing right, bless them: paying attention in class assisted learning no end.

At eighteen, armed with aced qualifications, a fake history and callused hands, she landed a junior clerical position at a small central London branch of an international bank. Keeping her head down, she strived to consistently exceed her employer’s expectations. It worked, and Melinda rode the promotion train to Senior Compliance Officer after only three years. The bedsit was upgraded to a rented flat, her showers taken hot and long, and without a single ‘hurry-up’ knock at the bathroom door to spoil the indulgence. At twenty-one years old, while not yet alight, the world was beginning to warm.

All was rosy - spectacularly tedious, too, if she was being honest - until the bank’s internal audit team included her personnel file in their departmental review of Human Resources. Out of the blue, she was invited to sit opposite a fat and odious man in an overlit corner office on the top floor. Seeing the look of vicious contempt on a face with skin looser than a rucked sheet, she guessed what was coming. He didn’t offer his hand. It didn’t look like he could shift any part of his amorphous bulk with any level of dignity. He introduced himself in an Australian twang as, Bob Malone, International Vice President of Human Resources, and your worst fucking nightmare. He waved her rolled up application form at her like a bludgeon, jowls squelching as they worked up an unsightly level of saliva, spitting, Lies, lies, lies. This is pure fiction, Miss Harper. Did you think we’re not wise to your kind? Melinda didn’t bother to answer, only backing her chair up to avoid his far-flying spray while wondering into which category ‘her kind’ fell and why any business would employ such an aesthetically revolting individual in a ‘people’ position. After waiving her right to official representation in return for a month’s salary, she was manhandled out of the bank’s rear entrance, her plastic lunchbox hitting the tarmac and shedding its corned beef sandwiches at her feet.

All concerted attempts to regain respectable employment paying above minimum wage failed. As far as a future in finance was concerned, her card was well and truly marked. Big business was manned - yes, manned - where it counted by gynophobic impractical bastards. Talent carried no weight in the legitimate world, not without sparkly parents to tie a pretty bow around it, and especially not with the anticipated reference her disgruntled ex-employer would provide to a prospective employer. Her limited number of interviews never took her that far. An embarrassment saved, she supposed.

Scorned by a system devoid of practical choices, she took to the streets of Hammersmith in search of disreputable employment. The bank had provided her with the perfect grounding. The rest, she could wing. With renewed gusto and a bitter sense of righteousness, she offered her services to the black economy as a ‘financial concealment specialist’, taking great pains to avoid enterprises that profited from any kind of illegal drug-related activity. Seeking out the thriving among the rife illegal undertakings proved straightforward. She knew people from school who knew people - sex-chat Amy’s family and friends didn’t boast a tax payer among them. The challenging part was convincing leery, pawing, intellectually-challenged tough-nuts that a ‘cheeky slag’ like her could actually save them a ton of dirty money.

After three weeks of verbal abuse and ridicule, word of her job-seeking exploits filtered back to the Falconers, the current kings of the Hammersmith underworld. The first she knew of their interest was when a black limousine pulled up beside her, and two hefty, mean types leaped out and urgently whisked her into the back. The boss has been admiring your balls, was the extent of their conversation.

Ten minutes later, she was drinking strong tea from a chipped mug inside the back office of an auto-parts workshop. Present at the round table were the Falconer Five and their solicitor, Charles Winslow. Dark suits and ties were the order of the day, despite the summer heat. The Fearsome Five, as they were locally considered, appeared unashamedly gangster-like. Intimidating wasn’t a strong-enough adjective. The Five shared a family chin - not so much of a cleft as a jagged pathway between jutting rock face - and the darkest, meanest green eyes she had ever seen. While making every effort to be polite and put her at ease, it was clear that these men were, above all else, giant muscular slabs of murderous bastard.

It was all she could do not to wet herself.

She answered their every question, squeaked and stuttered out a few of her own. Her timing had been perfect, she was told. Their current ‘finance whiz’ had suffered a nasty ‘accident’ which was ‘nothing to do with us’ and wouldn’t be returning to work. They offered her a trial period of three months - including a ‘no hard feelings’ get-out in case either party wasn’t happy - dealing directly with ‘Little Charlie Boy’ who would help her find her feet and be her main point of contact. She accepted, partly because the solicitor seemed like a regular guy (she had no knowledge of the manslaughter rap blemishing his CV back then), partly because she couldn’t bring herself to scrub another floor, but mostly because she was too shit-scared to decline. Three perfectly acceptable reasons, she assured herself.

The rest was history. Rented Hammersmith flat became large detached house in Chiswick, shower room became four bathrooms, each with a bidet and fed by a combi boiler providing hot water 24/7.

And now she was about to meet with ‘Little Charlie Boy’ one last time. Hopefully alone. If the solicitor arrived with company, her future - and that of the girls - became difficult to predict. In her jumbled head, their fate seesawed between ‘safe but significantly less wealthy’ and ‘decomposed in acid then poured down a drain’. Somehow the latter scenario paled against the worry of being separated, dead or alive, from her children. How selfish was that?

Mum, what about our story? Karen asked, now bed-ready in white cotton pyjamas patterned with red cherries, her glossy ash-brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Melinda hadn’t noticed her daughter approach. God, her children were beautiful. Shame, or perhaps not, their father had turned out to be six feet of stiff shit carved into human form. At the mention of her pregnancy, his shabby Nikes had left skid marks on the carpet. No marriage. No paperwork. No loss. Whenever the girls asked about him, she pulled no punches. They hadn’t enquired in over a year.

