The Best of Friends by Alex Day (accelerated reader books .txt) 📕

point, we both fall silent, as if there’s nothing more to say and nowhere else to go.

‘What was going on when I called yesterday?’

Dan’s question, when it breaks the silence, is both unexpected and inevitable. I knew he wouldn’t forget. Well, it’s not exactly something anyone would just brush off as insignificant, is it? Someone hollering down the phone at you, swearing and talking about money being paid.

If it looks suspicious, sounds suspicious, smells suspicious … it probably is suspicious.

I steel myself, breathing in deeply and taking a big slug of water to clear my head before beginning.

‘It’s something I should have told you ages ago,’ I begin. ‘Years ago. And I know it’s wrong and I know you have every right to be really angry with me but … but, well, it’s not like sleeping with someone else. It’s not betrayal like that. I would never do that.’

As if in agreement, the wind howls outside, catching at a dustbin lid in the refuse store and sending it slapping and banging like a macabre accompaniment to my confession. Rain pelts down, drumming on the glass roof of the extension, obliterating the view of the moon and stars.

Dan nods. He looks odd somehow, as if he’s slightly out of it, on drugs or heavy painkillers. I assume it’s the effect of a huge meal and a lot of alcohol.

‘So what is it? Are you about to confess to being a contract killer or a pole dancer? Or something in between?’

He doesn’t have a clue. All these years and he hasn’t noticed anything. I could still retract, could still decide not to go ahead with telling him the truth. But now I’ve started, I mustn’t stop; I must keep going until I’ve owned up to it all. And then maybe this whole damn business will be over and I will be able to live freely again, unburdened from the weight of terror.

‘It started in Hong Kong,’ I say, hesitant and nervous. Revealing something that’s been hidden and covert for so long is harder than you might think. ‘It began the first time we were there, and then, well, it never really stopped. In America, it just got worse. At least in Hong Kong it’s illegal – apart from at the racetrack. But in America, it’s everywhere. Absolutely everywhere, and the more I did it, the more addicted I became and the more I had to keep on doing it to try to make good what I’d lost. As time went on, the internet made it easier than ever …’

Dan is staring at me, his eyes glassy, unblinking.

‘You’re talking in riddles. I don’t understand.’

I can’t prevaricate anymore, can’t skirt around the issue and avoid facing up to it. He’s my husband and for two decades I’ve been fleecing him to pay my debts.

‘The thing is, Dan …’ I falter, then force myself to continue. ‘I’m an addict. A gambling addict.’

There, the words are out. And now they’re said, they don’t seem quite so bad, quite so powerful.

‘I’ve made and lost hundreds of thousands of pounds over the years, mostly online but also in syndicates. It was our second stint in Hong Kong when I got into real trouble. I had the ayah to look after the boys and you were working all the hours God sends. I was bored and I was lonely and my resistance was nil. I joined an illegal gambling den, playing cards and placing bets … but these weren’t nice people. Not nice people at all. I got in way out of my depth, I couldn’t extricate myself, and I ended up owing tens of thousands …’

My voice is droning on, the whole sorry tale pouring out now, no holds barred. I could understand if Dan hated me for it. If he despised the weakness and mendacity in me that could allow me to do things that were not only unwise but also against the law.

‘I set up a payment plan with the syndicate.’ I plough on, knowing I’ve got to get it all out. ‘They allowed me that at least.’

What to tell and what not to tell? I got Dan to allocate me an allowance, paid straight into my bank account, money for myself, separate from the housekeeping and food budget. I told him I needed it. That he owed me an independent income when I had no paying job of my own. I used this to pay the debts. And, more recently, to pay for the help I’ve been getting from a private therapist to treat the addiction. Obviously I couldn’t go to gamblers anonymous or whatever organisations exist for people like me because then I’d have had to explain my whereabouts.

I managed to keep a grip on it all for a while. A long while. But gradually things began to spiral out of control. I genuinely had to buy school uniform and pay for repairs to my car after I had a prang, things that Dan rightly expected me to cover, considering the exceptionally generous amount that landed in my bank account every month. I simply couldn’t explain where it was all going if I constantly asked him for more. So I missed a payment or two. Well, quite a few actually. This is when I began to feel deep, visceral fear.

I was sure they would come after me.

These are not nice people. They don’t have morals or scruples. They don’t have limits. Wherever you are, people like this can find you. I still don’t know if they’ve been casing the joint, stalking me. But I do know that, if they wanted to, they could.

I’m relaying the story, on and on, like someone has wound me up and now I can’t stop, when I suddenly realise that Dan looks very unwell, really terrible. He’s trembling and his pupils are huge, dilated as if he’s taken a shedload of drugs. He shifts position on the sofa – or rather, he tries to – but only his upper