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The first thing that struck me was how terrible he looked. He’d lost a lot of weight, particularly around his face, the temples and jaw. He looked skeletal, unwell. Exhausted. Scared.
We sat in the kitchen with the portable fan on. I offered him a beer but he said he’d rather have something stronger, which surprised me because I don’t remember him being much of a drinker. I poured him a whiskey—a small one—and he topped it up when he thought I wasn’t looking.
He didn’t say anything at first. We sat there in silence for a moment. Then he repeated what he had said on the phone. The same words:
“I’m in trouble.”
I asked him what he meant. Was it about the house?
Paul looked at me blankly. No, it wasn’t the house.
“Then what?”
“It’s me.” He hesitated, then came out with it. “I’ve been gambling. And losing a lot, I’m afraid.”
He’d been gambling regularly for years. He said it started as a way of getting out of the house— somewhere to go, something to do, a bit of fun—and I can’t say I blame him. Living with Lydia, fun must be in short supply. But he’s been losing more and more, and now it had gotten out of hand. He’s been dipping into the savings account. And not much was there to start with.
“How much do you need?”
“Twenty grand.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “You lost twenty grand?”
“Not all at once. And I borrowed from some people—and now they want it back.”
“What people?”
“If I don’t pay them back, I’m going to be in trouble.”
“Have you told your mother?” I already knew the answer. Paul may be a mess but he’s not stupid. “Of course not. Mum would kill me. I need your help, Alicia. That’s why I’m here.”
“I haven’t got that kind of money, Paul.”
“I’ll pay it back. I don’t need it all at once. Just something.”
I didn’t say anything and he kept pleading. They wanted something tonight. He didn’t dare go back empty-handed. Whatever I could give him, anything. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to help him, but I suspected giving him money wasn’t the way to deal with this. I also knew his debts were going to be a tough secret to keep from Auntie Lydia. I didn’t know what I’d do if I were Paul. Facing up to Lydia was probably scarier than the loan sharks.
“I’ll write you a check,” I said finally.
Paul seemed pathetically grateful and kept muttering, “Thank you, thank you.”