The Sting: Where She Stung The Dark

The worst decision I made that day was the shoes.

The second worst was opening that door.

In my defence, I was already late, already flustered, and carrying a baby shower present shaped like a duck. None of those things usually ends with firearms, but apparently London had decided I needed broadening as a person.

I’d just finished my shift at Clement & Rowe, the kind of lifestyle shop where everything is beige, linen, stonewashed or described as artisan despite being produced in quantities large enough to suggest otherwise.

I spend most of my days fluffing cushions, rearranging ceramic bowls and assuring customers that yes, the thirty-eight-pound candle really does smell like a Mediterranean summer.

No, I don’t know why it costs thirty-eight pounds.

Yes, I think the twelve-pound one smells just as nice.

I’m not technically meant to say that last bit.

I like the shop, though.

I like making things feel nice.

There’s something comforting about taking a display that looks slightly sad and making it warm again. Folding a throw properly. Moving a lamp six inches to the left. Putting the wonky mug at the front because somebody will love it precisely because it’s wonky.

My manager says I get attached to stock.

I say somebody has to.

By six fifteen, my feet ache, my hands smell faintly of eucalyptus room spray, and I am already twenty minutes behind schedule.

“Go,” Priya says from behind the till, waving me away. “Before you miss the entire shower.”

“I’m going.”

“You’ve said that three times.”

“I keep remembering things.”

“You’re holding your coat.”

I look down.

“I knew that.”

She gives me the look she reserves for moments when she questions how I’ve survived into adulthood.

Outside, London is doing that blue-grey evening thing where the sky looks permanently undecided about rain.

I tuck the gift bag against my side and start walking faster.

My flat is ten minutes in the opposite direction, above a florist whose owner has known me long enough to leave bunches of slightly bruised flowers outside my door with notes saying,These need loving.

Which is how I’ve ended up with seven vases and absolutely nowhere sensible to put any of them.

The flat itself isn’t glamorous. The kitchen is tiny, the bathroom window sticks and the radiator beside my bed makes a noise at two in the morning that sounds suspiciously like someone tapping a spoon against a pipe.

But I love it.

Sloping floors. Too many books. Mismatched mugs. Cushions I definitely didn’t need. A little kitchen table beneath the window where I bake cakes for birthdays, engagements, break-ups and, once, a divorce that apparently warranted chocolate ganache.

Tonight, however, I am not baking.

Tonight I am late.

Obviously.

The invitation is creased inside my bag from being checked too many times, and I rehearse my apology as I hurry.

Sorry I’m late, work ran over.

Sorry I’m late, London.

Sorry I’m late, I continue to underestimate how long it takes to get anywhere while wearing shoes designed by someone who clearly hates women.

The Ritz comes into view, glowing and immaculate.

I slow down.

“Oh, God.”

I have never been inside The Ritz.

I have walked past The Ritz. I have looked at photographs of afternoon tea at The Ritz. I once spent forty minutes reading the menu online before deciding I could make approximately twelve sandwiches at home for the price of one.

Actually stepping inside is different.

Everything is quiet in a way that makes me lower my voice without meaning to.

Gold trim. Thick carpet. Huge arrangements of flowers that probably cost more than my monthly electricity bill.

I become suddenly conscious of everything I’m wearing.

My blue dress is nice.

My coat is last season.

My shoes remain treacherous.

I approach reception with my bestI absolutely belong heresmile.

“Hi. Sorry. I’m here for a baby shower? Private event?”

The receptionist checks something and nods.

“Down the hallway to your left.”

Relief.

“Thank you so much.”

I set off before she can change her mind.

The corridor is quieter still, lined with paintings I don’t recognise but feel vaguely guilty about not recognising.

A discreet sign readsPRIVATE EVENT.

“Perfect.”

I hitch the bag higher onto my shoulder.

My phone buzzes.

Mum:Have a lovely time darling. Call tomorrow. Dad says don’t drink too much champagne xx

I smile.

Me:Tell Dad I’m twenty-seven.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Mum:He says that’s irrelevant xx

I snort, put my phone away and continue to the door at the end of the corridor.

Private event.

Baby shower.