Mum? Are you even listening? Karen pressed.

Right, right, right. Beth was grinning as she leaped from corner to corner on the bed, her pyjamas and hair perfectly matching her sister’s. We want a story, we want a story. Right, right, right. Another Big Jim and Juan Tulah adventure, please?

Melinda’s father had invented the intrepid fictional duo. If only his heart had been as hardy as the globe-trotting adventurers, she’d have been spared this criminal life, this pessimistic pondering. Abandoned by her mother shortly after birth, Dad’s ticker had given out before she turned nine. It had been downhill from there. Teeth first girls, she said. You know the rules. Then you can pick a book.

Aw, Mum, Beth said. Not a book. They’re rubbish. Tell us the one when Big Jim convinces the cannibals that he and Juan caused the eclipse of the moon.

We have undertaken all of our nightly ablutions, mother, Karen added, perfectly mimicking the poshest of voices. Not that you noticed. It seems that your attention has deviated into the daydreams of the wicked.

Melinda smiled. She’s not wrong there. She magicked up a disapproving frown, but her voice failed to convey collaborative gravitas. You shouldn’t repeat everything your teachers say, Karen. It didn’t matter. In truth, she appreciated the girls’ flair for the sarcastic, however, it was clear she needed a few extra minutes to rid her head of distractions before reading out loud. Bounce yourselves silly for a while longer, then I’ll read.

Okay. Karen frowned. Are you all right, Mum? You look kinda worried.

I’m fine, sweetheart, she said, trailing her expensively manicured fingernails lightly across her daughter’s soft cheek. Karen skipped away and rejoined Beth on the bed. The giggles and bouncing recommenced. Melinda’s thoughts returned to her biggest obstacle: top dog, Alex Falconer.

It wasn’t like the sums she currently laundered for the family amounted to much, so why should Alex care? Over the last five years, small bands of East Europeans had flooded into the area, wrenching control of much of Hammersmith from the Falconers. Drastically reduced income had significantly lessened her working hours. In essence, she was barely needed. But she wasn’t a fool. To her knowledge, nobody had left the firm’s employment in good health. A job for life with the Falconers meant one thing: you died young. Why had she imagined that she would be the exception?

Because money talks.

True enough, although the more Melinda’s grey matter churned, the more she realised her undisclosed fortune could just as easily bury her. Ironic really, as it was the Falconer’s diminishing enterprises that had necessitated an alternative income stream. Certain that the East Europeans would, one day soon, hack and stab the once unchallengeable family off the face of the earth, she had spent the last few years soliciting new clients. These came mainly in the form of foreign corporations and wealthy crooks, the former, more often than not, run by the latter. There was big money to be found in art and property dealing. Art had always been a love of hers - particularly depictions of famous battle scenes - and with many collectors more than willing to deal in cash, she had already cleaned many millions of the Falconer’s illicit gains via the purchase and sale of expensive paintings. Now an avid collector herself, she was in her element.

The property side was less scintillating but every bit as lucrative. Foreigners, predominantly but not exclusively Arabs, couldn’t buy enough of upmarket London, and with oil revenues frequently providing the means, most clients were impervious to the premiums she was charging. Art and real estate were the perfect bedfellows for a talented money launderer. Facilitating up to twenty deals a week, many with a commission of six figures, her monthly income was in the millions. Self-managing her growing funds only added to the swelling pot. Indeed, there were days when trading on the stock exchanges and currency markets made her commission income seem like spare change. With her personally owned portfolio of properties and paintings currently soaring in value, it was true what they said: money made more money; the rich only got richer - at least the smart ones did.

Although they never spoke openly of her outside income, Charles had provided her with contacts, furnished key introductions, and willingly accepted fees for his services. Given her keenness to part company, had the solicitor mentioned her moonlighting activities to any of the Five? She figured not. He was an odd sort, never seeming quite at ease in the company of the senior family members - or in her company for that matter. Besides, how could he sell her out without admitting to lining his own well-rewarded pockets? But the fact remained, if Alex had an inkling of her true wealth, he would see it as a swift solution to the family’s East European tribulations. She had amassed the kind of money that bought whole councils, not merely a well-placed official with sway; enough for a civilian army, the latest in killing technology for each, plus a well-funded pension scheme should they survive long enough to access it.

Another concern: Charles might be dead, drained of their shared secret and lying on a thick sheet of polythene awaiting disposal. Perhaps he’d seen an opportunity to appropriate a portion of her wealth and overplayed his hand. Alex wasn’t the forgiving kind. The top mobster was a reactive, violent sort who thrived on rage and confrontation. Although she’d never witnessed his overreactions first hand, the rumours were plentiful: he had stabbed a barman through the eye for commenting on his perma-tan; removed his mechanic’s ears with a meat cleaver for leaving the protection covers inside his car on its return; the list was long, petty and heinous. Mostly it was fictitious, but some of it undoubtedly true. Death threats, and delivering on those threats, best encapsulated Alex’s approach to a crisis.

