Spill the tea

Shaimah rolled the dice idly between her fingers. If she closed her eyes the indents of the white dots could be felt. Number three, she was sure of it. Opened her eyes - five. Close. The dice reminded her nothing happens by chance. Everything can, and should, be explained. Like why she’d been hailed at 3am by a stranger who knew her number and had convinced her to leave her pencil-thin flat, crusted with the remnants of a student social night, to meet him. Under the bridge off from Station Street, he’d said. I know your secret. You’re no fraud and I want to expose you. Because I’m no fraud either. I’m an award-winning journalist whose mic distorts the plainest voice, with the tightest lips, into a gossipfest fit for the front pages.

Was that strange pitch meant to be a threat, or an alluring premise to a promise of imminent fame? But it hadn’t been the temptation of landing enough money to save her parents from wiring over next month’s rent, no. What he’d said next had hooked her. Made her feel last night’s kufta cramp in her stomach.

He’d teased: Miley Cyrus drank a cup of tea recently. From a Turkish glass tea set you own. I bet that tea danced in her belly for days…

She’d hung up on spot, shaken by his accuracy. Then she’d dialed back and arranged to meet. And that’s how she’d found herself in a bobbly, oversized jumper freezing her skinny legs off waiting under a train bridge at the dead of night. The dice felt cold as a blade under her fingers. Or was it her fingers that were cold as ice on the dice? She chuckled at her lame attempt at poetry.

A red raincoat walked up the street towards her. She shrank back slightly. Those stinky drunks earlier taking her for a prostitute in a hijab had already put her on edge.

The red raincoat stopped just shy of two meters from her. Coughed gently, called her name.

“Er yep, that’s me. Mr. Archie Balik?”

“The one and only.”

He was older than she’d expected and looked tired.

“Shall I start?” He asked demurely.

“Please.”

The fire lit.

“Your friend, Miley. Thinks she can sing. Performed at Bodega after making moves on one of its bar tenders. Short little thing but she’s got a head of hair on her, I’ll tell you. Shame she doesn’t quite hit the F sharp. Voice doesn’t sell the face, you know? So, your friend Miley drank tea from one of your Turkish glasses and—”

“Why do you keep saying that? Why do you keep referring to the tea set? Have you been in my home? Have you been watching us?”

He shook his head impatiently. “That Turkish glass is special, Shaimah. One drink of tea from that particular glass and people begin to reveal their darkest secrets. I’ve seen that tea set do terrible things to people in possession of it. Disasters. No control of the outcome. I last found it being auctioned at an antique trade show two months back. Valued at over 200 pounds, they say the glasses were blown into shape by the Ottomans with the sands of Wadi Rum. Delicate little handles they have, with the most magnificent flicks of gold varnish. A Nottinghamshire insurance broker with a fine taste for delicate things managed to outbid me. I saw him last week leave Bodega hand in hand with the soprano star of the evening. I haven’t seen him since. But a quick search online helped…”

The journalist was flushed as he extracted his phone from his pocket. A few finger swipes later he feverishly planted the evidence before her face. “Your new tea set. A gift was it?”

A cliche caption, “spill the tea”, scribed two casual smiles posing to the camera. The journalist’s words rang true. Shaimah had offered tea to six acquaintances on different occasions. They’d all become strangely loose-tongued. Even stranger, in the days that followed, any reference she made to their troubles was met with a blank stare of defensive denial or outright suspicion. No one remembered the conversations. And then Miley’s turn… The photo was taken mere minutes before her fateful confession.

An accident. A romantic night gone wrong; a fight at the top of the stairs, the details were a blur.

The journalist was still speaking, his voice getting higher in pitch: “You’ve got yourself a murdering soprano living on the other side of your wall and you were Chaplain getting her confession not three days ago. Now, you want to check if the body is still where she left it.”

Shaimah tried not to look unnerved. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Okay, so you’ve stalked my flatmate, and you’ve stalked me. Now you think you call me in the dead of night and make up a false story to tarnish the student community. What is it? Didn’t make graduate back whenever it was, 1950?”

