That night, the man-in-black haunts my dreams as the universe spins, faster, faster and my lucky stars tumble into his mouth. Dai puts his arms around me but I pull the covers tight so I don’t feel his skin touch me.
Tuesday, I’m up early. It’s dark. The air is icy. At the end of Corona Street is a pile of gold coins. I pocket them, pesetas, useless. A builder parks on a double-yellow leaving his engine running while he drops into the shop. I slap a ticket on his screen before he returns and pick up a bunch of black ribbons.
The fairground has grown overnight. A star flyer and roller coaster emerge from the morning mist, towering above the treetops. As I approach the bench, a large pale dog growls, corrugated and ominous. Its hackles rise as I sit down. A text dings.
I love you. You know that, don’t you?
Somehow I can’t write I love you too. Instead, I write. Yes, I know and leave it at that.
I always will. The message dings.
In the window of Cash Converters is a violin, a DS, food processor. Our stuff is old and shabby. Pay Day Loans are a marzipan trap. I could ask Mum for her savings but the thought is a black crow pecking at my heart.
At the petrol station, a sign is taped to a pump. Assistant wanted apply within. The cashier gives me the forms. They’re interviewing day after tomorrow.
Back home, Dai’s at his laptop and the children are eating pesto-pasta.
‘They need cash for the school trip on Thursday,’ Dai says.
‘In the tin,’ I say.
‘It’s empty,’ Peter says.
‘No, it’s not.’ I give it a shake. He’s right.
‘It’ll be fun,’ Lucy says. ‘There’s an aquarium and we’re having ice creams in the café.’
‘The whole school’s going.’ Peter stuffs pasta into his mouth.
I give Dai the job forms. He glances over them.
‘Take them in tomorrow,’ I say.
‘What about the kids?’
‘Where’s the money gone?’
Dai stays up late. I shake in bed, thinking about money, the man-in-black, the growling dog. The universe doesn’t care now I’ve lost my lucky stars and spins me to wisp.
The following morning, I forget my bread roll so I return home. The postman is on the doorstep.
‘I need to give you this.’ He looks embarrassed ‘It was wrongly addressed. Your neighbour opened it. Sorry.’ He hands me a torn envelope. I pull out a