If Alex and Co. arrived in place of a chopped-up Charles, what then? The meeting, she imagined, would commence with scare tactics to discover the extent of her deceit. Truthfully, he only had to ask. If he allowed her the choice, the interrogation would be a quick ordeal: thirty seconds to find her voice plus the time it took to recount her assets. Five minutes, a few more. Maybe she’d withhold a bank account, one he could never discover. No, that was too risky. It wasn’t that she lacked nerve, not a bit of it. Offering the slightest resistance would merely illicit one of his big-toothed smiles, often a precursor to fury. Then her daughters’ lives would be entered into the conversation. Perhaps something along the lines of, How are those pretty little twins of yours? Keeping healthy, I hope. That she couldn’t allow.

Once she’d provided an estimate of her complete holdings, a victorious grin would percolate through his mask of menace. Greed would take him the rest of the way. He would demand half, at least, as a retire-alive surcharge, perhaps a substantial loan on top, no doubt at zero interest. That was an ‘at best’ scenario. One that Alex would perceive as ‘fair-minded’ amid his fog of avarice. At worst, he would find a way to take it all, incentivising her servility by referring to her daughters’ well-being. Again, she would fold on the spot and sign away the girls’ rightful inheritance. An inheritance she had recently ring-fenced by changing her will at the advice of Charles. That was three days ago. It seemed like a year. Willingly signing the necessary transfer documents before her death - which would surely follow shortly after - rendered the amended will worthless.

So help me God, Charles, you’d better have kept your mouth shut.

A welcome thought filtered through the bleakness. Something in her panic she hadn’t properly considered: Alex’s greed would save the day. The bulk of her assets were highly illiquid: bonds, shares, debentures, derivatives, paintings, and properties. He would need her alive beyond tonight if he craved the bulk of her fortune. The legalities would take weeks, longer if Alex had recklessly ripped out his solicitor’s heart with his bare hands.

Life expectancy beyond tonight, albeit a lifespan matching that of a swat-savvy housefly’s, was like a balm seeping into her anxiety. The bonus of attaching a slower-burning fuse to her troubles impacted on her previous negativity, instantly making a nonsense of the solicitor’s betrayal. Why had she even bothered penning the girls a final farewell note just in case? How stupid she felt now. Charles was on his way, armed with a buyout number Alex considered high - he can’t imagine you’ve stashed more than a couple of million - but acceptable. At a guess? A million at most. If his answer was to be a make-us-an-offer type of negotiation, she would propose five million, her working capital holdings kept inside a private vault in Mayfair. Alex could accompany her to the bank, if he preferred. Yes, that would do the trick. He would be kicking off his ‘Keep Organised Crime British’ campaign with enough money to fund the most brutal of death tolls. With that thought, rather ashamedly, her worries eased.

Time to wind down the girls’ night with that promised story. She looked over to the bouncing duo, amazed at their endless energy. So where do we find Big Jim and Juan Tulah tonight, my budding Olympians?

Before the girls recovered sufficient breath to answer, there was a rat-tat-tat at the front door. Melinda glanced at her watch: 8:12 p.m. What? She was surprised on two counts: one, that nearly 30 minutes had passed in what seemed like the space of ten; two, and more unbelievably, Charles Winslow was late.

Karen, bolt the bedroom door behind me, and choose a story from the bookshelf. If there’s still time, I’ll finish it when I’m done.

More knocks at the door, harder, more urgent.

Mum, Karen doesn’t do the voices as well as you, Beth complained, sliding between the sheets and throwing the duvet off her legs in one smooth motion. Boy, I’m boiling.

Do you want us to come downstairs with you? Karen asked, holding the door open for her mother.

Beth sat up in bed. Yeah, we’ll scare off any baddies, right, Karen?

Melinda’s words caught in her throat, such was the force of emotion that her babies ignited inside her heart. Thanks, but no … I’ll try to make it quick. Just remember not to open your door for anyone but me.

We remember, they chorused.

No one ever comes upstairs, Beth added. I don’t know why we bother locking the door.

The moment Melinda was alone in the spacious landing, the knocks transitioned into loud thuds. She didn’t react, waiting outside the girls’ bedroom for the reassuring sound of the bolts sliding into place. As the thuds downstairs repeated, she pictured a red-faced Alex Falconer pounding on the front door with his massive lump of a fist, machine gun held in his other hand. Her heart banged behind her ribcage like two bricks in a tumble drier. On hearing the final door bolt secured, she raced down the wide staircase and into the entrance hall.

More pounding, heavier, louder. Angrier?

I’m coming!

Reaching the door, she switched on the outside light and peered through the peephole. There he was, the shortish man in a dark suit, standing with his broad back to her. Charles. Her arrival had cured the solicitor’s urge to break down the door. And he’s alone. This was the best news she could have hoped for.

By the time her eager fingers navigated four sturdy Yales and the security chain, her breathing and heartbeat were calmed. She and her girls were going to be safe, all for the bargain basement price of five million pounds. She could have sung out loud, her relief was so palpable.

She opened the door, her best smile on standby. But the smile never formed. Before the cold evening air had time to waft over her, swift hands reached out, circled her narrow neck, squeezed.

Wha–?

Her words were cut off, breathing instantly curtailed.

Driving her backward, he hissed in her face, Your pain, my gain. Your money, my money.

In a split second, she was supine, hands still pincering her throat. The agony was intense, but her inability to take in air, so much worse. In panic, she clawed at the hands intent on nipping her head clean off. Her fingernails gouged parallel strips of skin from his forearms down to his knuckles. He roared in response, but his grip only tightened. Her thoughts turned to survival, but not of her own. Did the girls lock their door? Yes, I’m sure of it.

