Ursula is lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, her fingers interlocked behind her head. Whenever she closes her eyes she sees ferrets, dozens of them, twisting and jumping around the cellar, zipping in and out of plastic tubes and digging into pieces of old carpet. When the glass in the basement window smashed they all darted from sight, scurrying backwards and hiding in tubes, squeaking and shrieking in fright. As she watched through the broken pane they slowly crept out again and resumed their play, neatly avoiding the shards of glass scattered all over the floor.
Ferrets. Why hadn’t Ed told her instead of being all mysterious about the locked basement door? She can’t stop thinking about the glass, scattered over the ferrets’ play area. It would only take one of them scooting frantically backwards to end up with a shard in its foot. There was no way she could sweep it out of their way; a broom wouldn’t reach down that far, she couldn’t fit through the small window, and with the basement door locked there was no other way in. As she tried to decide what to do, a white ferret, larger than the others, darted up the stone steps and scratched at the bottom of the kitchen door.
Bloody ferrets. She would have understood if Ed had told her about his pets. Why on earth didn’t he just say?
A sharp knock at her bedroom door makes her sit up sharply.
‘Coming,’ she says, heart thumping as she swings her legs off the bed.
Ed is every bit as angry as she expected him to be. His face is flushed red, from his cheeks to the base of his neck.
‘I take it that was you,’ he says. ‘The smashed basement window.’
Ursula drops her gaze, a muscle twitching in her cheek. ‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘What the hell were you thinking?’
A droplet of spittle lands on her chin and she raises a hand to wipe it away. ‘I heard a noise, in the basement and—’
‘So you thought you’d smash your way in? Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you? Ever heard of one of these?’ He raises his mobile and thrusts it towards her face.
‘I … I …’ She doesn’t know what to say. I thought you had men locked down there?
‘You could have killed them! I’ve had some of those ferrets for nearly ten years. Do you think I like keeping them in the basement like that? If I had my way they’d have the run of the house, but for some reason this country has fucked-up, arcane rules about keeping pets in rental properties so instead I have keep them hidden away in case the landlord drops in. It’s not good for them, being deprived of sunlight like that.’
‘You should have told me. Then I wouldn’t—’
Ed lifts his hand and, for one horrible moment, she thinks he’s going to hit her. Instead he runs it through his hair. ‘Why couldn’t you just do what I told you? Three rules, that’s all you had to keep. Three … little … rules.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ursula says again. ‘Please, Ed. Let me make it up to you. I’ll, um … I’ll tidy up. I’ll make you dinner for a week. I’ll—’
‘Make it up to me?’ He laughs in her face. ‘How? By rooting through the drawers? By using my things? By damaging the fixtures and fittings?’ He presses a hand to the door frame and the latch she installed. ‘Oh, and I’d like my dart back please, the one you stole from downstairs.’
‘I haven’t got it. I … I did but it was in my coat pocket and I’ve lost it. My coat I mean. I lost my coat.’
‘And now you’ve lost your room.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. I want you out on Monday. You can pack tomorrow.’
‘But I’ve got nowhere to go. I’ve got no money. And I lost my job this morning.’
‘Not my problem. And don’t even think about reporting me to the letting agency for subletting or keeping pets because I’m moving on too. My ferrets aren’t safe in the basement any more. I’ve had to lock them in their cage.’
Ursula’s lips part but no sound comes out. There’s no point arguing or begging for her deposit back. She’s massively screwed up. Again. It’s as simple as that.
It’s just after 1 a.m. and Ursula is sitting on her bed, looking around her room. When, she wonders, did her life become so small? Why, she keeps asking herself. Why does she keep fucking up? She had a nice home with Charlotte but she screwed that up by stealing and now she’s going to have to move out of Ed’s place too because she couldn’t leave well enough alone. She’s got no money, no job and, after tonight, nowhere to sleep. She’s also got nowhere to turn. Her dad’s dead and her mum lives in Spain with the stepdad she can’t stand. There was a time, when Ursula was at university studying to become a primary school teacher, when there were loads of people she could have turned to, but they’ve all fallen away over the years. How does that happen, she wonders. How does someone’s world shrink until there are only a handful of people left in it? She had Nathan. She had Charlotte. And that was enough for her. She loved them and they loved her. But Nathan is gone and Charlotte hasn’t responded to any of the texts Ursula has sent apologising for what happened and begging to meet up.