Easy.

I push it open and announce, far too brightly,

“Aunt Bee is here!”

The words leave my mouth before my brain has time to inspect them.

They land wrong.

Very wrong.

There are no balloons.

No pastel decorations.

No women squealing over tiny socks.

There are five men.

All in dark suits.

Not flashy suits.

Expensive ones.

The sort that fit too well to have come from anywhere with fluorescent lighting and a loyalty card.

They sit around a long table, evenly spaced, almost unnaturally still.

And on the table are guns.

Several.

Not thrown down carelessly.

Placed neatly beside folders, phones and laptops.

Behind them, a screen glows with surveillance footage, maps and timestamps.

Everything stops.

Including, briefly, my ability to breathe.

“Oh.”

Five faces turn towards me.

My stomach drops so quickly I’m surprised it doesn’t hit the carpet.

“I’m so sorry.”

Of course that is what comes out.

Nothelp.

Notpolice.

Notwhy are there guns?

Sorry.

“I’ve definitely got the wrong room. I don’t know how I’ve managed that because there was a sign, but clearly signs are only useful when they’re referring to the correct private event, which this very clearly is not, so I’ll just—”

I step backwards.

The door closes behind me.

Not slammed.

Just closed.

I stop.

One of the men looks at the gift bag.

“Bag.”

I blink.

“Well… no.”

A pause.

Even I hear how ridiculous that was.

His eyebrows lift.

“No?”

“I mean, it’s my bag.”

Wonderful, Bethany.

Excellent legal argument.

“I’ve got a present in it and my purse and—”

“Bag.”

My fingers loosen.

I slide it off my shoulder and place it carefully on the table because apparently part of me believes good manners remain applicable during possible kidnapping.

The man opens it.

Purse.

Phone.

Keys.

Lip balm.

Receipt.

Emergency cereal bar.

A tampon rolls onto the table.

I close my eyes briefly.

“Brilliant.”

Someone makes a noise that might be a cough.

Then the duck emerges.

Yellow, fluffy and offensively cheerful.

It sits between two handguns.

For one insane second, nobody says anything.

Another man begins typing.

My pulse pounds in my ears.

“Bethany Foster,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Yes.”

“Retail assistant. Clement and Rowe.”

“That’s right.”

“Lives above a flower shop.”

I swallow.

“Yes.”

“No criminal record.”

“Thank God.”

His eyes flick up.

“I mean, I knew that. Obviously.”

The man beside him looks down.

I am almost certain he is hiding a smile.

“No significant debt.”

Relief loosens something in my chest.

“No significant savings either.”

I wince.

“Sorry.”

This time somebody definitely smiles.

Only slightly.

It disappears almost immediately, but I see it.

The man at the head of the table does not smile.

I haven’t properly looked at him yet.

I do now.

Dark hair. Immaculate suit. Broad shoulders. Calm face.

He looks younger than I expected the person in charge to be, although I’m not entirely sure what age I expected a man sitting at the head of a table covered in firearms to be.

Seventy, perhaps.

With a scar.

Possibly an eye patch.

This man has neither.

What he has is the sort of stillness that makes everybody else’s silence feel like obedience.

His gaze settles on me.

Not angry.

Assessing.

Like I’m a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve yet.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he says.

His voice is low. Controlled. Slightly posh.

Relief hits me so hard my shoulders drop.

“Thank you.”

He pauses.

“But you can’t leave yet.”

My relief packs its bags.

“Oh.”

I clasp my hands together.

“I’m really sorry for interrupting whatever meeting you’re having. I genuinely didn’t mean to. If you let me go, I promise I won’t say anything.”

No one responds.

The man at the head watches me.

“Why are you apologising?”

The question throws me.

“I…”

WhyamI apologising?

There are guns.

I am apparently being detained.

And yet I did interrupt.

“I’m English?”

A sound escapes somewhere to my left.

Short. Surprised.

Almost a laugh.

I glance towards it before remembering this is not, in fact, a promising social interaction.

“I’m meant to be at a baby shower,” I add.

I reach for the gift before common sense can intervene and pull out the duck.

“This is for the baby.”

Five men look at the duck.