Thumb ends compacted the flesh both sides of her windpipe until it felt like they were meeting inside of her neck. Her head would explode if she didn’t breathe soon.

How can I protect my girls? With reality blurring, she switched tactics and lashed out at his face, scratching at his eyes, tearing skin from his cheeks. Her fingertip plunged into soft wet tissue. Something sticky and warm splattered her face.

Got you!

Another roar, more rage than pain this time. Saliva and breath she was unable to smell blasted her cheeks. The throttling hands didn’t let up, began to shake her. Something clicked inside her neck. She imagined it was her spine snapping.

What did my final letter to my babies say? She couldn’t remember exactly. There were instructions, she believed, practical advice. Will they realise how much they meant to me? She wished she could go back and rewrite it, make it poetic, less preaching. If only she’d trusted in her dread enough to give her final farewell the love and emotion it surely lacked. I’m sorry.

Blots of colour flashed before her eyes, swelling, filling her vision and soaking up the light until her world turned dark. She swiped weakly at the blackness, like a dying dog desperate to offer its owner one last paw. She thought she heard the door slam in the wind, an angry voice, Death perhaps. The darkness swallowed Melinda, her fight for survival lost. A final plea echoed in her head, forever unspoken.

Please, don’t hurt my girls!

Part Two

Present Day: In Pursuit of a Plan

CHAPTER TWO

Buddy Night Mondays

OTHER THAN AN occasional chat with my sister, my circle of friends is limited to one. A dot more than a circle, if you want to get geometrical about it. Whatever the noun applicable to this humble and stunted number, at this moment my only friend’s commitment to secrecy is chafing my mood into a bloody sore.

Where are we going? I shout after her.

You’ll see, she calls back. Try to keep up.

To render my frustration all the more shameful, Natalie Hughes is the sole reason that tête-à-têtes with my identical twin aren’t face-to-face in the afterlife. We still talk, you see, my dead sister and I. No, I’m not mad, well, not certifiably. Sanity is a grey area at best, I always say. To be clear, I know the dead don’t talk back, and I know I’m only talking with my memory of her - but we talk just the same. In the moment, I believe, and that’s what matters. If Nat hadn’t thwarted my suicide attempts - on three occasions - I’d be dusty bones buried in a box, or, even less substantial, ashes in a cheap ceramic urn. More concisely, dead.

So, cutting good ol’ lifesaver Nat a loop or two of slack shouldn’t be a chore, right? Tonight, though, she’s pushing her luck.

After a hellish tube journey to Bond Street, I’m now skipping tiny zigzags along London’s packed Oxford Street just to keep her billowing crimson skirt-tails in view. High heels and the shopping crowds from hell aren’t helping. I am surrounded by myriad bodies sheathed in thick coats and scarves, forming wall after wall of jammed-together human flesh as they connive to hinder my progress. Caucasian faces are as pink-as-pigs from battling the sub-zero January air, ethnic faces not so aesthetically distressed. It seems the sole goal of the oncoming mist-snorters is to trample me into the pavement. Those moving in the same direction, driving me from behind and penning me in at the sides, are just as responsible for my brewing rage. My ankle takes another tap from a gentleman’s - I don’t think so! - shoe, but my choice expletive is devoured by the cacophony of car horns.

Watch the language, Karen.

You see, at only twenty-four years old, I’m well into Stage 3 of my life plan. Dropping the swearing is both an intrinsic and decidedly tricky ingredient of success. If I wish to fund this final stage, then I need to hook a post with my current employers that pays big. If things pan out, I’ll be promotion ready in twelve months. However, the way this frigid evening is evolving, practice at curbing the foul language might have to take a few hours off. If only I had an inkling of our final destination, this insane expedition might be easier to stomach.

Buses and cars crawl alongside us. Motorbikes weave past the buses and cars. Cyclists do their utmost to survive.

Why is Nat dragging me, kicking and screaming - being kicked until screaming, more accurately - into the retail centre of London during the crazy sales season? And how come everyone’s credit cards aren’t maxed out from honouring the birth of Jesus so extravagantly a few weeks back? Being tall and slight - Nat says statuesque, I say gangly - I am a pinball in a world of determined flippers. She knows that I detest crowds, so why battle the bargain-hungry droves for our regular Monday ‘Buddy Night’, an evening until now spent in one of Hammersmith’s limited selection of homogenous wine bars? I imagine the standard purpose of our night out remains unchanged - she knows better than to mess with that - so why the geographical blip? This surprise uptown departure had better be worth the bruises.

To compel myself onward, I recall the sacrifice already made. Tube travel is the Devil: narrow space, thick with the stench of stale sweat and bad breath, bodies crammed in to sardine-tin comparisons. In a nutshell, the perfect environment for randy male detritus to wriggle up close and personal without risk of arrest: a nose nestled in my hair, sniffing deep, fuelling lungs, heart and erection alike; sudden adjustments in balance necessitating an accidental backhand stroke of my breast - I do beg your pardon, Miss. Yeah, right!; the thrust and grind of a swelling crotch against my buttocks as the train jerks to a halt. Take my word for it, those leaving the train aren’t the only ones getting off. You get the picture, right? Having endured that torture without a single testicle being lost to my temper, I guess I owe it to Nat to hang in a while longer.

Best friends that double up as lifesavers don't come cheap. More’s the pity.