She looks down at the framed photograph in her hands and runs a finger over Nathan’s cheek.
‘Help me,’ she says. ‘Tell me what to do.’
She waits for his voice, for those familiar warm, loving tones that she holds in her head, but all she can hear is the panicky beat of her pulse in her ears. It was the same sound she heard when she thought someone was trying to get out of the basement, the same frantic pounding she felt in her throat when Nicki fell down the stairs. It was the same sound …
She squeezes her eyes shut as the memory consumes her and in an instant she’s walking towards the exit of the Wellington pub in the centre of Bristol, hand in hand with Nathan. It’s Friday night, the barman has called last orders but the speakers are still pumping out music – Bon Jovi’s ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’. She and Nath are both pleasantly drunk. They’re chatting about which kebab shop to visit before they go home and Nathan’s reaching for the door handle. It’s hot in the pub and Ursula’s already imagining the sweet relief of the cool night air on her face.
‘Taking your kid for a walk are you?’ The words cut through the pounding music and Ursula feels Nathan’s hand tighten in hers. She turns her head. There’s a large group of lads sitting at a table to their right.
‘Ignore them,’ she hisses.
‘What was that?’ Nathan turns towards the lads.
‘I was talking to your bird.’ A bald bloke, early thirties with tattoos poking out of the sleeves of his polo shirt, raises his chin in Ursula’s direction. ‘Who’s wearing the heels? You or her?’
There’s a chorus of laughter and two of the men reach across the table to high-five each other. Ursula pulls on Nathan’s hand again. They’ve heard every possible comment about their height difference since they got together and normally her boyfriend would ignore them or shrug them off, but he’s had a hard day at work. One of the kids he was looking after in the paediatric unit at St Michael’s developed an infection and had a cardiac arrest and died. It’s taken her the best part of three hours to lighten his mood.
‘Who’s wearing the heels, mate?’ Nathan asks. ‘Your missus was – when I bent her over your kitchen table.’
There’s a flurry of movement as the bald bloke jumps to his feet, knocking the table and showering his mates with beer. ‘Say that again!’ he roars. ‘Say it again, you little runt.’
The barman shouts something about calming down but all Ursula can hear is the blood pounding in her ears as she tugs at the door handle and pulls her boyfriend after her. ‘Nathan, come on!’
Somehow she manages to get him out of the door but then she feels his grip loosen and his hand fall away.
‘Nathan!’ She pulls on his arm as the bald bloke and his four mates pile out of the pub but Nathan doesn’t move an inch.
‘I’m not running,’ he says.
‘Please!’ She pulls on his arm again. ‘Please! They’re not worth it.’
She’s never seen him like this before, rigid with anger, clenching his teeth. He’s not a fighter. He’s never shown the slightest hint of aggression, towards her or anyone else.
The bald bloke gets the first punch in. It connects with Nathan’s jaw and he reels backwards. Ursula screams but Nathan doesn’t hit the floor. Instead he regains his balance and swings round, landing a blow on the bald lad’s cheek. There’s a pause, a split second where Ursula sucks in the cold night air, and she prays that it’s over, that two punches are enough, but then one of the other lads leaps forwards, smacking Nathan on the side of the head. Then there’s no time to think or hope or pray because the others leap in too and there’s arms and fists and blood and rage and Nathan’s dark head disappears as he’s punched and kicked and thumped to the ground. And now Ursula’s scream fills her ears as she launches herself at the mass of torsos and limbs, shoving and pushing, desperately searching for Nathan’s hand or foot, his shoulder or his leg, anything she can latch onto to pull him away. She doesn’t see it coming, the blow that lands on the side of her head, that makes her brain rattle in her skull and her ear explode. Then she’s toppling and dropping, palms scraping against the hard concrete of the pavement, her bare knees taking the brunt of the fall. She feels rough hands in her hair, yanking her back up, then Nathan shouting, screaming at her to go. And she twists and she fights and she claws at the man that’s holding her and when she’s finally free she scrabbles to her feet and she runs.