The Outcast Hours by Mahvesh Murad

Author:Mahvesh Murad
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Fantasy
Publisher: Rebellion Publishing Ltd

Tilt

Karen Onojaife

If Heaven truly was a place on Earth, Iyere wondered, who was to say that that place couldn’t be a crappy little casino on the top floor of a shopping centre in Shepherd’s Bush?

If she really thought about it (and generally, she tried not to think about it), she understood that there wasn’t all that much of a difference between her and the patrons of the betting shops that seemed to sprout in every empty space on the high street. And next to the betting shops were the pawn shops, their windows emblazoned with bright posters depicting people inexplicably joyful at the idea of having to put prized possessions in hock. But those places, grubby with daylight and disapproving glances from passers-by, could make a girl feel like she had a problem, whereas a casino at two, three, or four am, while not necessarily a sensible choice, at least made Iyere feel like she had taken a considered decision to court decadence.

“Decadence,” she could imagine her sister, Ivie, scoffing. “This place is called Barry’s Casino.”

Which, fair enough. But until Iyere could figure out a way to make it to the neon-lit hiss of the Bellagio’s fountains, Barry would have to do. Besides, she had come to appreciate the fake solicitude from the liveried doormen; the powdery sweet scent of carpet cleaner that perfumed the tired shag pile lining the mirrored hallway; the complimentary warm, sugared pretzels that staff brought round on silver platters, presumably on the nights that Barry was feeling especially generous, and the unpredictable choice of soundtrack piped onto the casino floor—this early morning’s selection being a run through of Gloria Estefan’s greatest hits.

What she liked most of all was that the two, three or four am crowd at Barry’s Casino knew what it was about; a loose camaraderie of sorts but essentially, people would mind their own business. No tourists wanting to distract with chatter, or rookies taking up valuable space at a table while they fumbled over their chips and mixed up their bets. No, the early morning crew just hummed like a hive; gentle sighs and sometimes light taps on the back from a neighbour, either in celebration or commiseration depending on the cut of a deck.

“What the fuck is it?” Ivie had asked her once, simultaneously incredulous and despairing on one shameful afternoon when she had caught Iyere rifling through her handbag for money. “What is it that you get from doing this? From being at that place?”

Iyere, face flushed and eyes bright, hadn’t known what to say. To explain that she liked the sweat of cheap plastic chips in her hand seemed small. She liked to stack these totems upon the green baize of a table, liked to listen to the rattle of the ball as it skittered across the wheel as lightly as a girl skipping rope, liked the swish of cards through a croupier’s gloved hand as they fanned the deck this way and that, the flicker of white edges like breaking waves.

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