We aren’t wearing coats, our freshly dry-cleaned evening dresses - sleeveless, too, are we mad? - wouldn’t survive this gruelling cattle drive from Bond Street underground station crumpled beneath heavy outer layers. Our smart attire is closer to classic ballroom than cocktail chic, not the most sensible gear for underground travel. But, according to Nat - whose clues to tonight’s destination have been less truthful than a Catholic priest’s confession - where we’re going, the sweaty and bedraggled are as welcome as the opinions of child environmental activists. If the steady trickle of sweat from my uncovered armpits - who knew a body could perspire in artic conditions? - is anything to go by, she’s going in alone.

A right turn toward Mayfair ramps up my anticipation and curiosity. The foot traffic on our side of the wide street is spread thinly enough to allow me to surge forward and grab Nat’s shoulder. I spin her around. Jesus, Nat, slow down, will you? My feet are cream cheese in these goddamn shoes.

She scowls and thrusts out her ample chest in a defensive manner. How I’d love to own those breasts. Not sure what I’d do with them. Parade them all day in front of the mirror, smug-faced, springs to mind. Come on, Beth, she says. The fun starts at ten. Gotta keep moving if we wanna make it in time.

Don’t fucking call me Beth! I hiss. Her composure falls away like I slapped her in the face, silver-grey eyes shocked wide open. I likely appear similarly affronted. In fact, I know it. Pissed off is the look I’m going for. I dial up my scowl another notch in case she doesn’t understand who’s at fault here. Christ, Nat, I’ve been Karen for four years.

We stand toe-to-toe, eyes combatively locked, annoying obstacles to grouchy pedestrians forced to navigate around us. We manoeuvre our way to a streetlamp. Irritatingly, the light shining from above makes her honey-toned caramel hair appear more lustrous than ever.

Neither of us says a word. We don’t talk often about my murdered twin sister or why I took her name. She does know, however, that I no longer answer to my given name, Beth. Nat, albeit reluctantly, researched the deed poll process with me, helped me file the paperwork to give the necronym legal status. So how, when I least expect it, does she forget?

Nat’s stern face melts, her soft hands rising to grip my upper arms, pain narrowing her eyes and misshaping a pretty round face into something resembling a menstrual-cramp grimace.

I’m sorry. I don’t know what happens when I do that. It’s like we’re still seventeen, back at The Hatch. Her voice morphs into a thick Cockney drawl. Bef an’ Nat, ain’t no one dare to fuck with that.

I stiffen uneasily at hearing our old war cry and wish I was home in my Hammersmith flat. Back in the day - or in The Hatch Days, as I think of them - we actually thought that the sad, cobbled-together tagline was the stuff of legends. What’s with her tonight? First she calls me Beth, then she brings up The Hatch. We aren’t those people any more, Nat. We don’t sound like that, and we sure as hell don’t behave like that.

Not at work maybe, but you still have your moments.

"I won’t be pushed around, and I won’t apologise for that, but I don’t want to think about that place, okay?"

I still work there, remember? It’s not like it used to be. What happened … to … your … sister …, she looks down, … could never happen again.

Can we drop it? Please?

She throws her hands in the air. Jesus! Okay, no Hatch chat. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

The Hatch is the children’s home in Hammersmith where we grew up together. Fourteen years ago, the morning after my mother disappeared, my doomed twin and I were dumped there like Dickensian waifs. No pictures, no mementos, no possessions whatsoever. Nothing but the cherry-patterned pyjamas we were wearing. We were ten years’ old. One night, Mum told us to lock our bedroom door while she dealt with a visitor. Just until she came back, she said. We did our part and locked the door. She failed at the coming back part. The good times were over, no warnings given. I still can’t find it in my heart to forgive her. Mums should always come back.

The children’s home is a large house licensed by the state to care for orphans, the unwanted and the abused. At times, during my stay, I was all three at once. It was not a good place, not then. For no crime of my own, I did an eight-year stretch, Nat six as an inmate and the same again as staff. Now she runs the show, how crazy is that? My sister had logged a meagre two years at the time of her murder.

With my courageous twin glued to my side, I survived those first two years we shared in the trenches, toughened up, became stronger. After Karen’s murder, Nat slipped into the sudden vacancy at The Hatch, and I’m alive today because of it. Somehow, she kept me upright and ticking when I longed only to clock off and die. The reminder of my debt to my friend - plus the sight of her droopy mug now pleading for forgiveness - thaws the ice in my veins. I feel bad for making her feel bad. Nothing wrong in my life ever resulted from her doing. The light from the streetlamp above reveals the barely visible ridge of the scar above her left eyebrow. A scar makeup can’t quite hide. You did that. She was saving your life, and you lashed out. My shame is complete.

Forget it, I say. I shouldn’t make my dumb problems yours. Now please tell me where the fuck we’re going, and how much longer I have to walk through the zombie hoard in these shitty heels?

Her mouth forms a huge ‘O’ of mock disapproval. Just can’t knock that swearing on the head, can you?

Maybe tomorrow. My lips stretch into a smile, and I can’t hold back a laugh.

You can’t swear like a drunken whore and earn the big bucks unless you’re a man, you know that.

Funny and true, I say. Didn’t expect to ever say that about anything spouted from your giant blowhole.

Fuck you.

No, fuck you.

We both start to laugh loudly, attracting curious glances from passers-by.

We good? she asks, a ginormous smile returning radiance to a lightly freckled face I also wouldn’t say no to having.

Always, I say.

