No One Gets Out Alive by Adam Nevill

disappointment at the brevity of the text message had made her sullen for most of her last afternoon of work at the Bullring, where she’d been giving out bite-size portions of large
cookies to shoppers for eight hours. Her sulk was soon overwhelmed by the next crisis, when she discovered that her debit card was missing from her purse.
    She’d upended her bag on the staff room floor and scattered her fingers through the contents, on the verge of tears throughout a frantic search that failed to recover her bank card. There
was nothing in her account to withdraw and she had no arranged overdraft, so couldn’t recall the last time she’d noticed her card in her purse. After she’d calmed down, she
realized the last time she’d used it was four days previously, when she’d withdrawn her last thirty pounds to feed herself and cover bus fare until she was paid at the end of this
week.
    She’d called the bank and cancelled the card; another would be on its way, but in six working days. Ryan might now have to provide her with more than temporary accommodation, if he was
willing. But who had taken the card? She wanted to accuse everyone: the two stupid girls she’d worked with, the indifferent supervisor, the customers, that guy who had come back three times
for samples, until she’d told him it was one per customer, and he’d responded by asking her out on a date.
    She’d then thought of the house, of the landlord, the other tenants she’d failed to properly meet; someone could have entered her room while she was in the bathroom. Stuff was always
going missing in shared accommodation.
    It wouldn’t stop, it just would not stop: the bad luck, the horrible slide that just kept sending her further down, faster and faster, while she gathered a momentum of misfortune.
    This caller’s number on her phone screen was unfamiliar. Not Ryan, but the last of five landlords she’d called that lunchtime to arrange viewings of rooms in shared houses. This
would be the call back from the message she’d left.
    She stopped walking to take the call, and then finished it with a tremor in her voice. All of the respective rooms on offer at the address were immediately available, but all required one
month’s rent in advance and a deposit, with no exceptions. Three days in the Bullring had put £120 in her bank account, but that didn’t even cover half of what she needed to move.
The word
hostel
had made an unwelcome appearance in her thoughts throughout the day. She’d have to find out where the nearest hostels were. At least she could withdraw cash across
the bank counter tomorrow to provide enough money if she had to evacuate Edgehill Road in a hurry.
    As if her voice in the street had provoked a reaction from the scarce evidence of the living about her, a black BMW slowed to a halt. The window slid down. From inside, a young man grinned at
her. In the passenger seat, another man leaned forward to crowd the driver. There was someone in the back seat, though she couldn’t see their face.
    ‘Get in, luv,’ the driver said. ‘Get in.’
    Stephanie didn’t react beyond staring at what she interpreted as an insolent grin on the driver’s face.
    ‘Got a phone number, yeah?’ the passenger in the front seat added.
    When she came to an understanding of the communal intent of the car’s passengers, she took a step away from the car.
    ‘Slag,’ the passenger said.
    ‘Fuck off, twat!’ she shouted at the open window and hurried away in the direction of the house.
    The car pulled away to the heavy thump of interior music she hoped had been started to cover the embarrassment of the car’s occupants. She’d often used the same response in Stoke, to
some effect in the same situation, as she walked to and from college.
    Her unappealing contact with the outside world was only just beginning. ‘You’s got a room then?’ The voice came out of the front yard neighbouring the unruly privet hedge of
number 82. A portly man