Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
‘Hon, don’t beat yourself up about it.’
Diana’s face filled Beth’s screen – freckled, fierce, and unflinchingly kind – as she balanced her mug beneath her chin. The familiar sight released something tight in Beth’s chest.
‘I recoiled from holding their baby!’ Beth whispered, horrified all over again. ‘As if they’d asked me to mind the spawn of Satan instead of … instead of…’
She pressed her palms to her eyelids, forcing the tears back. The baby had been adorable. Exactly how Beth had pictured her and Luke’s firstborn.
‘Let it out,’ Diana urged. ‘Cry. Don’t stop yourself because you think someone will judge you. I don’t judge anyone. Apart from the dickhead who got hacked off yesterday when I said I didn’t offer “extras” with his lower back massage.’
Beth snorted, the sound half laugh and half sob. Diana always found a way to anchor her when she felt one breath away from falling apart.
‘Changing the subject, what’s the deal with the pinball machine? Are you planning to get your game on?’ Diana sipped from her Knead You to Relax mug.
Beth had told Diana about the unexpected discovery. Not a big deal, but it had piqued her interest.
‘It’s nothing. It probably doesn’t work, anyway. But if I changed the plug and got it near a socket…’
‘So when you’re not being a gastronomic goddess, you want to hide in a fusty basement and get all flippery, or whatever the terminology is for playing pinball.’
‘No.’ Beth laughed weakly. ‘I just think it might be fun.’
‘Have you mentioned it to Angela and Ed?’
‘Not yet. I probably should, but I don’t think they’ll want it in the pub. Ed said they ditched the fruit machine a while ago.’
Their conversation drifted. Beth talked about the menu launch and Diana grumbled about not having had a holiday in over a year.
‘That’s because you’re a workaholic,’ Beth teased. ‘You’d rather massage perverts than lie on a beach. And you haven’t mentioned the date you had the other night.’
Diana pulled a ‘kill me now’ face. ‘Horrendous, as usual. He had more hair growing out of his nostrils than on his head, and he bit his nails at every opportunity.’
‘Maybe he was nervous.’ Beth adored Diana but she could be intimidating, especially to someone with chewed nails and fragile confidence.
‘Ha! Confidence oozed from every pore, including the blackhead-blocked ones on his bulbous nose.’ Diana shuddered theatrically. ‘I’m done with dating. Finished.’
‘That makes two of us.’ The thought of seeing someone else after Luke filled Beth with terror.
No matter how nice they might be, her history would act as a massive stumbling block.
Yes, I was married. Still am, technically.
But my husband left me. Why? Settle down, and I’ll drown you in an ocean of grief.
‘Beth,’ Diana said softly, ‘you’ve got that sad face again. Come on, there must be some talent in Cranley. Someone you can discreetly ogle when you’re not slaving over a hot stove.’
Beth rolled her eyes. ‘Most men I’ve seen or heard about are collecting their pensions or taken. Like Ed and Angela. Like Jinnie and Sam. With babies. The only single person around my age is Kieran. He’s the one who held Ruairi when I—’
‘When you didn’t want to,’ Diana cut in firmly. ‘And that’s OK. Non-event. Tell me more. Is he gorgeous, with hair on his head and cuticles intact?’
Beth tried to conjure Kieran’s face. He’d seemed pleasant enough. Kind, even. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t looking. She wasn’t capable.
After a flurry of blown kisses, they ended the call. The silence that followed felt heavy. Thick with memories and loss.
Beth glanced at the bags by her door. Two blue IKEA sacks bulging with baby things: bootees, sleepsuits, cot blankets, toys. And the genie-themed lampshade she’d once adored. It had seemed so magical once upon a time.
Magic didn’t exist.
She carried the sacks down to the basement.
The air felt different tonight. Colder, yes, but not in temperature alone. The kind of cold that pressed against your skin as if waiting for you to acknowledge it.
‘Don’t start,’ she muttered to herself.
She shoved the sacks into the metal cupboard and slammed the door. It rebounded slightly. She kicked it closed, harder than necessary.
The clang reverberated through the stone walls.
Silence followed.
Not empty silence.
Listening silence.
Beth’s shoulders tightened.
Slowly – unwillingly – her gaze slid across the room.
The pinball machine was already lit.
Not in a dramatic flare. No sudden burst. Just a steady, low glow beneath the jewel-toned lenses, as though it had been patiently waiting for her to arrive.
Her breath shortened.
‘I didn’t touch you,’ she said.
The genie on the backboard looked less decorative in the dim light. The painted smirk held a new sharpness.
The Wish Spinner at the centre of the playfield rotated once.
Whirr.
A clean, deliberate click.
Beth froze.
‘No.’
The score display flickered. Numbers trembled into life.
000002
Her stomach dropped.
Two.
Not zero.
Not waiting.
Two.
‘I didn’t—’ Her voice faltered. Because she had. She’d stood here before and poured her grief into the air like it was something the universe might collect and return improved.
The lights pulsed faintly, almost like breathing.
‘I was upset,’ she whispered. ‘That doesn’t count.’
The machine responded with a soft, crystalline chime.
Not cheerful. Confirming.
The spinner twitched but did not complete another turn.
Two.
The etched lettering gleamed faintly:
Three Wishes. No Refunds.
The words felt heavier now. Less theatrical. Less like an old pub novelty dragged from storage.
More like terms and conditions.
Beth took a step back.
‘You don’t get to decide what I meant,’ she said, anger pushing through fear. ‘You don’t get to interpret grief.’
The bulbs dimmed slightly, then brightened again.
The genie’s painted eyes seemed almost reflective, catching light that wasn’t there.
Behind her, the cupboard door creaked open an inch.
Beth spun.
The bags sat exactly where she’d thrown them. No movement. No sound.
When she turned back, the display still read:
000002
Unchanged.
Waiting.
A shudder of cold slid down her spine.
‘I don’t want this,’ she said hoarsely.
The machine did not dim.
Did not flicker.
Did not retreat.
It simply remained.
Alive.
The realisation settled in her bones: whatever had happened in this room had not required wiring, plugs or logic.
It had required her.
Beth backed toward the stairs, never taking her eyes off the machine.
Halfway up, the lights faded.
Not snapped off.
Faded.
Until the basement returned to dull, ordinary darkness.
Just before she reached the top step, a final, almost playful chime echoed behind her.
And somewhere deep within the machine, metal shifted against metal.
Patiently.