Nat’s arms envelop me, tug us together, and I’m suddenly drowning in her tactile apology and my own ignominy. I wish I had her arms, too, they’re so comfortable. Not like my scraggy limbs. Hell, there isn’t much of her that I wouldn’t steal. I press her cheek against my royal-blue satin dress - more across my breasts than between them - Mother Nature, bitch that she can be, ended my mammary growth on the humble side of average. But I shouldn’t have snapped at my friend. Without her help, I wouldn’t have reached my thirteenth birthday. I owe her twelve years of life - and still counting.

We pull apart, gaze at each other like starstruck lovers - which we are not, to be clear, although we did once share an open-mouthed kiss for experimentation purposes. Call it teenage curiosity, if such a harmless moment requires definition.

I’m such an ungrateful bitch, I say. I don’t know why you put up with me.

We shiver in unison as a bitter gust of winter air lifts our skirts, mocking our legs’ paltry nylon defences. Only idiots and drunk teenagers go outside sleeveless in winter. That makes us the former, I guess. I rub my hands frantically up and down Nat’s gooseflesh arms, causing more than a few passing heads to turn. I don’t care. Her smiling eyes tell me we are most definitely back to besties.

Let’s go, I say, dropping my arms and attempting to bounce on my toes. God, that hurts. For the record, blasphemy doesn’t count as bad language, not in my world. Nobody with a history like mine counts God among their pals. Please tell me it’s not far.

Nat spins, suffers a minor heel wobble and then sets off at a pace, calling back with her best impression of an upper-class twit, Romance beckons around the corner, my dear.

She’s making fun of me. She thinks I sound posh. The truth? Mostly, I do. Very posh. The legacy from my life before The Hatch has proven a useful tool at work and a hard one to give up. Having dusted off the plummy accent of my preteens during my elongated two-tier job interview, it seemed professional suicide to drop it the day I turned up to start work. Nowadays I take it home and on nights out, rarely ever slipping into Hatch speak, a mixture of London slang and bad attitude. While I hate how pompous I sound, in the world of corporate life insurance, a posh voice magically inflates your IQ. With a score of over 150, (I finished the 90-minute test at my university 35 minutes early), at work I’m considered a regular Ms Einstein - or unsociable swot, depending whom you ask. When you work in a head office without female influence at the policy-changing tier, best you don’t spit on your limited advantages.

Readying to dash after Nat, I am rocked by a wave of despair that anchors me rigid to the pavement. My breath sticks in my throat. Nat’s references to my past have stirred up unwanted guests keen to crash my troubled mind. Normally, I can make ten o’clock without hint of the deluge to follow. Not tonight. I take hold of the lamppost, bend forward at the waist. Among the milling throng, I couldn’t feel more alone.

Shit! I shout into my hand.

I take a few deep breaths, coaxing my lungs under control, fully aware that the clock is now ticking. My inner demons are awake, restless and keen to run riot. The only solution - other than heading home - is as basic as it is crazy: I need sex, and soon. If I don’t obtain sexual gratification within the next couple of hours, well … hell, let’s just say: It won’t be pretty.

CHAPTER THREE

Advance To Mayfair

WE STOP AROUND the corner, a few yards before the main entrance of The Emperor Hotel, home to one of the most expensive night’s sleep money can buy. Not that Mayfair, playground to the rich, offers much in the way of cheap overnight accommodation. The Emperor Hotel is a palace away from home for the likes of overseas royalty or visiting world leaders lacking a sleepover invitation from the Queen. Bumper to bumper traffic crawls along the road, ensuring even in the most elite spaces of our capital city, the taste of diesel catches in your throat. London, where pollution rots your lungs, unfulfilled dreams slip a noose around your neck, and despair has you sticking needles into veins. I call it home.

Nat drags me behind a limestone column, one of two supporting a giant rigid canopy which in turn hosts a well-trimmed garden on its flat roof, like a lush-green hat.

We’re here, she says, brow furrowed, her face closing in on mine like a parent examining their child’s mouth for lollipop blemishes. There’s sweat above your lip. You having a turn?

I always leak a salty moustache when an impending turn announces itself, no matter the ambient temperature. I’ll be fine. I need a drink, that’s all.

She looks at her watch, and her eyes narrow with suspicion. That’s an earlier warning than usual. You’re not faking to get out of this, are you?

No. You think I’d let a carriage full of grubby commuters grind off on me just to turn back at the golden gates?

It wasn’t that bad. Most of it’s in your head.

Whatever. We’re here now. Let’s do this.

How long before meltdown? Be honest.

If I can get a stiff drink inside me in the next ten minutes, I’ll be good for a while, but there had better be a proper distraction on offer before long.

I’ve got your back. Now let’s get this party started.

Enough said.

My best friend peeps around the column at the two navy-blue-uniformed doormen standing either side of the glass-fronted entrance. Four inches taller than her at five-eleven, I peer over her head. Dual bands of gold piping circle the sleeves of the employees’ jackets an inch above the wrist. Matching single piping decorates the jackets’ collars and the base of their top hats. Other than an occasional twist of the head to either side, the frontline of hotel staff is inanimate, unnaturally straight-backed and silent. The likes of these are never going to allow the likes of us inside.

Nat pulls back from the column, glances at her tiny dress watch and announces, Ten to ten. She dips her fingers into a black Prada-knock-off handbag, one-handedly tugging out an unending stream of toilet tissue like a low-rent magician. Face and pits, she orders, directing the tissue at me.