Archie’s face creased into a smile, black beetles for eyes.

“Shaimah, you’re a witness now. You should be at that station by 7am this morning making your statement and handing the cuffs to your murdering friend by midday.”

“Miley didn’t murder anyone.”

Still watching Shaimah for a reaction, the journalist displayed his king of hearts - an article about a local insurance broker found dead in his house. Possible manslaughter.

Shaimah’s instinct at that moment was to flee. If the journalist had joined the dots so easily, it was only a matter of time. She wanted to run home, pack Miley’s bags, and get her on the next Eurostar to Belgium, Brussels or Amsterdam. But the CCTV - Miley would need a disguise! Dye her curls? Wear a wig?

Before Shaimah could back away, the journalist shifted in anticipation.

“It’s okay. I could have exposed her already, right? Headline would have made me enough for an early holiday. But instead, I’m standing here in the rain with you, Shaimah. I’m a man of morality, you see. I choose my stories with integrity. I can tell your sweet Miley’s got better intentions than the original Miley C back when she was Hannah Montana. So I want to make you a deal. I’ll keep schtum if you hand over the goods.”

He sounded like a mafia-wannabe. She could imagine how his articles must read - a sprinkle of tragedy mixed with a flare of the dramatic. His desperation soured her fear into anger. 

Rolling the dice between her thumb and index finger, Shaimah let out a breath and calculated her response. Because of course, Archie had a dictaphone hidden somewhere in that red raincoat.

Shaimah’s measured her next words carefully:

“You didn’t see Miley leave with your Insurance broker. It wasn’t Miley, maybe it was someone else. Someone who looked like Miley.” She searched his eyes to see if he understood.

Archie hesitated and then nodded slowly. “Ahhh yes. Well the, erm, blonde curls gave it away-“

“Blonde? Definitely not her then. Because Miley’s hair is red-brown.”

“Right.”

“Tall or short, the girl?”

“Tall,” he shot back with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye.

Good. He’d got her drift. “Miley is 4 foot 9. Mr. Balik, you should really go tell the police what you saw. It will help with their investigation.”

“And we‘ll have a cup of tea over it after?”

“That’s a promise.”

A taxicab rolled past them. Shaimah waited. Heavy beads of rain began to cover the tarmac beyond the bridge. She could see the cogs turning. A cat slinked around a waste bin parked outside the station’s ten story car park. A bird of dawn whistled.

A few weeks later, Shaimah sat cross-legged on the sofa, trailing her fingers around a bowl to catch the last salty dregs of Nachos. Miley was poised in a half split pose on the floor close by, while flicking through channels on the TV. Suddenly a familiar face flashed on the screen. Shaimah tensed and told Miley to return back to Sky News.

“Earlier today, journalist Archie Balik was arrested on suspicion of the murder of Charlie Robinson, a Nottinghamshire insurance broker whose body was found last month in his family home in Lenton. The suspect was previously acquainted with Mr. Robinson at an antique auction, where witnesses claim Mr. Balik was escorted out of the building after hurling abuse and threats at Mr. Robinson who had purchased a rare set of six glasses from the Ottoman era. Upon searching Mr. Balik’s property the same tea set was found in his possession. Mr. Balik reached national fame earlier this month for his newly acclaimed YouTube channel “Archie Spills The Tea” which reached over 1 million subscribers by posting exclusive scandals on the UK’s most prominent online influencers. More to follow on this after the break.”

Shaimah turned to Miley whose eyes were fixed to the screen in disbelief. When Shaimah saw too many patterns, too many coincidences, she turned to her item of comfort to ground her mania. Shaimah shook the dice in her hand and chose a number. Number three, she was sure of it. Opened her hand - five. Close.

Later that same night Detective Michael James lay in bed and couldn’t sleep. The case was closed. Charlie Robinson’s killer had been caught by him. But Detective Michael had also broken the law today and he wasn’t sure why… Downstairs on his kitchen counter, wrapped in purple paper, was a special gift for his wife for their Anniversary. She loved antiques.