This was all Helena needed, tonight was the event of the year and here she was stuck in a lift. Her Manolo Blahniks, unboxed, her little black dress Gucci, hardly there.
All of London society would be in City Hall, including the rich desperate old men and the rich, naive, young men, both equalling perfect pickings. And here she was, stuck in a fucking lift!
She pressed the button big yellow button, expecting a voice, hoping for a voice. But not this one, it crackled and sounded like nicotine flavoured crisps.
“Whit?” A grainy, electronic and certainly Glaswegian voice creaked from the control panel.
“Pardon?”
“Aw right, is this a London lift hen? We’ve been having proablims, hang oan and I’ll git the right programme fur ye.”
There was momentary static, then the voice rasped again.
“That isnae workin hen,’ yer stuck wi me.” Helena coughed, not realising she’d been holding her breath. “Whits the problem? Ye stuck?” came the voice.
Helena looked at the panel - Liftatron 3000, she’d read about these in a blog somewhere. The A.I system that controlled them was ancient and there had been these glitchy faults developing. People had been stuck for days and when they did get out they were … changed. She’d thought it was a load of clickbait, but now she wasn’t so sure.
“Sorry fir afore, I’m having an awfie night of it here. Ma brothers wife just left her and the three weans, ma man has been at the bookies since 2pm yisterday an-all no seen him since and we Jeanie at the chemist’s w—”
Helena tuned out as best she could, she had heard that when they got stuck on Fishwife Mode there was nothing you could do. Faults? This one was verging on a breakdown. Now it was talking about loose dentures.
Helena sat down and thought about how nice it would be to settle down. She’s been at three charity suppers this month alone and while each had brought with it potential, she always left them feeling rather empty.
“An’ Carol at the chippy was tellin’ me that though they won the jackpot, he blew it all at the races … shoakin, innit?” Tuning back into the lift’s monologue Helena became interested.
She had no idea who Carol at the chippy was or Chelsea or Gabby or Rita but by the time the lift started talking about this Helen, with the legs and no shame she began to feel uncomfortable. The lift’s monologue continued,
“Aw naw, Helen wisnae her name, it was Helena, ah only ken this cause Frannie telt me, her frae IT.
Helena sat and listened to the story about how this Helena spent her weekends fleecing guys for cash and dates and she felt only disgust, the lift had been watching her and the others for the longest time. Forced to examine herself for the first time in her life she took off her shoes, this was going to be a long night.
Laura Cooney is a writer from Edinburgh with work widely published in print and online; most recently in Roi Faineant Press, Northern Gravy and Punk Noir Press. Her second chapbook; No Trauma/No Drama is coming August 24, courtesy of Backroom Poetry. She is seeking representation and is the co-editor of Frazzled Lit @frazzledlitmag. Find her on socials @lozzawriting and www.lozzawriting.com. When she's not writing, she'll be found with her daughters, as close to the sea as possible. There will be ice-cream!
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