I tear off a long stretch, bunch it up and dab beneath my nose before attending to my armpits. My recently shaven hollows dried, I sigh at the sight of dark semi-circles formed beneath each pit where my sweat has soaked into the absorbent dress material.

A passing group of expensively suited business types enjoys a gawk and a snigger as they draw level with us. The man closest, a red-faced barrel of lard that likely hasn’t seen his penis in anything but a mirror for some years (even a reflected view would require substantial gut hoisting), suggests we should have brought a hat in which to collect coins. I consider parting his testicles with a pointy-toed shoe, then remind myself Nat wouldn’t thank me for it. Besides, with these shoes, my toes would pay a higher price than his balls. I tap Nat’s side with the hand that isn’t attempting - and failing - to blot the sweat from my dress.

The Emperor Hotel? I say, exasperated. We’ve got more chance of bluffing our way inside Buckingham Palace.

We’re guests, she says. Just need to look the part, is all.

I don’t believe her.

Nat, not a perspirer in my league, is brushing her shoulder-length hair that sits in shiny, luscious waves an inch above her shoulders. She drops the travel brush into her bag, reaches out and presses my arms to my sides. There, can’t see a thing. She finishes my transformation - from what to what, I can’t imagine - by splaying the fingers of both hands and forcing them up and through the sides of my dark ash-brown hair that falls just past my neck. She pats the explosive result in a few places and then examines me from head to toe. With a final adjustment to the thin strap of my smaller, less impressive, knock-off handbag, she declares, Perfect. I can’t see me, but I’ll bet she looks so much better. We’re invited, so act natural.

I proceed to act anything but natural, linking arms with her - not easy with mine tight to my side - and strolling around the column toward the entrance. Nat begins a mumble of nonsensical chit-chat interspersed with childish giggles, pretending as if we walk through spotlessly shined glass doors guarded by poorly paid and overdressed servants every day. With my darkest emotions bubbling just beneath the surface, a fake smile is the best I can manage. I feel new beads of sweat breaking out above my top lip. We pass the doormen without incident, and my companion lets out another excited giggle. I don’t think I could pull off a giggle, even if I wasn’t holding my breath.

The warm air inside the hotel is welcome now that our exertions are over. The foyer is breathtaking, the shape and size of a tennis court. Abundant sofas and armchairs of various old-world styles surround rectangular glass-topped tables at six separate seating stations. Three evenly spaced chandeliers - the size and weight to crush us both should one choose to fall - hang from gold-coloured chains, showing off a high white ceiling that swirls with decorative plaster mouldings. It’s too BBC period drama in my opinion, not to mention at least a century removed from contemporary.

Oddly, the grand space is deserted but for its corners. In one, a huddle of smartly dressed guests chat and exclaim loudly while smoking cigars or cigarettes - surely that’s not legal. In each of the other three corners, a couple engages in various stages of standing intimacy, tongues deep into mouths, hands roaming above the clothing of their partners. The passion becomes too much for one pair. Still kissing, the man’s shirttail peeking from beneath his suit jacket, they stumble their way to the lift, giggling all the way. A smiling blond receptionist appears behind a marble counter designed to accommodate ten. She waves and wishes them a pleasant evening.

What kind of place is this?

We press forward, our tall, pointy heels click-clacking on white polished-marble tiles. This is the world of the privileged. A world we can’t afford. The blatant opulence stiffens my spine, and I find myself hankering for the wine bars of Hammersmith. While my ten-year-old pre-Hatch self was undoubtedly at home in such grandeur, the me of today is uncomfortable. I wipe the latest accumulation of sweat from above my lip with the back of my hand.

A pounding beat erupts from nearby, sending pulsing twitches through the chandeliers and a buzz through my feet right up to my head.

Nat nudges me, nodding toward double doors at the far end of the foyer. Music’s from through there. I told you this was where the party was at.

A bunch of inbred toffs gawping down their giant beaks at us? Not my idea of a party.

No snobs. This is a private dicks’ annual bash.

What are you talking about?

Just a bunch of detectives letting their hair down. They risk big and earn big. Once a year, they blow off steam in style.

If you say so.

We walk toward the music. I find myself wondering how this elaborate night came to be arranged when a sense of dread sends cold prickles to my neck. No thoughts accompany the sensation, but I know they will come, dark and malevolent. They always do.

I need that drink, I say. And soon.

I stop, look around for signs announcing the corporate event, not interested particularly, but as a means of diverting my thoughts. There is nothing, but then the ivory-themed décor looks too grand to display a tacky sash, or suffer pinned notices. Christ, I’d feel bad leaning against these walls in my best dress. A tall man in his early thirties, wearing crisp charcoal-grey trousers, matching waistcoat and fluorescent-orange tie, arrives to stand guard beside the entrance to the party. His hands are clasped behind his back. He looks rigid, ex-army perhaps, and certainly willing and able to eject uninvited guests.

We should go, I say. Before we get thrown out.

Relax. I told you, we’re expected.

I don’t believe you. I pinch Nat’s upper arm between a thumb and forefinger, twisting her soft flesh. You’d better not be pranking me, Natalie Hughes.

She stifles a squeal and bats my hand away, retaliates with a finger lunged at my ribs that I avoid with a sidestep.

Screw you, Karen Harper. This is the last time I try to civilise your hunting habits.

