Chapter One

It was the first time in a long time Lucas had any reason to wear anything other than his pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. It was a tailored suit and a little tight around the midriff. 

Probably shrunk since the last time he’d had it dry cleaned. 

It had to be that, really. The alternative was that lockdown had caused him to put on a little weight. Although lockdown, in this case, was a euphemism for beer and pizzas.

He glanced down at his suitcase and ran through the contents once more. Did he have everything Violet told him to bring? For that matter, did he have everything he wanted to bring himself? 

Probably. 

The one thing he didn’t have was any form of identification with the names ‘Lucas’ or ‘Vaughan’ on. He stared at his reflection in the window of the house across the street. The reflection stared back at him. 

Who was the reflection?

The dapper gentleman in monochrome who mimicked his every move was none other than billionaire investor and start-up saviour Alfie Fraser. And you mustn’t tell anyone, but… he’s just backed Sovaneer. It’s a new social network… you won’t have heard of it, but…

Lucas snapped out of his own head at the sound of a frying pan being beaten with a wooden spoon.

“Why are you not clapping?” demanded a voice that sounded like he’d been gargling formaldehyde before eating lit cigarettes.

Lucas stared at him blankly. The man’s wife stood next to him, hands clasped as if in prayer, parting only the fingers to half-heartedly offer her round of applause.

Lucas’ gaze darted back over the road, past his reflection, to more and more neighbours, all outside, all clapping.

“It’s eight o’clock,” the man said. “We are doing the Clap for Carers. Showing our support for the NHS. You better start clapping or I’ll clap your bloody head with this pan.”

Lucas smiled a wan smile and clapped. 

The neighbour blinked in acknowledgement, then recommenced his clanging. His gaze scanned the other neighbours, presumably weighing up just how much care they were giving the carers in the clapping. Initially, Lucas had really liked the idea of supporting the frontline workers. There was a solidarity to standing in his doorway and joining with the nation as they stood together and shoulder to shoulder with the doctors and nurses.

But then he realised it was at eight o’clock. And usually by then he was a couple of cans down and bingeing something on the telly. So he mostly forgot.

Not that he didn’t want to show his support, it was just that it was a long way downstairs from his flat. Two flights of stairs. And he didn’t really want to meet his neighbours. So he showed his support in other ways. 

Like a week last Wednesday when he’d won big on online poker. He tanked half a bottle of Jack Daniels and was feeling all warm and fuzzy, and donated two grand to a fundraiser for the NHS. Admittedly, it was supposed to be twenty quid, but the whisky had exerted its will and guided his hand to the two extra zeros. 

Also, if they pulled off everything Violet had planned, he’d be doing more for the doctors and nurses than Mr Fucking Clappy next door.

After what seemed like an eternity, the clapping died down. The neighbours across the road went back into their houses but Mr Clappy just kept right on a-clapping his spoon to his pan, determined to be the last man clapping. Once satisfied he’d out-clapped his opponents, he stepped into his house. Lucas was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he immediately returned, this time with a green plastic cannister in his hand.

“Cash for Carers, mate.” Clappy rattled the collecting tin. “Every little helps.”

“Ah,” said Lucas, his eyes dropping to his ridiculously expensive suit. “The thing is…”

The neighbour turned an interesting shade of mauve, his eyebrows making the journey from apart to together as an irritated frown knotted itself into his forehead.

“I don’t have my wallet on me and I haven’t been to a cashpoint since March.”

Lucas heard the sound of a car engine, the noise rising in unison with the veins rising in Clappy’s neck.

Clappy stared.

Lucas continued patting his pockets.

The car stopped.

A muscle twitched in one of Clappy’s eyelids.

The car honked its horn.

Lucas attempted to smile and shrug sympathetically.

The car honked its horn louder.

Clappy looked away. “I think your ride’s here, mate.”

Lucas turned around to see that his ride had indeed arrived. Barry sat, replete with uniform and chauffeur’s cap, in the driving seat of a bright white, stretched limousine. While he and his neighbour looked on, Barry made a show of pressing a button on the dash and the rear door of the limo smoothly opened.

With a shout of “Put me down for a hundred quid, I’ll grab some cash while I’m out,” he grabbed the handle of the suitcase and ran, throwing it into the limo before diving in after it and slamming the door. “Fucking floor it,” he yelled toward the front of the limo, “unless you want a god-damned frying pan through the window.”

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