I hold it slightly higher.

“Which I appreciate doesn’t prove anything.”

Silence.

“My best friend likes ducks.”

Still silence.

“Properly likes them. Not in a concerning way.”

One man looks down.

I continue because silence has always made me conversational.

“When she told me she was pregnant, we were near a pond and there was this duck that kept following us, so it became a thing. I realise that sounds less charming now I’m explaining it.”

Nothing.

“Anyway.”

I put the duck away.

“That’s where ducks live.”

A shoulder moves.

Someone is absolutely trying not to laugh.

The man at the head gives him a look.

Instant stillness.

Interesting.

“I think I’ve probably overstayed my welcome.”

I shift forwards.

“Stay where you are.”

I freeze.

He hasn’t raised his voice.

He doesn’t need to.

Slowly, I sit back.

“Okay.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

“You’re remarkably calm.”

“I don’t feel calm.”

“No?”

“No. My left hand’s gone numb.”

The man beside the laptop snorts.

I glance at him.

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” the man at the head says.

“Right. Sorry.”

A beat.

I close my eyes.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

There it is.

The smallest shift at the corner of his mouth.

Not quite a smile.

Then it disappears.

“How did you get here?”

“Tube.”

His stare doesn’t change.

I realise.

“Oh.Herehere.”

Another almost-laugh.

“Reception sent me left. There was a private-event sign. I assumed it was the shower. In fairness, I don’t normally check for organised crime before opening a function-room door.”

Everything stills.

My stomach drops.

Oh, excellent.

I have called it organised crime.

To their faces.

“Not that I know it’s organised crime,” I add quickly. “Could be security.”

Nobody speaks.

“With guns.”

Nothing.

“Very thorough security.”

The man at the head studies me.

“What do you think this is?”

I look around.

At the weapons.

The screens.

The men who obtained my financial history in approximately three minutes.

Then back at him.

“I think if you wanted me to know, you’d have told me.”

Something changes in his expression.

Tiny.

But real.

That answer interests him.

He nods towards one of the others.

“Get her some water.”

A glass appears in front of me.

“Thank you.”

I take it.

The man at the head gives me a look.

“That wasn’t an apology.”

“No.”

“Good.”

I sip my water.

After several minutes, he looks at me again.

“Do you have anything else to say?”

Every face turns towards me.

My brain empties.

“Actually… yes.”

He waits.

“I’m wearing blue because I think the baby’s a boy.”

Silence.

I gesture at my dress.

“I know they haven’t told us. I’ve just got a feeling. Also, I don’t really suit pink.”

He exhales slowly.

“Do you have anything to say that is of use to me?”

“Oh.”

Right.

“No.”

I consider it.

“No, I don’t.”

Someone shifts as though losing a battle with laughter.

“But if I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

His mouth tightens.

Almost a smile.

Not quite.

A few seconds pass.

Then he nods.

“Alright.”

One of the men stands and opens the door.

I don’t move.

Becausealrightseems like a word with several possible meanings in a room like this.

“Can I go?”

“Yes.”

I gather my belongings.

Phone.

Purse.

Lip balm.

Cereal bar.

Tampon.

Dignity appears to be missing.

I put the duck back properly and sling my bag over my shoulder.

As I pass the head of the table, I hesitate.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

His eyes lift to mine.

“I know.”

There’s certainty in it.

Not a threat.

Somehow that unsettles me more.

I leave.

The door closes softly behind me.

For several seconds, I stand in the corridor staring at the carpet.

Then music reaches me from farther down.

Laughter.

Normal life.

I follow it.

At the next doorway, pink and blue balloons spill across the ceiling.

“There you are!” my best friend cries.

I nearly laugh.

“Apparently.”

She hurries over and hugs me.

“You’re late.”

“I know.”

“Shoes?”

“Among other things.”

I hug her back.

Warm room.

People talking.

Cake.

Champagne.

A completely ordinary baby shower.

And somewhere beyond thick walls and polished doors, five men are sitting around a table covered in guns.

People like that don’t let accidents walk away.

And if opening that door was a mistake—

I have the uncomfortable feeling I’ve just become one too.