Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The alarm roused Beth from a sleep so deep she almost forgot where she was. Her earbuds were still in; the relaxation app had clearly done its job.
She swung her legs from the bed and went through her stretching routine – slow, deliberate movements that shook sleep from her limbs and warded off the early rumblings of anxiety.
Breathe in … breathe out. A hot shower, a mug of camomile tea and a round of buttered toast later, she felt almost human.
‘Morning!’ Angela greeted her with a smile. Only a bluish tinge under her eyes suggested she hadn’t slept as well as Beth.
‘Morning,’ Beth replied, then turned at a whimpering sound.
Ed appeared behind her, baby Ruairi strapped to his chest in a soft pouch, his hands automatically stroking his son’s downy head. The whimpering subsided instantly.
‘Did you sleep OK?’ Ed asked, eyes soft with fatherly exhaustion.
‘Hopefully not like a baby,’ grumbled Angela. ‘Which must be one of the dumbest expressions ever. Because who wants to wake up on the hour every hour, either soaked in wee or covered in poop.’
‘Yes, I slept fine,’ Beth said. And I’d give anything to spend endless sleepless nights with a baby in my arms.
She swallowed the thought before it could take root.
By mid-morning, the kitchen buzzed with purposeful noise. Mushrooms sliced into neat crescents, potatoes peeled and piled, raw meat waiting obediently on trays. Rose moved with the unselfconscious energy of someone who hadn’t yet been properly walloped by life.
Beth envied her that.
Lunch came and went in a blur of plates and praise. At one point, Ed insisted Beth step out from the kitchen and the applause caught her off guard – warm, genuine, and dangerously close to hope.
By mid-afternoon, with the pub quiet again and Rose heading home, Beth should have rested. Instead, she found herself standing at the top of the basement stairs.
The door groaned as if resentful of being disturbed.
Beth tugged the light chain. The single bulb flickered, steadied, then cast a weak yellow pool over the first few steps. Cold air crept up to meet her.
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ she muttered, but descended anyway.
Each step creaked, the sound echoing too loudly in the confined space. The air smelt of dust and damp, old stone and neglect. This place had been forgotten on purpose.
Halfway down, something brushed her shoulder.
Beth yelped, flailing, then laughed shakily when nothing attacked her.
A cobweb. Of course.
At the bottom, crates and boxes loomed in untidy stacks, their contents surrendered to time. Broken stools. Old signage. Bottles whose labels had long since peeled away.
Then she saw it.
The shape beneath the tarpaulin didn’t belong to the rest of the clutter. It had presence. Bulk. Intention.
Beth’s pulse quickened. She hesitated, then reached out and tugged the tarp free.
Dust erupted. She sneezed violently, eyes watering, heart racing, then froze.
A pinball machine.
Not plastic. Not garish. Ornate and heavy, with brass trim dulled by age. Sapphire and gold paint curled across the cabinet, the artwork rich and elaborate. On the back glass, a genie reclined on a flying carpet, arms folded, lips curved in a knowing smile.
The Wish Master.
Beth stepped closer. ‘I haven’t played one of these in years,’ she whispered.
A memory slammed into her. She and Luke in a friend’s basement, laughing as they battled it out on vintage machines. Her unexpected talent. His mock outrage when she beat him again.
‘I won every time,’ she murmured, smiling despite herself.
She crouched, tracing the edge of the cabinet. The wood felt cool. Solid. Real.
‘You probably don’t even work,’ she said, oddly disappointed.
Still, she searched for a cable. Found one, old but intact, trailing uselessly along the floor. No socket nearby.
Beth straightened, brushing dust from her hands. ‘Just a stupid machine,’ she told herself.
Then, because she was tired and human and apparently incapable of leaving things alone, she pressed the start button.
Nothing.
She exhaled, half relieved.
‘See?’ she said to the empty room. ‘Dead as a doornail.’
She turned away.
Then she turned back and pressed the start button again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
Beth huffed. ‘Figures. Even imaginary magic needs the right conditions.’
Suddenly she was aware of how quiet the room had become – the sort of silence that felt expectant rather than empty.
Not yet, something in her seemed to say. Soon. But not yet.
The thought unsettled her more than the darkness. She headed for the steps.
Behind her, a light flickered.
Beth spun round.
The machine glowed – not brightly, not dramatically. Just … alive.
Beth’s heart thudded. ‘No,’ she breathed. ‘No bloody way.’
She crouched again, staring.
No plug. No power. No explanation.
Beth staggered back, her mind scrambling for logic.
‘This isn’t happening,’ she whispered. ‘I’m tired. I’ve inhaled too much dust.’
She reached out and smacked the side of the machine, hard.
The lights blinked out.
Silence crashed down.
Beth stood shaking, breath rasping in her ears. Then her gaze snagged on the lettering etched into the cabinet: Three Wishes. No Refunds.
Beth frowned at the words.
No Refunds.
‘That’s cheerful,’ she muttered. ‘Who hurt you?’
She ran a finger along the etched letters. The metal felt faintly warmer here – not hot, just … aware. As if it had been touched too often by hopeful hands.
A strange, unbidden thought slid into her mind. What if it doesn’t give you what you ask for?
What if it gives you what you need – and lets the wanting do the damage?
Beth shook her head sharply. ‘Listen to yourself,’ she said. ‘You’ve spent too long around menu boards with theatrical names.’
Her throat tightened and a cold realisation settled in her chest.
Three wishes sounded generous. Luxurious, even.
But the truth was that she had been living with dozens of half-wishes for years. Quiet ones she’d never said aloud, because naming them made them sharper.
Wanting a baby.
Wanting Luke back.
Wanting not to feel broken every time someone said congratulations.
Three wishes suddenly felt … inadequate.
How were you meant to choose which part of your heart mattered most?
‘I wish I had a baby,’ she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them. ‘A child.’ Her voice cracked. ‘That I hadn’t failed at something so many women do every day.’
‘I wish Luke was still with me. That he’d believed in us.’
A sob tore free.
‘And the third?’ she whispered. ‘I don’t even know what to wish.’
Anger surged, hot and sudden. ‘Damn it!’
Beth stood, heart hammering, as a peculiar certainty crept over her.
Whatever had just happened hadn’t responded to the button. Or the wiring.
It had responded to her.
To the tightness in her chest. To the ache she carried everywhere like an invisible scar.
The realisation was enough to send her stumbling for the stairs.
Beth didn’t hear the soft whirr-whirr behind her.
Didn’t hear the faint, shimmering jingle rising from the shadows.
And didn’t see the Wish Spinner complete its first, quiet turn.