Before I can grip my handbag and swing it like a weapon, the party-containing doors swing open. Booming music vibrates my brain. Out of the muddle of darkness and gaudy flashing lights emerge two suited men striding directly toward us with toothy smiles and purpose. Both men are tall, good-looking and around the thirty-year-old mark. The thicker set one - two or three years the younger - is carrying a foot-high, glinting-gold cup in one hand. He waves at Nat with the trophy, face flushed with elation like he just won his maiden Grand Prix.

Right on time, Nat says.

You know them? I turn to her. Who are they?

Her attention remains fixed straight ahead.

They’re our dates.

My teeth clench. I prefer to choose my partners, thanks. I turn around, take a step toward the exit.

She snags my wrist, stops me in my tracks. Welcome to a better class of one-night stand. You can thank me later.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Ol' Switcheroo

I TUG MY arm free. Jesus, Nat, you can’t make me stay.

You have a better option? she asks.

She’s right. An irrational storm out is ill advised. And then it’s too late. Our dates are upon us, and my annoyance is reduced to a sour-faced glower at the floor tiles. I squeeze my arms tight over the dress’s sweaty patches, dig out a smile from nowhere and consider my options. I can easily ditch this party and grab a taxi home. There should be time - just. I don’t need a man to get me off. While the presence of such an animal usually guarantees a better outcome, my trusty vibrator - complete with new AAs - will happily purr me to climax without need of a fake smile or small talk.

Job done.

Not done well though, and I could really use well-done after the torture of getting here. And then there’s the tube journey home. Desperate enough, I wouldn’t put it past me to peel off a crotch grinder, take him home with me and hope for the best. A bad idea for so many reasons. That’s why we stick to Hammersmith, Nat, remember? To keep your bonkers friend out of danger. I elect to stay for now, give Nat’s outrageous setup ten minutes. Five to cool down and another five to assess the possibilities.

After brief introductions, during which I sulk childishly, grunting and nodding when my name is mentioned - too pissed off to offer a cheek for strange lips to peck - we head downstairs to the hotel’s private bar. My mood isn’t boosted at having to high-heel it down polished-marble steps. I grip hold of the banister with both hands like it is Nat’s neck and consider my chances of reaching the lower level in one piece. That’s one of the downsides of being a suicide survivor: Forever after you imagine the Grim Reaper observing your every move, waiting for the most innocuous of settings to choreograph your demise. Even Death might crack a sardonic smile as his nudge sends me tumbling to a caved-in skull: Finally we meet, Beth, Karen, or whatever you’re calling yourself today. I wouldn’t normally soil my hands on the likes of you in such fine surroundings, but for a twelve-year-overdue account, I’ve made an exception.

My leading foot lands on carpeted floor, and the perilous descent ends. Following a few feet behind the others, it dawns on me that my mental state has not deteriorated since we bumped into our handsome and smiley companions. Distractions are known to slow my nightly decay, and it seems the drama of the unexpected introductions has bought me time. How much remains to be seen, but if I can get hold of a drink soon, perhaps this evening might not be a complete write-off. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to forgive Nat yet. A blind date? What the hell was she thinking?

Wafts of cool conditioned air accompanied by the mellow sound of light jazz greet us inside the dimly lit barroom. There is a single central chandelier with thick hanging tassels that match the deep-red wallpaper on all sides of us. No regular bar-type seating is to be found, only more fancy fat sofas like the ones upstairs. It feels like I’ve stepped back a hundred and fifty years into an aristocrat’s lounge.

My arms relax, unglue themselves from my sides, a sign that I’m buying into the idea of making conversation - and plenty more - with a man not of my choosing. Or maybe it’s just relief at the lack of severe light providing suitable cover for my damp patches. Time will tell. A short, uniformed waiter, cropped peroxide-blond hair, late twenties, shows us to a rectangular wooden table with twin-facing, two-seater sofas. He politely asks us to signal over to the bar once we have decided on our drink selection before subserviently stooping and backing off. Get some dignity, fool.

My attention lingers on the matching sofas. I swallow. Seemingly insignificant observations of identical objects often set me off, pull me down memory lane, or — at this hour of night - pull me down, period. It’s a murdered-identical-twin hang-up, my psychiatrist tells me, in words that better warrant her outlandish fees. Duh? Obviously. Right now, I’m surprisingly still in full control of my thoughts.

I take a seat next to Nat on the sofa against the wall, leaving a tell-tale gap between us that my flouncy gown fills quite nicely. I’ll forgive her anything, but she needs to know she screwed up, at least for a minute or two. The thick cushion beneath me feels like it’s stuffed with wire wool - probably why toffs sit like their spines are wired to steel poles. I wiggle my lean buttocks, but there is little give or comfort to be found. Trophy Boy jumps into the sofa opposite Nat and lands hard with a wince and a stifled grunt.

Looked much softer, he says in a mock-pained voice. He places his trophy on the table and then reaches up high to stretch out his spine. Not my coolest moment.

His pal sits across from me and smiles, leans over the table a little. So Karen, how do you and Natalie know each other?

Like you’d stay another minute if you knew the truth. I look back at his slim, yet solid frame. He has combed-behind-the-ears, dirty-blond hair, a sharpish chin and an effortless smile. The thought of spending the night with this man is not abhorrent - and there have been desperate nights spent with despicable sorts, I kid you not. I find myself staring at his face while he waits for me to answer. Blue and friendly eyes, not an